The Importance of Moderately-Righteous Friends

Everyone needs a stash of friends who are righteous-but-not-perfectly-righteous.

I needed one about a year ago today when I locked myself out of my house just before leaving for church.  It wouldn't have been so bad except:

1. My house key had fallen off my key chain somewhere inside the house.

2. I'd left 8-month-old Aubrey alone in her crib.

3. My husband was already at church and had forgotten his phone that day.

4. Church was about to start any minute.  (And he's the bishop, so it's not like he can just get up and leave.)  

It's kind of a thing that people don't check at their phones during Sacrament meeting.  And that's a really good thing EXCEPT for when I desperately need someone to check their phone.  

We were down to just a few minutes before church would start, at which point my chances of reaching help would drastically decline.  I scrolled through all the ward members I had in my phone and considered which ones would not only be at church, but also be the type who might just occasionally check their phone during Sacrament meeting.   It was a shortish list (3 people), so I gathered the kids and we said a prayer that one of them would please, please, please check their phone.  

Someone did.  It's funny how things work... she isn't a church phone-checker, but she had the thought to look up the name of the little boy she was sitting next to and that's when she saw my text.  She raced up to Brian just before the meeting started, grabbed his keys and raced them back to me.  She drove up to my house laughing her head off, not at all judgmental about the fact that I'd just locked my baby in the house but vowing to tease me about it for the rest of my life.

That's what (medium-righteous) friends are for.

The Pancakes with the Syrup

I haven't met many women who haven't admitted to occasional insanity.  It's the roller coaster, the battle with emotions that go up and down and up and down, and on occasion... down, down, down.  I never know what, exactly, will trigger those traitorous tears. A lost sock.  A sock with a hole in it. Even the fact that socks exist can be extremely stressful.  

The problem with me is that when I'm down inside that dark, cavernous pit of despair, I forget about all the other times I've visited and I can never remember the way to climb back out.  Usually Brian is there and he reminds me.  You've been here before, Emily, you just don't remember.   Let me wash all the laundry and you just sit there and read a book and don't worry about socks for awhile.  I'll make blueberry pancakes for dinner with that buttermilk syrup and you don't even have to come out of your room. 

By the time I emerge from my cave I realize I've been ridiculous and my life is wonderful.  I love my family!  I love socks!  It is only every few months that the mountain of people needing things tips the teeter totter and I go flying off the handle.  Brian could probably give you a more accurate number. He never seems too surprised.    

Except the last time it tipped, he wasn't home.  He was on a business trip.  Nobody to throw me a rope and make those pancakes with the syrup.  

The moment I realized what was happening, and that help was not on the way, I collapsed to my knees.  I didn't even know what to ask for.  "Please.  Help."  A simple, desperate prayer.

Within minutes, a text buzzes on my phone.  It is my old visiting teacher, who moved away like, three years ago.  "That's who you got????" I ask Heavenly Father.  I should never doubt His methods.  

She says she's been thinking about me and she'd love to catch up.  We plan a time to talk and already I feel better.  She totally gets it.  All of it.  It feels so good to be understood!  And as we are talking, I remember a story I haven't thought of in months.

It was the night before my daughter's first day of PE at the junior high. We are roaming the endless aisles at Kohl's because the official PE uniforms aren't in yet and she just HAS to wear basketball shorts like her best friend.  I am already reliving all the insecurities of junior high and I am desperate to make it right for her.  The only basketball shorts are in the boys' section and we basically have our choice of Sponge Bob and Spiderman.  

I know we are short on time and also I have a Kohl's gift card I need to use up.  I close my eyes and say a prayer.  "Please. Help."  

We do one last sweep of the shorts section, and there, tucked between two pairs of absurdly long neon shorts, we find a completely respectable pair of navy blue basketball shorts in exactly her size.  The brand doesn't match any of the others and there is nothing else like them in the store.  

My heart filled with gratitude and thanksgiving.  I am not alone!  I don't have to do this on my own!  And then I totally forgot about the whole thing.

This is, in part, why I want to write down these experiences that are so close to my heart.  I'm sharing so I won't forget.  

And these are the pancakes with the syrup.  I like them with blueberries.  

Two Stories. One Message.

First Story:

I remember the day I found my first apartment.  It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year at BYU.  I started the search early and found the perfect place, a darling, clean little apartment close to campus.  I signed a contract and checked "find apartment" off my list.  I was like, a real grown up!

Two weeks later, I received a phone call that my new apartment wasn't going to work out.  They'd accidentally double-rented it and I needed to find somewhere else to live.  At this point, most of the housing near campus had been claimed, so I had very few options.  My carefully planned world came crashing down.  After a tearful phone call to my mom, I searched online until I found something reasonable. An older apartment complex "with a pool", it said on the listing.  It was the pool that swayed me.  I made an appointment.

