Portrait of Fear


Last week my baby started first grade. Which means that from the hours of 9:00 to 3:30 each day, all of my children are now in school. When a friend recently asked me how I felt about that I answered: “Euphoric and terrified at the same time.” Euphoric because I can finally focus on finishing my novel and getting it out there. Terrified for the very same reason.

I realized how scared I really was about this on the morning my kids started school. As soon as they were out the door, I jumped on my mountain bike and headed up to the foothills near our home. I was almost to the top of the trail when a large, tawny-colored animal crossed the path ahead of me and disappeared into the trees. It had only been about 30 feet in front of me, but with the bend in the trail I hadn’t gotten a good glimpse of it. Most likely it was a mule deer. They live in these hills, and come down from the mountains in small herds to devour any unprotected vegetable garden in their path. But as it hurried away into the scrub oak, I swear I saw a long TAIL. My brain screamed MOUNTAIN LION, and I turned my bike so quickly in the opposite direction that I hit my back wheel on a rock and got a flat tire.

I hurried out of the park as fast as I could, and took the paved road back home. Unfortunately, that road took me by the cemetery, and as I walked past, pushing my bike alongside me, I noticed the vultures that nest in our city cemetery circling overhead, their great dark wings hanging heavily against the sky. “If I were writing a story,” I thought. “The mountain lion and the vultures would make really potent symbols.” I continued to ponder this. “What,” I wondered, “would they represent?”

And of course, that is when it hit me: fear.  My own fear. Of failure.

I had to laugh at myself then. And laughing gave me just enough courage to sit down and write, so as soon as I got home, I pulled out my computer and got to work. Now I’m struggling through. I have to admit, it is taking a LOT of chocolate. But I am looking fear in the face and I am doing it. I haven’t seen any more mountain lions slink past, and the vultures have stopped circling overhead. I found a quote recently that I need to blow up in ginormous writing so that I can remember it if a shadow passes above me, or something heavy moves in the trees. It is by Gordon B. Hinckley and it goes like this: “You have not failed until you quit trying.”


Portrait of a Pioneer

If you drive up the road a bit from our home in Alpine, Utah, you can find the homestead of a pioneer legend, John R. Moyle. He was one of the first pioneers to settle this area, and the city has preserved parts of his original home in a quiet little park where you can visit and learn more about him.


John Rowe Moyle and wife, Phillipa Beer Moyle

His story was told by Jeffrey R. Holland, an apostle of the LDS church, during a session of our general conference. Here is an excerpt:

“John R. Moyle lived in Alpine, Utah, about 22 miles as the crow flies to the Salt Lake Temple, where he was the chief superintendent of masonry during its construction. To make certain he was always at work by 8 o’clock, Brother Moyle would start walking about 2 A.M. on Monday mornings. He would finish his work week at 5 P.M. on Friday and then start the walk home, arriving there shortly before midnight. Each week he would repeat that schedule for the entire time he served on the construction of the temple.

Once when he was home on the weekend, one of his cows bolted during milking and kicked Brother Moyle in the leg, shattering the bone just below the knee. With no better medical help than they had in such rural circumstances, his family and friends took a door off the hinges and strapped him onto that makeshift operating table. They then took the bucksaw they had been using to cut branches from a nearby tree and amputated his leg just a few inches below the knee. When against all medical likelihood the leg finally started to heal, Brother Moyle took a piece of wood and carved an artificial leg. First he walked in the house. Then he walked around the yard. Finally he ventured out about his property. When he felt he could stand the pain, he strapped on his leg, walked the 22 miles to the Salt Lake Temple, climbed the scaffolding, and with a chisel in his hand hammered out the declaration “Holiness to the Lord.” 

In honor of John Moyle, the youth of our local ward, or church congregation, made a trek last Saturday, walking from our home in Alpine to the Salt Lake City temple.  I joined the youth, including my 12-year old son, Hunter, in the long walk to Salt Lake.

