Still.

Someone once told me that the best gift a daughter can give her mother on Mother’s Day is a heartfelt letter filled with all of the reasons why she loves her. The advice was to put specific memories of her into a letter, and include lessons she had taught you – and not hold back one tiny bit. Somehow though, the Saturday before Mother’s Day, I typically find myself scrambling to put an amazing gift together for her – complete with a pretty bag with tons of colorful tissue paper coming out the top. Just a card? That doesn’t seem nearly enough for all she has done for me. So, I usually buy her something I would like for myself always hopeful she will open it and say, “Oh! Amy! This is just perfect! I have been wanting this very thing!” Truth is, my mom has never been a lover of things. Instead, she is a lover of kind, sincere words – and cards on Mother’s Day. So this Mother’s Day, I will do my best to tell her, in my most sincere effort, how much I loved her then and love her now.


Being her daughter is a joy, and having her as my mother is a gift.

God knew I needed her the day I was born, as I lay in her arms, looked up at her face and heard her familiar voice. He knew I needed her on my first day of school, wearing my deep pink corduroy jump suit, setting off to independence. He knew I needed her on all those days of doctor appointments, surgeries, hospital stays, and solutions. God knew I needed her when I moved away to college and missed my everything -- everyday. He knew I needed her enthusiasm when I called home and told her all about how much I was loving college, just like she did. He knew I needed her when I found love, and shared with her why I wanted to marry. God knew I needed her when Hayden was born and I found motherhood, and then again with Emma. He knew I needed her to be excited for me when I said we wanted another one, and he knew I needed her when Maggie arrived. God knew that I needed my mom. From the very beginning. Just like she needed her mother, and before her, my Grandma needed hers. And so it goes, and so it is. Still. As time began, and as time moves forward, daughters need their mothers -- and mothers need their daughters. Still.

shedding the thin skin

I have been completely sucked into the work of finding an agent for my book, "White Bees." The process is daunting, and part of me wants to put the book I have spent the better part of a year writing, in my nightstand, safe and sound. If I don't share the struggles I have been through that are written in the 80,000 words of my book with agents --  then they can't reject my book, my inner thoughts, one of my greatest accomplishments. Right? No wonder so many people get to this stage of the writing process and decide to give up. But, I made a promise to myself a year ago to complete this goal -- all the way. Not to stop when the writing was done, but to keep going until my goal of getting "White Bees" published became a reality. With the editing process done (thank you Katie Carter!) I will shed my thin skin, and starting June 1st gear up for sending out queries. Wish me lots of luck! I am going to need it.

finished.

A week ago, as Saturday met Sunday, I sat alone with just my thoughts and my fingers typing as fast as they could. I had set a goal to have the 1st draft of my book done by my birthday, which just so happened to be March 11th. All the way back in November I wrote the last few paragraphs of the book, the ending coming to me while I was in one of my favorite places, so it was just a matter of filling in the rest. As I hit the last key, just after midnight, the looked at the word count (77K), I felt an instant of immediate pride in accomplishing my goal. I had DONE IT!! I really had written a book, all about me and my white bees. I am so excited to now make it through the 2nd draft (I have a wonderful editor helping me with making it GREAT), and once I feel it is the best it can be...I will prepare to send it out to agents and publishers. Can't wait!

wandering.

My daughter Emma came to me complaining of a headache two nights ago. The next day it was still just as strong, with no relief in sight. Then her head started to get hot with a fever. By evening she seemed to be getting worse, not better, despite me doing all I knew how to do. So, I paged the doctor. He called back soon after, and said I should take her to the emergency room right away. Kory and Emma headed to the hospital, Emma in tears and scared beyond belief.  I stayed at home with the other two kids and waited for the report. I think as time goes on being a mother the more I fear the worst when illness strikes. And in my mind she already had meningitis. I was certain. She had a headache, neck pain, and a fever. All classic signs. The house was so quiet without her, and I was surprised how much I missed her crazy personality. My mind started to wander to all the reasons why I love her, even though, she is easily the hardest of my kids for me to understand. She would rather run like a horse than walk, wear dirty scrubby clothes than cute outfits, eat cereal instead of dinner, and bark like a dog instead of talk. But, my goodness I love her, and I would be crushed if anything happened to her. I stayed awake waiting for Kory to call, and he did, but on the other end was a very happy 9 year old. "Hey Mom! I am drinking Sprite! I am OK, they are just checking me out, but they think I am going to be fine and they said I don't have meningitis. They took a swab of my mouth and we are just waiting for the test. Oh and they gave me some yucky Tylenol."
Soon after, she was back at home, and my mind had reset to normal. But the wandering journey of what could have been made me appreciate what already is.

seminary superman.

