Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Three: There Is No "X" In Christmas

It is Christmas Eve, and I find myself with some alone time. Which is not the same as finding myself alone at Christmas. I am not alone, and for that, I am continually grateful. At the moment, my kids are with their father and his family, and I just came from a wonderful Swedish Christmas Eve dinner with my brother's family, my sister, and my parents. Now I am home, with a little time to contemplate the nature of Christmas. I have not done Christmas in the "traditional" way this year. Partly by choice, but mostly due to circumstance. I have not decorated, I have not written a festive rhyming Holiday Newsletter, and I have not spent a single dime on gifts for anyone. I didn't even put up a tree, although we do have a tiny artificial one in the living room that my son set up. This is not like me. Usually, I am all over Christmas, from the day after Thanksgiving until January 2nd.

The reasons for my lack of Christmas preparation this year are varied, from being overwhelmed by school and work, to not having any extra funds; from dealing with the passing of my grandmother, to just passively rebelling against the madness. I am not feeling bitter or negative, just a little on the numb side. I love Christmas, and I think I am generally pretty good at embracing the Spirit over the Sales. In fact, I avoid Black Friday like the plague it sounds like it is named after. Which is not to say that I begrudge anyone else the opportunity to get up at the crack of the night before to battle crowds over toys and electronics. Saving money is a good thing. I may even try it one day. But I have enough chaos in my life without purposely adding more. And I don't think there were shoppers pushing each other around in that small stable where it all began.

Still, I have been feeling a little down over letting the season slip by without having accomplished x,y, and z. Even though I do not buy into the crass commercialism that has taken over this sacred Holiday, I do still feel like it is my responsibility to prepare a festive and homey environment for my kids, and I feel I have failed to do that this year. My goal has always been to create a setting wherein they know that this time of the year is different than the rest of the year, because it marks the entrance into this earthly sphere of the Savior of us all.

That is an amazing thing. A thing that gets lost in the shuffle. So lost that His very name, Christ, has been replaced in some instances by an "X". I am not here to pass judgment on anyone who has ever said "Merry X-Mas", I have done it myself in the past. Before I thought about what that really meant. I don't know if the crossing out of Christ came about as a thing of convenience, or as a way to be politically correct with regard to those who might not necessarily be Christian, but removing His name from a holiday that is meant to honor His arrival seems to me to negate the holiday. As does feeling bad for not being able to afford material gifts to celebrate what was a most humble beginning. One that did not involve material wealth.

My feeling tonight is that there is no "correct" way to do Christmas. Except to remember who is being honored, and to treat those around you like He would. We should honor, recognize, and respect the holiday traditions of other faiths, as the Savior Himself would. But this does not mean dismissing or apologizing for our own. And the Holiday traditions can be wonderful. I like my eggnog, going to see Christmas lights, and hoping to experience the superpowers of mistletoe as much as the next person. I am a fan of Santa, and of gift-giving. And there is nothing wrong with that. Gift-giving is symbolic of the great gift that the Savior is to each of us. It is also fun.

However, like life, some Christmases will be richly abundant, and others will be sparse. If you are lucky, some will be both. Because it will likely be the ones that were sparse that will be most treasured and remembered. And when life is bearing down on us, sometimes there are things on our very long and detailed Christmas lists that need to be crossed off and let go of. Just be careful what you draw that "X" through, or you are in danger of losing Christmas altogether. Embrace the people you love, and let go of the rest. That is how you do Christmas right.

Lesson Number Twenty-Two: On Doubting What You Are Sure Of

You may have noticed that I omitted the word "Learned" from this particular title. That is not an oversight. Because I don't know that I can ever claim this lesson as one that is fully learned. So this is more of an exploration than a declaration. This topic has been rolling around in my head for some time now, and it is doubt that has stopped me from addressing it. Doubt in my ability to get the message right; to properly deliver it. So I have started writing, and I have stopped, and I have started again. I have been taking notes and writing down observations for weeks. Because getting this particular message right feels important to me.

About five years ago, a song lyric was brought to my attention, on at least three separate occasions, via three different sources, and in rather quick succession. So I paid attention, and I have remembered. The lyric had to do with God's mercy on those who doubt what they are sure of. The context in which I have interpreted this song lyric has evolved over the past five years, and I now believe that the over-riding message has less to do with the actual meaning of the words, and more to do with the question the words have caused me to keep asking myself; How can I keep my doubts away from what I am sure of? The answer is that I can’t. My doubts will always test the things I am sure of. And that is where the part about God’s mercy comes in. In the midst of the testing.

This blog is about the things I am sure of. The things I feel I can somewhat confidently say that I “know for sure”. Most of what I write about here has already withstood the test of my doubting long enough for me to say “this concept or principle won’t change, and I can trust it”. That is my criteria for declaring a lesson “learned”. That said, there are many things in my life that I used to be sure of, that I no longer am. But this does not have to be tragic.

When I was young and single, the one thing I was just certain I was going to get right in life was Who I Married. I fully believed that if I did everything I was taught to do, if I had faith and was obedient to God’s laws, He would not let me choose poorly. And then when marriage got really, really, hard, I was just certain that we would find a way to work through it all; that God would not allow us to fail. Obviously, finding myself divorced made me question many of the things I had previously been “sure of”, with the aforementioned “certainties” leading the list.

