Nightly Scripture Study

I was asked to say a few words about the “JOY” of teaching my children the gospel.

Here goes…

We decided that the key to successful scripture study is consistency. We agreed to gather the family every night at 7:30 and read one chapter in the Book of Mormon. Through trial and error, we learned a few absolute truths. One: The kids will always fight over who gets to read the last verse. Two: The children must always be bribed and/or threatened in order to listen. In order to avoid potential nightly disasters, we set up a system. My kids always read the verse that corresponds to their age. Ryan is twelve, he reads verses 2, 12, 22 etc. Chloe is nine. She reads 9, 19, 29. Mom and dad read the verses the kids don’t and they only get to read last when their number is last. To avoid the other dilemma, I bought an industrial sized box of sour patch kids. These are known at our house as “scripture treat.” If a child behaves during scriptures, they get a treat. It’s a lot like dog training, if less effective. 

Using these two simple steps, our family scripture study works out fairly well. Here’s how it usually goes…I call the kids to scriptures and hear a collective “NOOOOOO.” Sean shouts out that he is coming, but he has to beat an alien on the computer first. Quentin comes in and sits on top of me. He then announces that the rest of the family isn’t coming. Chloe sits on top of the lid to the opening in the love seat where we keep our books of Mormon. This way, when each of the other kids dramatically enters the room, stretching and yawning, as if they’re on the brink of collapse from exhaustion, they can completely ruin their chances of winning an Oscar by breaking character to shout, “Get off the scriptures, Chloe.” In response to which, Chloe lifts her butt into a crab walk pose so they can slip their hands in under her. 

It takes about 2.5 hours of arguing about which chapter we’re on before I start reading the first verse to try and move the process along. Sean, who is currently eleven, mutters the beginning of the first verse as quickly as he can until he catches up to where I am at. He then begins to shout the text, sometimes in a British accent, so I will know that it’s his turn. Ryan reads second, but no one can hear him because he is either hiding behind the couch or halfway down the stairs that descend from the room where we’re reading. I suspect that he does this so he can flip back and forth between the scriptures and whatever else he’s reading on his kindle without anyone noticing. I tell him to come join the family to which he shrilly replies, ‘I am! I’m right here.” 

Quentin then interrupts to tell me that the babies are in the other room still. I am, of course, aware of this, but think that we will all get more out of scriptures if they come late. In the interest of teaching a lesson about the importance of family scripture study, however, I call them to come in before continuing on with the verses. 

When it gets to be Chloe’s turn, she reads with every other word punctuated. I realize that she’d doing this because Rhianna has squeezed herself behind her sister and is kicking her in the back rhythmically and giggling. This causes me to take inventory of the other children. Quentin has gone boneless on my lap and is, seemingly, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan.  Evie has her arms looped around Sean’s neck and is swinging back and forth on the balls of her feet.  He’s trying his best to ignore her, but chocking noises occasionally escape from his mouth. Ryan is missing again, probably behind the couch. I tell Evie her butt is glued to the floor and if she unsticks it from where I put her she won’t get scripture treat. This causes her to scream in agony and shrilly declare, ‘I WANT SCRIPTURE TREAT.” 

I push Quentin off my lap and pick up Ana, so she’ll leave Chloe alone. Ana also starts screaming. Chloe is still reading, which is very upsetting to Sean because she likes to try to read verse ten after she is done with nine and Sean HATES that. By this time, the noise level is such that the neighbors are calling the cops, and that’s amazing considering that the neighbors are half a mile away. I scream at everyone to be quiet and tell Sean that if it upsets him when she reads ten, he should just read it with her, choral style, instead of disrupting scriptures. I also announce that if anyone else says another word out of turn, I’m going to smite the Earth with a curse for their sakes. 

With much sniffles, someone starts reading for about twenty seconds before Ryan says, rather timidly, “Mom.” I snap back, “Be quiet and listen.” He interrupts with, “Yes, but, Addie is naked.” Sure enough, she’s standing in the kitchen unloading a cupboard and her clothes are lying beside her. I leave Nate in charge and take the baby to bed. I am ashamed to admit that sometimes the process of putting her in bed takes a little extra time because I am less than anxious to reenter my position as goalie of scripture time. By the time I get upstairs the children are raiding the scripture treat jar, all except for Evie, who is screaming that daddy forgot to let her read.