My dad taught seminary for 33 years, and this month we celebrate 100 years of seminary. Here is my latest article published by the Deseret News,  "Seminary Superman."

50,000 words.

I have reached 50,000 words in the memoir I am writing, "White Bees", and find each day I write, is a day I know myself better. Everyone has a journey to share. Below is the first part of chapter 1 to my story ...

1 My mother has loved me from the very start.



She has only ever seen me the way God does, right into my soul from the window through my eyes, and that has never changed. I must have felt her faith, as she took me in her arms the day I was born and looked upon my tangled face, and into my new blue eyes with courage and complete understanding. Knowing the road ahead would be laced with trials and mixed with grace.

“How old are you,” said the nurse, leaning down to tape the IV to my small arm.


I looked straight ahead and held up five fingers on my opposite hand, spreading them apart as far as I could.

“Five! Wow! You are getting so big!”

I nodded my head, the surgical cap covering my hair scratched against the stiff cotton sheet, but I did not speak a word.

Just minutes before I was safe with Mom and Dad in a room divided by a dark fabric curtain. Mom sat next to me while a man I didn’t know talked to them about the medicine he would be putting in my body.

Now, I was here all alone, and this felt nothing like what Mom had explained to me.

The IV was positioned mid-way up my right forearm, and throbbed where the nurse had placed the strip of white sticky tape. I was scared to move, even the slightest bit.

The ceiling towered high above me, and every wall that fell from it was painted stark white. The cold metal crib that I lay in made me feel like such a baby. I was not a baby! I was big, and I did not belong in this crib. There was an empty one next to me, aligned perpendicular to me and pushed close against the wall. I turned my head all the way to the left and looked out the metal rungs into the room adjacent to me. A room filled with bright white lights.

“I am going to have you wait right here until Dr. Broadbent is ready for you, then we will take you in for surgery,” the nurse said as she wheeled me into the hallway waiting area. Her hair was a soft brown color, and curled around her face like a rainbow.

I nodded my head again, trying my best to comprehend the unfamiliar surroundings. Voices, lots of voices came from the big bright room. I stretched my ears and listened as tightly as I could to the words the voices spoke.

“Dr. Broadbent is going to be doing the palate-lengthening operation on her today,” said a voice coming from the big bright room.

“He has been seeing this patient ever since she was six months old. Her case is one of the worst we have seen at this hospital,” said another voice.

I dissected each sentence, as I tried to determine if I knew anyone in the big bright room.

“Did you know Dr. Broadbent is one of the best plastic surgeons in the world?”

“He was top of his class at Duke University…he is very talented.”

I kept so quiet; listening and trying to understand.

Then a door swung open and I heard the whoosh from the pushed air followed by deliberate motion and the sound of a clip board hitting a hard surface.

“Hello everyone, I am Dr. Broadbent. It is a pleasure to be with you students in this teaching session. Today I will show you a technique for improving the speech of this patient.” His voice was familiar, but I didn’t know why. My mind raced to catch the answer. “The operation will be done by attaching a flap of soft tissue from her throat wall to the back of her soft palate.”

“How will this improve her speech?” asked a younger man.

“Well, if the palate and throat do not touch, air leaks into the nose and produces nasal speech.”

Above me I could hear the ticking of the second hand coming from a large black and white clock.

“Are there any more questions before we begin?”

Silence.

Then I heard footsteps, lightly did they pad the shiny floor, almost in a quiet whisper.

Were they talking about me?

“OK, looks like Dr. Broadbent is ready for you now,” said the familiar nurse, her rainbow hair tucked up neatly into her own surgical cap, the elastic edges gripping her smooth forehead. She unlocked the wheels, then put both palms on the side of the crib and pushed.

I sunk as deep as I could into the mattress, my face pointed up, feeling scared and so very alone. The wheels creaked when she made the turn from the hallway into the big bright room.

