Radiant

My four-year-old daughter is a living, breathing encyclopedia.  Nearly every sentence that comes from her lips begins with

Well,
Actually,
But really,
or
Not necessarily...

It is awesome.

Seeing her blossom into a strong, intelligent young woman makes my heart soar.  I want to bottle that confidence she has and store it away for those difficult years of teenage insecurity which will most likely make their uninvited debut down the bumpy road of life.  But at this moment, she radiates self-acceptance and absolute joy as she lives in the present moment.  I try to catch some of that enthusiasm and embrace it in my own life.  Life was so simple at four.  Maybe it still can be, at least in some regards.  

One sunny morning, after she has just expounded on some subject of deep importance to her, Bryson cocks his head and grins at her.
 
"Reilly," he asks, "what on earth would we ever do without you?"

She takes a moment to seriously consider the question and then pronounces her answer with great theatricality.

"Panic!"

Truthfully, I think she's right.

Where Do We Go From Here?

As you may (or may not) have noticed, it has been difficult for me to post lately.

It's not that I haven't had time, and it's not that I haven't had much to write about.  The process of putting my experiences into a cohesive train of thought has been problematic.  I sit down to write and am completely overwhelmed.  I don't even know where to begin.

The past few months have been pretty intense.  Equal parts challenging, painful, illuminating, and rejuvenating.  C. S. Lewis described the process aptly in Mere Christianity:

Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.

Every time I reread this quotation, I am reminded of Neal A. Maxwell's remarks on leaving behind the summer cottage in Babylon and establishing our permanent residence in Zion.  Our Savior taught that in our Father's house are "many mansions."  Giving up the cottage for the Lord's version will be worth it in the end, even if we can't see the full picture in the here and now.

All of the pushing, pulling, and stretching we undergo here during our earthly sojourn is for our own individual growth.  And grow we most certainly shall, if we approach the difficult trials with an open heart and a willing spirit. 

The life of discipleship is not for the faint of heart.  If we truly want to have that deep and personal relationship with our Father in Heaven we can expect many trials and obstacles.  We will not earn worldly acclaim.  We will likely be scoffed at and dismissed as unenlightened and out of step with "things as they really are."  But if we persevere step by step, and line upon line, we will find that the pathway is sure and the destination is glorious.

At some point in all of our lives we will reach a crossroads where we will be required to make a choice.  We will have to evaluate the questions within of who we are, what we believe, and where we are going.  And we will be tested.  Sometimes it may seem that the path has been abandoned, and we are left to press onward in blinding darkness.  We may feel alone.  We may feel scared.  We may feel as though the heavens themselves have been sealed.  But I can tell you from very personal experience that if we press onward, the light will return.  It will return.  And when it does, it will bring added knowledge and understanding to our hearts and minds. 

And life as you know it will never be the same again.

An Ensign, Waving

Over the last several weeks, I've had several experiences that have taught me a great deal.  Some have caused me to change my direction in writing.

The end result is that I have decided to take all three of my blogs and condense them into a single entity.  So, here we are.  Welcome to the new digs!

You might be wondering about the name.  A little background is in order.


I am an Ensign. 

Not as in a nice gospel metaphor, but literally.
It's my maiden name.

Growing up in the Latter-day Saint Church, I always loved my last name.  It stood as a constant reminder of who I am, and to stand as a witness of what I believed.  I love the pioneer heritage of my name.  For example, my great-great-great-great grandfather, Samuel Ensign was a carpenter on both the Nauvoo and Salt Lake temples.  He gave his life in service, literally, as he died in a tragic accident during the construction of the latter.  Those beautiful wooden doors on the west side of the Salt Lake Temple where countless wedding photos have been taken?  They are his handiwork.  Over the years I have thought a lot about my name and the legacy I have the privilege and responsibility of carrying forward.

When I was a baby, my paternal grandparents were killed in a small plane accident along with three of my father's siblings.  While I never had the honor of getting to know them in this life, I often feel that they are near.  I feel connected to them, and try to live my life in such a way as to make them proud.

Back in the late nineties, I happened to cross paths with Elder Dallin H. Oaks, who was a good friend to my grandparents.  We were at the Salt Lake International Airport, and my aunt saw him across the way and pointed him out to us.  To this day I am not exactly certain what came over me, but-- completely out of character-- I approached him and introduced myself.  I can still remember the details of that conversation so long ago.

"Excuse me," I inquired, "but are you Elder Oaks?"
He stopped and looked down at me.  "Yes." 
"Well, my name is Tiffany Ensign," I explained, "and I believe you knew my grandparents, Dave--"
"And Carol!"  he exclaimed, finishing my sentence for me.