It was after one of these nights, that also included the extended scripture experience that is family night, that I found myself laying my head on my husband’s shoulder and declaring, “It isn’t supposed to be like this!” 

He said, “Like what?” I said insane and unhappy and with everyone fighting. He stared at me for a minute looking perplexed be for saying, “Amy, every family night I ever had growing up was exactly like this.” Nate is the oldest of six brothers and one sister. 

So I think the real point here is understanding the difference between happiness and Joy. I was asked to share a testimony of how teaching my children the gospel brings Joy into my home. When Nikki called me, I laughed and laughed and laughed. I told her she had definitely picked the wrong sister to share this concept. But, as I thought about it, I realized that this is a testimony I can bear as strongly as anyone. 

The day after telling my husband that everything was working out wrong, my Quentin came home with a packet of school assignments. I glanced through them and came across one with the question, “Where do I like to go in my town?” In his unpracticed hand, my little boy had carefully written, “I like home.” Suddenly the frustration seemed silly. It is clear to me that the Spirit of God and the love of family must be in our home, even though I can’t always feel it.

Angels and Humility

“I testify of angels, both the heavenly and the mortal kind. In doing so I am testifying that God never leaves us alone, never leaves us unaided in the challenges that we face. ‘[N]or will he, so long as time shall last, or the earth shall stand, or there shall be one man [or woman or child] upon the face thereof to be saved.’”

Jeffrey R. Holland

I told myself the best thing to do was wait to write this experience until I have two working hands. I can’t. We’re supposed to be keeping a daily journal for Relief Society of the ways we know that God loves us. I have a lot to write today. I guess I’ll two finger it, because, honestly, I want to remember every detail.

This story might just start a few weeks ago when, during an honest self-evaluation, I concluded that I needed to pray for humility. I don’t think for one minute that this a good thing to pray for. I had weighed my options here. I don’t want humbling experiences. But I am prideful and I want to be a better person. So, knowing full well that it was an idiotic thing to do, I asked Heavenly Father to help me be humble. More specifically I told him, “I don’t want to go through trials, but I’m asking you to do whatever it takes to help me become the person I could be.” Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I would have said no such thing if I had known it would involve other people’s children.

Yesterday was one of those super busy days where everything overlapped. I was going to have to pick up Adelaide from preschool early so I could get Rhianna to school on time before running to Addie’s speech therapy appointment. After that, I had to get the younger kids off the school bus, and run into town to pick up Chloe. If she took the bus, she’d be late for her very last activity days. She was so excited about it. I knew that my friend, Brenda, would be willing to take Quentin to his scouts which started a little before that and Katherine would bring Chloe home. Amidst all of that, my three little girls had choir class. After, there would still be mutual for the teenagers.

In a day like that, I needed friends. Everyone always sacrifices so much for my family. The one space I had to pay-it-forward was in the morning. Since preschool was at the completely opposite side of town, I could easily pick up the other kids on my way. I had texted the other moms and three responded. I was a little worried that the others were not answering because they thought they were out of the way for me, but, in hindsight, it may have been because I'm a terrible driver. I sent one more text to be certain. This might seem like an act of benevolence. It isn’t. It has to do with the obsessive desire to give more than I take. It’s a side effect of the aforementioned pride. It’s a constant rat race to keep the score close to even because I am surrounded by such incredible, Christ-like people.

In the end, I was supposed it pick up four kiddos and haul three of my own. Oh, how I loved my twelve-passenger van! The temperature was going to get all the way up to 38 degrees yesterday and I was excited about it. I am not someone who is super sad when the winter is too warm. At nine in the morning, we were already hovering about freezing and it was raining outside. The roads were slick. I slid several times, but always quickly regained control. I picked up the first three kids and headed toward the last one. I knew I’d be going off the paved road, briefly. Where the road ended and the dirt road tilted to the right, there is a small turnaround with two trees in the middle. I was going slower than usual because of the ice, but still braked as I approached so I could stop and make the right turn. Nothing happened. The car seemed completely unaware that it had brakes. We slid forward at exactly the same velocity as before. We weren’t careening out of control, but it was a horrible feeling to be completely unable to stop or slow the car.