We started off at 2:00 a.m. and hiked over the mountain from Alpine into Draper, following single-trail dirt paths in the pitch black. Hunter and I were assigned to different groups, so he was walking ahead of me.
There were 6 aid stations along our route, with food, drinks, and bathrooms. It started to rain at about 5:30 and we were all soaked. At the third station I caught up with Hunter. I was glad to see he had put on his poncho. His hat was wet, so I took that, and his feet were soaked so he changed into a dry pair. Some people’s feet were bleeding from blisters, and a lot of the youth, the younger ones especially, were having a really hard time. Hunter’s ankles were hurting badly, and his friend’s feet hurt. Two of our leaders convinced Hunter and his friend to get a ride to the next aid station. They told Hunter, “John R. Moyle walked 22 miles and our route is 27 miles, so you can drive 5 miles and it will still count.” Hunter got in the car, and I returned to my group. Later I found out that Hunter only drove a block before he insisted on getting back out of the car. He wanted to walk the whole way. There were a couple of the leaders tracking our walk on GPS units. They clocked the hike at 31 miles, so he actually ended up going quite a bit further than Moyle.
My group was last, so I didn’t get to see a lot of the youth who were ahead of me. But I did end up walking with those who were struggling and fell behind their own groups. Unfortunately one of those was Hunter. His ankles hurt so much. I tried to get him to take some aspirin. I had taken some because my knee was really hurting. “John Moyle didn’t have aspirin,” he said, and kept going. By the last 10 blocks he was walking with tears in his eyes. He didn’t say a word, just set his face grimly forward and staggered along. It was hard for me to see him in so much pain. That was the hardest part of the trek, for me. After we finally made it to the Salt Lake Temple, we gathered in a banquet room at a nearby hotel for warm food and rest. Hunter sat down and stared ahead in silence while I got him some food to eat. After Hunter had eaten a little bit, one of the adult leaders sat down with us and told me, “Hunter is so smart.” Apparently, as we hiked along the Bonneville Lake Shoreline Trail – which marks the shoreline of the prehistoric lake that used to fill the Salt Lake Valley – Hunter was giving a scientific account of the Paleozoic period. Hunter grinned, and seeing that smile on his face made me want to cry, I was so happy to see him feeling better. Later I asked him how he felt during that final stretch. “I was getting depressed,” he told me. But he had refused to give up. He kept thinking of John Moyle, and his example of faith.
When I arrived at temple square and looked up to see the words Moyle engraved on the temple: ‘Holiness to the Lord’, I realized that where my challenge was ending, his work would just be beginning. He wouldn’t get to the temple and stop. He would start working. Sometimes he would go to the quarry, and some days he would go straight to the temple and pick up his tools. He was still climbing the scaffolding outside the temple late into his seventies. I thought about the effort that would require and concluded he must have had something very powerful motivating him. I believe it was his love for the temple, and a desire for his family to receive the promised blessings the temple would offer – the opportunity to be sealed for time and eternity. His love for the temple is what I am taking away from this experience – and an increased gratitude for the blessings we now have so close at hand, and which are so easy to take for granted.

Book Review: Bunny Days

I like to keep a basket of rotating picture books in our family room. The kids, every one of them, enjoy discovering each new selection of books, and I love watching them turn the pages and READ. Even my grown-up fourth and sixth graders, who might think they are too big to check out picture books from the library, like to see what I’ve put in the basket. That makes me so happy. Picture books engage the senses on so many levels, and can be profound in their simplicity. Some are nuanced and sophisticated in ways chapter books can’t be. And they are always beautiful.

Today it was time to put out some Easter-inspired books.  Easter-bunny that is. Here is what I chose:

HOP! by Phyllis Root, illustrated by Holly Meade. The perfect book for toddlers. It shows five adorable baby bunnies scratching, scritching, wiggling and twitching, and of course, hopping.  A fun read-aloud, with rhyming words and repetitive sounds that make it 0h-so-accessible for the diaper crew. And the sweet little bunnies are a happy reminder of the bouncy baby you are reading to.

HOP! by Phyllis Root

HOP! by Phyllis Root

The next book is just as charming. Bunny Days by Tao Nyeu.  It features not five, but six little bunnies. And these bunnies have a friend named Bear who helps them out of some very bunny business. Told in short episodes which are all set in a charming pastoral farmscape of soothing greens and blues, Bunny Days is the perfect combination of sweet and silly. Preschoolers will love to see Bear’s surprising solutions to the bunnies’ predicaments.