She stopped in the center, locked the crib in place, and in an instant she was gone. I was now certain I was in the wrong place. Not one single person said hello to me; almost as if I did not exist. Yet, I could hear them, buzzing around me in a productive fashion. I kept my eyes glued to the ceiling. Perhaps if I did not move, they would go about their business and forget about me, and then Mom and Dad would come looking for me and take me home. I had a wrist band on my left hand, and my name was typed, along with my birthday in a neat legible font. I stared at it, while I wondered what would happen next. All the while my heart raced, filled with anxious mystery, yet I found no bearing to hold my fear. Seconds passed, folding into minutes. I could still hear the clock on the wall outside the big bright room, ticking so obediently.

“Hello, Amy Jo,” said Dr. Broadbent leaning over the crib from behind my line of sight. His eyes were full of kindness, and goodness. I knew him. I knew his face. And my body relaxed, if only just slightly. “We are going to move you to the operating table where your surgery will take place,” and then before I could re-arrange my thoughts there were four people, two on each side of me, “on the count of three we will need you to become as light as a feather, OK?”

I nodded my head; then closed my eyes. Eight hands lifted me from the crib to the table in a swift display of teamwork. My cotton gown tangled around the tubes, which my nurse quickly set about to move into a position that was comfortable, snapping the cord onto the IV tower and taping it into place. Then, her focus came back to me. She attached a sticky circle just above my heart that had a wire coming out of it, and put some sort of a cover on my pointer finger which instantly throbbed. All the while she was fielding requests for surgery preparation. My heart beat so fast and loud I was sure she would notice. In the background I heard the sound of metal instruments bouncing on metal trays, moving to the beat of soft footsteps. Dr. Broadbent’s voice was calm and low somewhere behind and to the left of me as he talked to others in the room. I couldn’t hear anything, no matter how hard I tried to stitch together his words.



The lights above me were so bright that my eyes burned. I could see the faces now that were linked to the voices. There were so many of them. Each came by and looked down at me, so briefly they did not catch the fear in my eyes.

I lay as still as I could.

“Can you count to 100?” Dr. Broadbent asked, looking down at me with his white surgical mask over his mouth and a surgical cap covering his head

I shook my head.

“How about to 50?”

I shook my head again.

“Well, I want you to start to count as high as you can then, OK?”

I nodded, and wished I knew how to count higher, they all wanted me to count to 100! And I didn’t know how. The vein in my right arm was suddenly filled with a cold sensation; gripping and fierce did it go as it followed the length of my arm all the way up and across my shoulder. I shook with a sudden chill.

“One, two, three…” I started, trying to stay focused on counting as high as I could.

“Good job, Amy Jo, keep counting,” said Dr. Broadbent, his eyes steady on mine.

My mind felt so heavy, so tired. So very, very tired. I wanted to show him how high I could count, but I could hardly remember what came next.

“four…five……………….sev…en…………..”

The room became fuzzy, and my focus skewed as I tried with all my might to keep my eyes open, but my lids pressed heavy on my lashes.

“……….e…i…g..h…t…” and then, I could no longer hold on. I looked up at Dr. Broadbent and saw a flash of white, and then I disappeared into a deep, wonderful sleep.

While I slept, he worked. And I felt no pain.

keeping katie.

When I was young my sister Jeannie and I used to spend the night at my Gram and Gramp's house, just a mile from where we grew up. Gram would let us split a can of Pepsi AND stay up and watch Dallas with her before tucking us into the hide-a-bed for the night. She would lay the red blanket on us and make sure we were warm before she walked the ten steps down the hall to the master bedroom. Jeannie and I would stay up as long as we could stand it talking and sneaking more TV.

On one such sleepover Jeannie told me, in secret, that Gram only had "one boob", and she could prove it. She had seen her bra hanging in the bathroom, and it was completely filled in on one side. Of course I did not believe her. I had never heard of anyone being born with just one. The whole thing just baffled me for days.
Little did I know the story of how, or why...or the struggle she took on so silently most days.Cancer had found her and took part of her all those years ago. But Cancer did not take her grace, or her kindness, or her fight to wake up each day and make it to the end. One more time.

Now, I watch my friend Katie take a similar path, at an entirely too young of age. My Katie, who shared a backyard with me, taught me how to drive a van, and lent me all her clothes through high school. My Katie, who never says a bad word about anyone, and who fiercly loves her husband and five children.

But.

Keeping Katie means losing part of her.

But not her sweet personality, or her listening ear, or her warm heart. Cancer can't take any of that. Keeping Katie means months of radiation, chemotherapy, surgery, rehab, and physical therapy. But keeping Katie also means she will find her strength in this trial, and share it with all of us who never want to lose her.