The first full day of our beach trip was mother's day. Eric silently removed the baby from the room so I could sleep in. Then no one brought me breakfast in bed. They know me so well. I passionately hate eating breakfast in bed.Later, in the midst of the chaos of five families getting ready for church, the boys brought me their presents: a painting of a flower, a flower, a handmade card. I thanked them and hugged them and stretched my smile as far as it would go. Then the hustle and bustle faded back in and I turned my attention to other things.
We went to church right next to a Marine base. Both of the speakers were soldiers. It reminded me of my love of military people, developed in my R.O.T.C. days. At the end of the meeting, each mother was handed a giant chocolate bar. Enough for us to share with our kids and still have some left for ourselves- brilliant.
In Relief Society where there was a lesson on prayer. I remembered something that happened to me a long time ago in Seattle. Brigham was a week old and I needed to take him to his first doctor's appointment. It was probably my first time leaving the house with two kids. Nothing big, but it seemed big at the time. I was running late, and something happened with the car. I couldn't find my keys, or it wouldn't start- I don't remember, except that I didn't have a car to get Brigham to the doctor, and my toddler was probably crying, and I was probably hungry, and sore, and exhausted, and scared to death of how I was going to do this everyday on my own. I guess I figured it out, because I have a memory of sitting in the doctors office eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich later that day.
That night I went to return something to my neighbor, Danielle. We talked on the doorstep for a few minutes, and then she said that she wasn't sure why, but she felt like God had put it in her heart to tell me that they hardly ever used their second car and anytime I needed it, to just ask. In fact, she would be fine giving me a set of keys. I was confused. Clearly my Heavenly Father was mindful of me and the situation I'd been in earlier in the day. But why prompt my friend that I needed her car if it didn't lead to me actually using it? I never did use their car.
As I sat listening to the lesson, the spirit whispered the answer to the question I'd had all these years. I never asked for his help. I was probably too frustrated, too tired and too overwhelmed to even think to pray at that moment in my life. But he wanted me to know he was there, with a plan, ready to go. I think he wanted to bless me. To make my very stressed life a little easier in that moment, but he can't give me what I don't ask for. He won't violate my agency that way. And he is patient enough to wait seven years (almost exactly- Brigham was born on mother's day) for the right moment to teach me that truth.
Then we went home and it was my night to cook dinner. I made cinnamon rolls and one of the glass pans exploded when I set it on the counter. Miraculously there was still enough for everyone to eat their fill. The children all sang a mother's day song and someone put them to bed. I don't know who, just that it wasn't me.
We grownups stayed up late talking, so that it was past midnight when I reached for the lamp beside my bed and my eyes caught on the card little Eric had made me. I picked it up and looked at it, really looked, for the first time. I saw how he had written the words Happy Mothers Day! in pencil and then traced over them in marker, a different color for each letter. There were two butterflies with little M's on their wings (for Mama I think). Two hearts and a carefully drawn sunflower. Inside was a message: Roses are red, Pansies are white, I think that you are such a delight! More hearts, and on the back: Moms Rock! In my mind I could see him at his desk at school, head bent, biting his tongue, carefully drawing, tracing, considering, hoping. I cried myself to sleep, and then the next morning I went and told him how much I loved his card- really told him.
That night I prayed: Please, please. Help me to pay attention. To see. To see past the defiance, the smirking and the acting out, to the lovingly traced letters and carefully drawn butterflies.