Bunny Days by Tao Nyeu

Bunny Days by Tao Nyeu

My last bunny book is Bunnies on the Go by Rick Walton, illustrated by Paige Miglio.  The bunnies in this book love to be on the move, whether that means taking a bike or a balloon, a train or a truck. Each page gives a little hint of what is to come to the observant reader. I love the way the soft, cuddly-looking bunnies team up with all-terrain vehicles to make a book that both boys and girls can enjoy. Another bunny book by the same team is So Many Bunnies: A Bedtime ABC and Counting Book.  My daughter used to love reading it, tucked up in her bed, when she was younger.

Bunnies on the Go by Rick Walton

Bunnies on the Go by Rick Walton

Portrait of a Confession

This afternoon one of my Halloween decorations mysteriously lost its two front legs: a cute little kitty, now permanently crippled because the ceramic paws are completely shattered.  My first thought when I found it, sitting in its usual place, with all its bits and pieces lined up beside it, was ‘Why do I bother with decorations when I have four kids running around the house?’  My second thought was, ‘Who did this?’

So I began questioning my children.  Surprisingly, not a single one of them admitted to breaking the Halloween cat. One of them tried to blame the dog, but our little Westie couldn’t have reached the shelf where it had been on display.  Another one of them tried to blame Dad (never a wise move).  So I let the case rest.

Until tonight when we sat down to dinner.  A surprise development occurred when I asked my eleven year old to bless our food.  “Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “Please bless the food.  And please bless us that we can talk about the things that are upsetting or troubling us.”

“Thank you, Hunter,” I said when he had finished his blessing.  I was little worried about that last part, though, so I turned to the rest of the family and asked.  “Does anyone have anything that is troubling or upsetting you that you want to talk about?”

“Yes,” said Pierce, my five-year-old, waving his hand up in the air.

“What is it?”

“I don’t like this dinner.”

“Okay,” I said.  “Anyone else?”

Hunter looked at me, his face all trouble and concern.  “I broke the cat, Mom,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to.”

He probably expected me to be mad. It was a cute little kitty.  But I couldn’t be angry.  Because I was looking at his face, and seeing all that trouble and concern, and it made me much sadder than a broken Halloween decoration.  I put my arms around him and kissed the top of his head.  I was so grateful that I could make all that guilt and sadness go away, just by forgiving him.  And so grateful that he would tell me what had happened so that I could forgive him.  “Next time tell me right when it happens, okay?” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

And I hope he will.


Portrait of a Piano Teacher


Spring is here.  Ribbons of yellow daffodils are growing on the side of the road.  Robbins are hopping around, their red breasts puffed out in front of them.  And soccer season has begun.  My weekly schedule is suddenly an ink smear of places I need to be.  I’m having a hard time keeping up with it all.  In fact, I’m NOT keeping up with it all.  Last Friday I completely forgot about a music evaluation my son, Hunter, had for piano.  It was an exam of sorts, including sight reading, performance, theory, and technique.  He’d been working toward it for months.  And I forgot.  So did he.  We both felt terrible.  Tears-on-our-cheeks TERRIBLE.

First thing Saturday morning I called his teacher, Rebecca, to apologize.  “I don’t even have a good excuse,” I confessed.  “We just forgot.”

Hunter’s piano teacher is one of the kindest, most gracious people I know.  But even so, I expected her to be frustrated.  Disappointed at the least.  I would have been.  Instead, she responded by saying, “I am so happy to know that everything is okay.  I was worried that Hunter was sick.”

Before I had a chance to plunge into an even deeper state of guilt, our sweet teacher went on to say, “Now, Janessa, I’ve had this sort of thing happen to me many times.  I wish I had been gentler with myself.  Please.  Be gentle with yourself.”

There wasn’t much I could say to that, especially not with the tears welling up in my eyes.  I shared her words with my son, Hunter, and saw a wide-eyed look of gratitude and adoration appear on his face.

Be gentle with yourself.  What a valuable lesson.  I hope Rebecca knows she is teaching Hunter so much more than how to play the piano.  And I am learning, too.