I suppose the world slows down when everything is happening too fast. I remember all kinds of thoughts in the few seconds leading up to the crash. I was worried about trying to steer left or right. What would happen? And believe me, I know this sounds insane, but in the moment, it seemed very logical. I thought, “Just run it into the trees. That will stop you.” As I have run those few moments through my mind again and again, I have pondered on how silly that thought seems. But I don’t think a turn would have avoided the trees entirely. And if I had tried to turn, things would have played out differently, though I don’t know how.

We hit the trees.

The next thing I knew, I was flipped around backward climbing into the back of my van toward the screaming children. Addie was closest. She was trapped under a car seat on the floor. I didn’t process that right away. I counted. They were all there. They were all moving. They were all responding. I got Addie out. And then I asked the kids to calm down. I told them I needed to call for help. I explained that I couldn’t do that if they were screaming. To my utter amazement, every single one of them went quiet. I tried the mom whose house we were headed toward first. She was closest. She didn’t answer, so I called another Mom, my friend, Katherine. She told me she would be there soon.

The kids were holding their noses and the air looked smoky. I looked toward the front of the van to see if something was on fire. I quickly realized it was the airbags. They were both out. I didn’t remember them going off. I needed to get the kids out of the car. I tried the sliding door first. It wouldn’t open. I climbed to the back to see if I could open the rear doors from within. I’d never done that before and if it’s possible, I didn’t know how. So I climbed back up front. Both doors were blocked by the tree, but the passenger looked less so. With the help of a very independent little boy, I managed to get the door pushed open enough to get everyone out. I handed each of the little ones out the door, onto the ground before pushing my own way out.

There we all stood, me and five preschoolers (the baby was still inside in his car seat). I realized I had to call the other moms. I tried. Ridiculously, I could not remember how to make my phone make a call. I put it in my pocket and looked down at the little faces standing there in the rain. Up until now I kind of had a checklist of things I needed to do. I couldn’t think of what was next. I said the words out loud. “We need to…” I didn’t know. I said it again, “We need to…” and this time the words fell from my mouth before I heard them in my head, “say a prayer.” Five little kids gathered in a tight circle. They reacted immediately without a second prompting. They each folded their arms and bowed their heads. They listened silently as I poured out my heart in thanks for the angels that had protected them, while freezing raindrops fell from the sky.

A moment later help arrived. My wonderful friend, who should have rightly been very concerned about her son and angry with me, immediately put her arms around me. I remembered how to use my phone. I spoke with the other moms, but the kids all insisted they didn’t want to go home. They wanted to go to preschool.

Someone asked about my arm. It was bruised, but I hadn’t really noticed, so it couldn’t be that big of a deal. Neighbors showed up to help. There wasn’t really anything to be done. The poor van was wedged almost perfectly between two trees. It would take a professional tow truck to move it. That’s not to say they weren’t any help. One of them laughed and said, “I hit that tree once.” He’ll never know how much better that made me feel.

We all hopped into my friend’s car and took those amazing kids to preschool. Once there, Kelli, the teacher that day, wanted to look at my arm. She’s a paramedic. I almost told her not to worry about it, but decided it might be good for everyone if we all walked into the house together. I’m so glad we did because besides wrapping the injury, she told me to take the ring I was wearing off before my fingers got any more swollen. Otherwise, it would have had to have been cut off later. I wouldn’t have thought of that, but would have been heartbroken to lose that ring, a keepsake from my grandmother. She also took a look at the accident pictures Katherine had taken and declared that, based on the accidents she’s seen, I could not have hit that tree in a better way to minimize the impact to the people in the van. Well, maybe running directly into the tree wasn’t that crazy after all.

The rest of the day belongs to my friends. They watched my kids, took me to the hospital, taxied my kids around, and even bought Nate his favorite soda so he’d feel better when I shared the news of our poor car. (He was, of course, the picture perfect husband, supportive, kind, comforting.) Through it all, a familiar scripture kept popping into my head.

“And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth.

“And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?

“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” (John 9:1–3.)

If nothing bad ever happened, how would we ever get to witness a miracle? I saw a lot of them yesterday. But did the experience help me in my hopeless quest for humility? I hope so, because I don’t want another like it.