He graciously spent the next couple of minutes chatting with me, telling me what wonderful people my grandparents were, inquiring after my parents and my current experience as a student at BYU.  It has been one of the most pivotal conversations of my life.  Believe me, hearing an apostle praise your grandparents' legacy really drives home the importance of honoring your family name.

I am reminded of the experience of President George Albert Smith, who in his youth was visited in a dream by his grandfather, George A. Smith, who had passed away.  He asked young George, "What have you done with my name?"  President Smith responded, "I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed."

Now, unfortunately, I cannot say that if my grandparents or other beloved ancestors asked me that same question that I could respond in the same manner that President Smith was able to do.  I have deep regrets in my life.  I am terribly aware of my imperfections and weaknesses.  But I can say that today, here and now, I am doing the best that I can.  I continue daily to do as President Gordon B. Hinckley frequently counseled-- to try and be a little better.  Certainly, some days are better than others.  But, as we are often reminded, it is not necessarily where we are on the path that matters so much but rather that we maintain an upward trajectory toward our ultimate destination.

As we press forward in this manner, we honor Him whose name we covenant to take upon us each week when we partake of the sacrament.

I love the words of Elder Mervyn B. Arnold from the October 2010 Conference:

In that glorious day when we stand before our beloved Savior to report what we have done with His name, may we be able to declare: “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” “I have honored Thy name.”

That is my wish too.

So, what's in a name?
A whole lot.

Just recently during this last General Conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland chose to speak on being "an ensign to the nations."  In the closing minutes of his address, he spoke of messengers called from before the foundations of mortality to wave the Gospel to all the world.

As he said these words, Bryson suddenly grabbed my arm and started waving it in the air.
I looked at him in complete and utter bewilderment. 

"Ummm, what are you doing?"  I asked.
"I'm waving an Ensign," he grinned back at me.

At that moment I groaned and rolled my eyes, but over time I have thought about those words more than once.  Now, I certainly don't claim to be an "ensign to the nations."  Not in the slightest.  But I do strive to become a disciple on whom the Lord can rely.  I work each day to do my family's legacy justice.  I study and pray so that I will be a mother who, as Sister Julie B. Beck has described, stands as a "lioness at the gate." 

I am a work in progress.
I am reaching, I am growing.
I am becoming.

And so here I stand, an Ensign.  Waving.

... And Cue the Near Cardiac Arrest

Around four o'clock in the afternoon, I begin to drag a bit.

It is the hour of the doldrums for me.
Exhausted from the errands of the day, and sadly-- still so far from bedtime.

This day had run its course.
And I was feeling pretty good about my productivity.  I had even scrubbed the master bathroom from head to toe-- a task I had been dreading all week long.

So I sat for a brief moment, enjoying a moment of serenity before heading off to fold the laundry and prepare our dinner.

Just as I arose, Reilly skipped into the room-- with her ever-loyal Sheepie-- singing a cheerful tune.  I paused to watch her for a moment, caught by her endless energy and infectious enthusiasm.  Her eyes sparkled and I smiled for a moment.

It was then that I noticed Reilly wasn't the only one in the room that was sparkling.

 Just in case you missed it...

Yep, that would be both my engagement ring AND wedding band that Sheepie is sporting ever so blissfully.
The very same ones I had taken off prior to the bathroom scrubbing fiesta that had taken place in the early afternoon hours.

Needless to say, a certain little girl had a talk with a certain hyperventilating mommy.

But what can I say?
Sheepies, they like their bling.

Vive la Revolution

I have been noticing lately, with a smidgen of pride, how interested Taylor has become in the early history of our great nation.

This all began when we started streaming episodes of Liberty's Kids from Netflix regularly after lunchtime.  As he recently learned more about our country's history in school for Presidents' Day, this interest has continued to spike.  People like Benjamin Franklin and John Adams have become real to him.  He tells people regularly how wonderful it is that George Washington fought so we could have freedom in America today.

For a five-year-old, I think that's pretty cool.  I'm fairly certain that at that age I may not have been aware that I even lived in a place called America.

But the other day, as I was tending to some chores upstairs, I happened to overhear Taylor playing on the floor below.  It was a pretty elaborate production-- he was even singing as though his imaginary soldiers were involved in a grand American Revolutionary opera as they fought the dreaded Red Coats.  I paused to take all of this in, deeply amused and caught in the moment.  It was awesome.

Then I stopped.  A thought suddenly occurred to me. 
Did he think that the British were still the "bad guys"?

It sure seemed that way.