Book Review: and then it’s spring by Julie Fogliano, illustrated by Erin E. Stead

and then it's spring by Julie Fogliano and Erin E. Stead

This book is a treasure. I love everything about it. The sparse, expressive text that reads like a poem. The soft illustrations full of humor and emotion. The little boy who waits patiently for the seeds he has planted to change the brown to green. And his friendly entourage – a bunny, a turtle, and a dog whose expressions somehow capture a new emotion with each turn of the page. I was so happy to read this book a day after complaining about the muddy footprints my son spread through the house. It was a gentle reminder that when you are wishing for the green of Spring, first you must have brown. Brown with “a greenish hum that you can only hear if you put your ear to the ground and close your eyes.” I read this book to all of my kids tonight (ages 11, 9, 7, and 4) and they all thoroughly enjoyed it.

Portrait of Lucky

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My preschooler on his first day of school, back in September.

Lucky.  That is how I felt today when I dropped my four year old off for preschool.  He stopped on his way to the door, turned around, shouted, “I love you, Mom,” and blew me a kiss.

The little things do it every time – make me realize how wonderful life really is.  That little kiss, sent to me across the chilly February air, blew away a thousand thoughts and concerns that have been pressing on me lately, most of them concerning the word MORE.

That word, ‘more’, has been such a burden lately.  I need to lose more weight.  I need more fashionable clothes.  I need to finish more of my book.  I need my house to look more put together.   I’ve been so focused on what I don’t have, and that little kiss brought it back to me: the remembrance of all the things I do have.  All the little, tiny, precious, priceless things.

As I drove away, feeling lighter than I have in a while, I thought about the word more, and what I really need more of: more gratitude, more patience, more love, more doing good for others, more fun with my family, more laughing, more smiling, more hugs, and more, more, more feathery kisses blowing my way on light and lucky breezes.

Monday’s Portrait: Portrait of Gratitude

I know I’m a little late for a Thanksgiving post, but tonight our family had an experience that left me feeling profoundly grateful for the gifts we are given each day. 

To start off, the week before Thanksgiving, my 3rd grade daughter brought home a poem she wrote and illustrated at school.  I loved the poem.  Not just because my daughter wrote it and I enjoyed reading her thoughts, but also because the poem was a wonderful exercise in learning how to find gratitude.  My daughter’s teacher had the students in her class think of eight things they wanted.  After each longed-for wish, the students wrote something they already had that they were grateful for.  For example, here is my daughter’s poem:

I wish I had another puppy, but I’m grateful I have one.

I wish nobody would get sick, but I’m grateful I don’t get sick a lot.

I wish I had all the books I wanted to read, but I’m grateful I get to read some.

I wish I never had hard times, but I’m grateful I have friends and family when I do.

I wish I had a job with animals, but I’m grateful I can when I’m older.

I wish I would never grow up, but I’m glad I get to stay little for a while.

I wish the day would last forever, but I’m grateful it lasts 24 hours.

I wish I could do whatever I want, but at the same time I’m grateful that I don’t.

I could add a few of my own: I wish my husband liked 19th century British literature, but I’m grateful he’ll watch Jane Eyre with me anyway.  I wish I didn’t have to wash the dirty dishes, but I’m grateful I can feed my family.  I wish I had more time to write my book, but I’m grateful for four children who keep me busy and make my life purposeful.

It really is a wonderful exercise – finding what you are grateful for in the moment you are longing for more.  Tonight’s experience was all about that.  My husband and I took our kids to a special event organized by a dear friend of mine: a concert by children for children.  She and her family organize the event each year, inviting friends to come and participate in a night of holiday music.  Children perform, sharing their talents, and at the end of the night donations are accepted for the One Heart Bulgaria foundation, which aids orphanages in Bulgaria.

Saren Loosli, organizer of tonight's concert, and co-founder of Power of Moms, visiting an orphanage in Bulgaria

At the beginning of the concert, we were shown a slideshow of orphaned children living in Bulgaria.  I found myself drawn toward the children’s dark, quiet eyes as they looked into the camera, inviting me to see the world from their point of view.  It allowed me to step away from the long hard stare I fix on the things I think I want most, both for me and for my children, and to appreciate the most basic and important elements of our lives: love, faith, and family; food, health and home.  There are so many gifts that have already been given, so many wants that have already been met.  And so many opportunities to give instead of receive.