Out Mothering

My neighborhood went a little crazy at the birth of my eighth child. Friends were bringing meals, gifts and love in levels that are difficult to describe. Everyone fawned over my perfect son and complimented me on my super human motherhood powers. Among these visitors were two women who stopped by about a week after the birth with food and friendship. One commented that I must be a very good mother to have so many children. The other, without real offense, smiled and said, “I’m not a very good mother.” You see, she has been blessed with three beautiful children, despite wanting more. Normally, I respond to comments such as these with a catechism I have repeated more times than I could ever remember. Along with comments about “full hands,” I am confronted almost daily by women who say some permutation of the sentence, “I don’t know how you do it. I can barely handle my one (or two, or three).” I always reply in complete sincerity, “The hardest number is the number you have.”

Today, I want to explain what I mean by this statement. I wish to be very careful. I know that when women comment on my house full of children, they are doing it with love. I know that they wish to encourage me in the most difficult job on Earth. I know that their sincere elevation of my trials and blessings is never meant to belittle someone else. But today I want to share something close to my heart and acknowledge that sometimes the best of us is guilty of competitive mothering.

In October of 2015, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland compared the role of a mother to that of the very Savior of mankind. He stated quite plainly, “No love in mortality comes closer to approximating the pure love of Jesus Christ than the selfless love a devoted mother has for her child.” Of course, I am not an apostle and what I say comes from no position of authority. It comes from deep within my heart. I don’t pretend to understand the whole role of Jesus Christ or the magnitude of the atonement. But, I believe, in one element, they are comparable. The scriptures teach us that the Atonement is “infinite.” I believe this beautiful world also describes the role of a mother.

What does it mean to be infinite? It means that it cannot be added to. If you spend any time with math geeks, you know that infinity plus one equals infinity. The term is not a number, but a statement of eternity. This being the case, one cannot be “more” a mother than someone else. My eighth child didn’t make me eight times a mother. As we all know, eight times infinity is simply infinity. But sometimes we find ourselves comparing, feeling like we’re out-mothered by another. We see competition, not only in the number of children we raise, but also in the comparison of time we get to spend with our kids and time we must spend at work. We feel like elements of motherhood make one’s claims to the title more legitimate than someone else’s. Real mothers breastfeed for an entire year, make homemade bread and baby food, coach soccer teams, give birth naturally, dress their children in perfect coordinating outfits, homeschool, sew, throw lavish birthday parties, garden, vacation, keep perfect homes, and on and on and on.

The truth is that motherhood is a divine attribute of womanhood. You are a mother by virtue of who you are. It doesn’t matter how many children you have. There isn’t some scale of pros and cons that makes one woman more worthy of the Mother’s Day handout at the end of sacrament meeting than another. Motherhood is an infinite calling.

Today I am reminded of a woman I love who is a mother to a sweet infant mind that is now living in the body of a man. His mother has, for eighteen years, cradled her son, accepting the challenge of being his advocate, caretaker, and dedicating her life entirely to his care. She will never watch this son take his first steps, learn to read, or go on his first date. She has devoted herself to taking joy in the challenges of motherhood that most of us leave behind early in our children’s lives. But no one would ever argue that she is less of a mother to this son because she will miss out on so many iconic mothering experiences. She is a mother, infinite and eternal.

I am reminded of a mother who lost her daughter before she ever even held her. This mother remembers her child in black and white pictures and visits to a cemetery. She has experienced motherhood in its infinite span of emotion, without ever even seeing her daughter’s smile.

I am reminded of a mother who spent years trying to conceive a child of her own and, in the end, became a mother to every young person she had the privilege of coming into contact with. She sacrifices her spare time in service to children who will never bring her flowers on Mother’s Day. She shares her motherhood with everyone.

This Mother’s Day, I’m remembering what it really means to be a mother. It means loving another person so much that you would gladly do anything for them. It means desperately praying for someone else’s happiness. It means mourning for trials someone else is experiencing and feeling their pain as acutely as you would your own. It means wanting to serve more than you want to find glory. It means an endless, eternal, infinite love and  (consequently) an endless, eternal, infinite heartache. It is completely unquantifiable and indescribable, no matter how many children you have. 

On Motherhood: Uplift. Encourage. Inspire. 

Women and Motherhood

Why I Have a Billion Children 

Behold Thy Mother   By Jeffrey R Holland