When I walked inside the deteriorating building, the fresh odor of what I later described to my mom as "a petting zoo" greeted my nostrils.  During my visit to the apartment itself, which was decorated in pastel pink and blue, a friendly group of girls stopped by and invited the residents of T-10 to dinner that night.  It must be a sign.  I signed the contract.

It wasn't until later that I found out "the pool" actually belonged to the apartment complex next door and that Terrace Residents occasionally crept through the fence to swim.  My roommates and I never received another dinner invitation from friendly girls the entire two years I lived in the Terrace.  But it was in that reeking lobby that I meet two people who would change my life forever:  a boy who made my world click into place, and a girl who turned out to be the kind of friend who would spy on the boy for me at a ward party after he broke up with me.  (He ate potato chips.)

Second Story:

Fast forward 15 years.  I am sitting with the boy in a doctor's office.  We've been married 13 years and are expecting our 7th child.  The doctor says words I didn't expect.  No heartbeat.  Non-viable.  World crashes down.  Tearful phone call to mom.  The girl brings flowers.  She's been through 3 of these with me and she now lives 2 minutes away.  Our daughters attend junior high together.   She is the only person in the world I would let pack up my underwear drawer when we moved.

Three weeks later it is Columbus Day.  I'm still dealing with the after-effects of the miscarriage, but they are manageable enough that I agree to clean the temple.  It is something I'd been wanting to do and our assignment happened to be on one of those strange holidays bankers have off, so my husband could help with kids and get them to and from school.

As I sat in the orientation room in my white temple scrubs, I realized this could be a disaster.  (If you've ever had a miscarriage, you know the kind of disaster I'm talking about.)  I said a prayer.... please let this not be a disaster.  I worked a four hour shift, vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing, bending... by the end I could hardly walk.  But it was not a disaster.

I was so invigorated by the experience, the next day I decided I would clean MY house like that.   I vacuumed, dusted and scrubbed.  After two hours, the miscarriage was in full force.  The pain was unbearable.  The carnage could not be contained.   I started to feel like I would pass out, so I texted that boy to check on me every 15 minutes to make sure I was alive.  He dropped everything and drove straight home, keeping me on the phone the whole time except for when he was calling a babysitter.

Looking back at that moment checking in to the emergency room, I would not have claimed any relation to myself if I'd been him.... I was a bloody, sobbing mess of a person.  He not only claimed me, but knew the last four digits of my social security number.  He stayed within arm's reach of me until they could get the drugs going, pushing as hard as he could on one spot of my back to relieve the pressure until I'm sure his arms were aching.  While I was stuck in a most unladylike position as the doctor ripped out stubborn tissue with salad tongs, causing pain even morphine couldn't fix.... I stole a glance at that boy.  He winked at me.  We got this.  He bought me Cafe Rio and percocet on the way home and I started to believe him.

I am still amazed at how I didn't see it before... but he like, loves me.  Really and truly loves me, like the kind of love I've seen in the movies.  Out of this horrible and uncomfortable experience, a really good thing happened, one I never would have foreseen. I understood the depth of his love for me.  

Sometimes worlds come crashing down.  Most of the time, the new one is better.

An Angel in My Corner

On the day of Aubrey's blessing, I literally took a hundred pictures of her. She was sparkling in her little white gown that was sewn by my sister and worn by each of my daughters.  My dad vacuumed around me as I stood high up on a chair to get a better angle of her on her special day.

My 3-year-old Matthew wanted to hold her for a picture and it was finally his turn.  I set her on his lap in the rocking chair and stood back to take the picture.  I checked my screen to make sure I got a good one and when I looked back up, my tiny, two-week-old baby was hanging upside down with her head inches from the ground.

I swooped forward to scoop her up before any further damage could occur and then I banished the incident from my mind.  I didn't even tell my parents because I was too embarrassed to admit I'd been so careless.

It wasn't until the next day when I took Matthew on a walk that I asked him about what happened.  "Matthew, do you remember yesterday when Aubrey fell off the rocking chair?"  He remembered.  "You mean when she was hanging upside down, like this?" He tipped his head upside-down to demonstrate.  I nodded.  "Were you holding her dress so she wouldn't fall?" I asked him.  There must be some explanation as to why she didn't fall all the way to the ground.  He shrugged and said no, he wasn't holding her dress.  Looking back, I would have been surprised if he had..... It is slippery material and he hadn't developed quick enough reflexes to grab it in time.

As I replayed the moment in my mind, all I could see was a baby hovering, just an inch or so from the wooden runner of the rocking chair.  I wondered if her dress was maybe tucked underneath Matthew's legs, anchoring her to the chair, but in the picture of her sitting on his lap I could see it was not.  In my haste to save her, I didn't notice anything unusual, but now I know some special angel was watching out for her that day, holding her for just those few seconds and keeping her perfect little head safe from harm.

Try as I might, I can't think of any other explanation, and I'm not sure I'd want to.  With this many children to raise, I could definitely use an angel or two in my corner.