Monday’s Portrait: Portrait of a Journal

Hattie and I kayaking together on our recent trip to Florida.

I’ve kept a journal for as long as I can remember.  It’s a habit my mom started me on.  Sunday afternoons she would hand us each our hard back, blank-paged book, our name engraved on the front, and instruct us to write something about our week.  Most of my early entries were catalogs of which VHS movie we rented from Albertson’s for our weekly movie night (we rented the VCR, too) and what candy I picked to go with it.  I must have really loved those movie nights. 

As I got older I turned to my journal more often than Sunday afternoons, and began writing in order to make sense of my life and my feelings, like this entry from 1988: “I’m in the 6th grade right now and everything is really confusing.  I don’t want to grow up sometimes.”  (Don’t you just want to give that poor girl a hug and tell her everything will be okay?)

Now I am a journal enthusiast.   I have journals for every trip I’ve taken, journals for each of my kids, a journal about mothering, a journal to record my spiritual journey through life, and a journal I just started where I try to write one super-positive, self-affirming statement every morning.  I feel a little silly about that last one, but I’m telling you, it really makes a difference.

I also have a journal that I share with my daughter, Hattie.  We hand it back and forth to each other, taking turns writing messages to each other on its secret pages.  Most of Hattie’s entries start and end with, “I love you.”  One even says, “I love you so much.  Even better than the stars.”  But last week she broke the mold with this little missive:

Dear Mom,


The End 

 Wow.  Point taken.  I had been yelling too much.  Not just at her – at everybody.  Now I had a whole new reason to be grateful for our little journal.  It gave her the chance to share her feelings with me, even when they were negative.  At different points throughout the journal I had offered small suggestions or corrections to her behavior, and now she was offering one to mine.  I was definitely humbled.  Especially when a few minutes later she stole the journal away and amended the page to read:

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry.  I’ll forgive you.  But can you forgive me?



I have so much to learn from her.  Of all the journals I have kept over the years, I already know this one will be my most priceless.  The others I have stacked away in bins and boxes, but this one will always be close by.  I hope it will continue to grow and change, just like my little girl.  Her birthday is this week.  I can’t believe how big she is getting.  She is so excited to be in the spotlight.  Her last entry in the journal reads,

One more day til my birthday.  Well, I guess one and a half, to be more pacific

Monday’s Portrait: Portrait of Growth

My sister, leading a local choir.

I come from a family of eight.  Two brothers, three sisters, and two parents.  I adore them all.  Last year my youngest sister started a birthday tradition among us.  On (or near) the day of our birthdays, everyone in the family sends a ‘tribute’ email, saying one thing they admire or appreciate about us.  It is wonderful being the recipient of these thoughtful messages, but just as nice is reading what people have to say when it is someone else’s birthday.   Recently it was my oldest sister’s birthday, and my brother sent out his birthday tribute.  This is an excerpt of what he said:

“She was not born a patient one, but yet is the most faithfully patient person I know.”

When I first read this I laughed, remembering all the family trips and outings when I would hear her voice from the backseat of our big chevy van asking, “When are we going to eat?”  But my laughter quickly turned to tears as I thought about all that my sister has accomplished over the years, and the hardships she has endured.  She is an amazing example of faith and perseverence.  I grew even more emotional as I thought about each member of my family.  I have seen so much patience in the midst of hardships.  Were any of us born with natural patience to help us weather our storms?  Maybe. 

Maybe not.

Sometimes I approach life thinking I am limited.  I have certain traits and attributes to get me where I want to go, but where I lack the needed attributes – discipline, focus, patience, I’m afraid I will fail.  Thinking about my sister made me realize that with work and perseverence I can grow and develop the traits I need to help me reach my goals.  It helped me see in a very clear way that life, in so many ways, is a process of growth and development.  It takes time.  It takes work.  But it fills me with hope knowing that I can aspire to be the person I want to be, even if she sometimes seems beyond my reach.


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