My concerns were validated after I questioned him a short while later.  He was indeed under the impression that England was still out to impose the rule of monarchy on all freedom-loving Americans.  Those devious Brits! 

So I reminded him of an old friend.

"Hey, Taylor, do you remember your friend B?  Remember how you used to go over to his house all the time before he moved?"

"Oh yeah, of course I remember him.  He was my very best friend!"

"Right.  Well, do you know where his family moved to?"

"Um, where?"

"They moved all the way across the ocean to England!  The British people are their neighbors now.  Did you know the British are friends with Americans now?"

"Oh, wow. Really?"

"Really, truly.  Would you like to write B a letter?  We can send it in the mail to him!"

With that invitation, he set to work, drawing a stack of pictures that I get to deliver to the post office this week.

He even addressed the envelope himself:
To B, From Taylor.  (It is just across the pond, after all.)

But I may have to relabel it, just in case his address wasn't quite clear.
You know how the postal service can be. 

And, no surprise, he is still fascinated by early American history.
And he clearly understands now that the good people of Great Britain are our friends.

But there's just one last nagging thought that has me wondering...

Does he now think that the only reason the war is over is because of the courageous diplomatic efforts of our good friends and former neighbors?

Hmmmmmm.

We may have a few lessons to go yet.

In the meantime, my dear ambassadors:
On behalf of Taylor, allow me to express his deepest gratitude for your work in protecting our country's liberties!

Bottoms Up!

I may have had it coming.

Crouched over in a most unflattering position, tucking in sheets around an air mattress we were preparing for my mom's overnight visit, I'm sure there was no way of missing it.

But I was still unprepared when Taylor came around the corner and patted me on the hip.

"I love your big bottom, Mama," he said with a smile.

Now, I know that this was all innocently stated with no intention of offense, but I still wasn't quite certain how to take that little remark.  I whipped my head around to look at Bryson, who was looking at Taylor with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

"Taylor, that's really not a nice thing to say to someone,"  he exclaimed.
I could tell he was trying not to laugh as he said it.

Taylor was genuinely confused.
"What?"

"Ah... well, we just really don't need to talk about other people's bottoms," he continued.  "It's not very polite."

"Oh."    He thought about that new insight for just a moment.
And then he ran off, a new distraction catching his eye.


Later that evening after the kids were in bed, Bryson and I were lounging about, reading.  I looked over at him.

"So... do I really have a big bottom?"  I asked.  I was only half-joking.

He laughed, and then proceeded to give the correct response.

"No, you don't have a big bottom.  I suppose when compared to a five-year-old's bottom, then yes, it would be comparatively larger, but for you it is perfectly well-proportioned."

"Okay..."

"But, you know," he continued, "if you want to see something positive about it, he did say that he liked it."

Great.  Now I had Sir Mix-a-Lot lyrics involuntarily running through my head. 
But I suppose there are worse things...

After all, my little boy loves me just the way I am.
Big bottom and all.

Valentine's

This morning did not go so well.

With everyone feeling marginally healthy, it was a battle to get everyone out of bed, and another battle to decide whether to allow Taylor and Reilly to go to school.  I wasn't convinced they were ready.  They were adamant about not missing the Valentine's Day festivities.  They won.

But the everyday routine felt far from ordinary this morning.  I was tired.  I was grumpy.  I was impatient.

And no one was prepared.

Homework was unfinished.
Breakfast was unmade.
Babies needed changing.  And feeding.
Taylor's valentines were unaddressed.
Reilly's were simply missing.

I forgot myself.
And I snapped.

I yelled at my four-year-old little princess.
About taking responsibility.
About listening the first time you're asked to do something.
About obedience.
About treating your things with respect and care.

But the valentines still remained undisclosed.
And I was angry she had been so careless with them.

Until they were found...
 Placed high on a shelf by her loving daddy.

(Who didn't want her to accidentally misplace them.)

Enter the shame monster.

And it was only after we were on the road driving to preschool that the irony of the situation struck me.  How on this day of all days-- a day specifically chosen for celebrating the ones you love-- I acted in a manner completely in opposition to what I should have done.

In the school parking lot, I helped Reilly out of the car and held her tight for a few moments.

"I am so sorry I was mean and cross with you,"  I apologized.
"I was wrong to yell and act like I did.  I want you to know that I love you very much.  You're my little princess, and I will always love you more than you can imagine."

She smiled and giggled and proceeded to tell me that she loved me more.
Then she showered me with tiny kisses all over my cheek.

And as I drove away
I was left to wonder how on earth I had ever gotten so lucky
--despite all my inadequacy--
to be blessed with such love in my life.