Nonetheless, being the ever-adaptable perpetual optimist that I am, I became certain that I would soon find someone better suited to me, that I might even have more than one contender for the position, and that, oh, “5 or so years from now”, I would finally be happily bound to the Right Man. Six years later, I am a not-so-young-yet-still-single Grandma who is going to college and writing this silly blog, trying to sort out the criteria for determining what I am “sure of”. Seeking a man does not even rank space at the far bottom of my “To-Do” list. I have handed that one off to God and am not even trying to figure out the divine time frame on it. I just trust Him.

We are all sure of certain things at certain times. If we were not, we would never make a single decision. Belief and absolute faith are powerful things. For a certain amount of time, the apostle Peter had absolute faith that he could walk on water. And he did. Right up to the moment he let doubt creep in, and then he began to sink beneath the waves. Doubt can sink us, or it can strengthen us, (sometimes both) depending on how we manage it. Recently a man I greatly admire spoke in church, (humbly, poignantly, and passionately) about the pain of seeing his parents give in to doubt in areas that were close to his heart. This served to remind him (and me) that we can only rely on the beliefs of others for so long before doubt forces us to figure out for ourselves what we are sure of. We have to test what we believe, and we do that by living it, as this particular man does. Those of us who have been recipients of his kindness have no doubts about what he believes.

In this same church meeting, there was a lot of talk about the “tender mercies” of the Lord, and I could not help but connect the message about painful doubts with the message about tender mercies. The point was made that it is the very strengthening nature of our trials that IS the tender mercy of the Lord. He allows us to have the doubts, to sink for a while, to make choices that lead to pain, so that when we reach the point that we are finally sure of something, it has value. Because He loves us. When Peter was sinking into the turbulent ocean, perhaps feeling shame for his own failing faith, he reached out for the hand of the Savior, who had mercy on him in his doubt and lifted him back up.

He will always be merciful to us in our doubts, and of that, I am sure.

In the past few months, there has been much of both the painful doubts and the tender mercies in my life. Reality has conflicted with some things I felt like I knew for sure and could count on, and I have felt like I was left drifting. Drifting and sinking. I beat myself up over and over again for my lack of faith, and this makes it hard to reach upward for the hand of the Savior when I need it. Yet it is always there. Without fail, He has been merciful to me in my doubts. Which are many, and which repeat often.

As does the lesson.

Faith. Doubt. Mercy. Repeat.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-One: Write It Out

Initially when I see this directive, I visualize a LIST. Lists are somewhat generic, at least as far as writing goes. Write out a grocery list, a Christmas list, a list of New Years’ Resolutions, list the Pros and Cons of a tough decision. Write it out so you don’t forget it, get it in front of you, where you can see it and analyze it. Write it out so someone else will know what you need them to get/be/do for you.

I used to love to make lists. Lists are good things, and indispensible as organizational tools. Without them, we would be…well… “list-less”. OK, ok… I apologize for that bit of bad writing in this bad bit ON writing. But sometimes a bad bit makes things a bit better. Alright, I will really stop now… Anyway… Lists are also meaningless if you don’t take the action that is listed on them. Ya gotta DO things, then check them off.

But this is not what I am talking about when I say “Write it Out” in the context of this message. I am talking about passion, I am talking about problem-solving, and I am talking about how I came to discover what it is I believe I am supposed to do with my life. What’s left of it, anyway.

When I was a kid, I wrote stuff down. Kind of obsessively. I had notebooks. Like “Harriet the Spy”. Only I never wrote bad things about people, (Well. Almost never.) or had my notebooks fall into the wrong hands, subsequently destroying people’s lives. So maybe not exactly like “Harriet the Spy”, but you get the point. I started keeping journals consistently when I was about 12, and I have over 30 volumes now. I won’t tell you that these masterpieces are full of wisdom and optimism, because that would be a lie. (Although I would like to think there is some measure of both, in those precious pages.) Mostly these volumes are full of tortured observations about the boys who tempt and try me. You will notice that I said “are”, and not “were”. Girls whining about the boys who tempt and try them is one of those things in life that does not change with age. Or experience. Or marital status. I will not be debating this point. Nor will I be dwelling on it. I just want to talk about the process.

When I am feeling something extreme, something too big to handle alone, too big to contain within my weak and mortal self, whether it is good or bad, I have to write it out. Out of my head, out of my heart, out of my system. Onto a blank page. To me, there is just nothing more seductive than a blank page. My favorite thing to do when I am feeling overwhelmed is to go to Barnes and Noble and look at the blank books. At the leather-bound journals. To buy a good pen or two. Or five. To then choose the blank book that feels the most representative of where I am in life at that given moment, buy it, and proceed to fill the pages with all my STUFF. It feels good, and it keeps me sane. I think. At least it helps me FEEL sane again, if only momentarily.

To just pour every little thing, even the iceberg-variety “little things” out of my soul and onto the page is the best therapy ever. And the best follow-up therapy is to go back and read it later, when my perspective has changed. It is a way to recycle used-up feelings, hopes, and dreams, to package them with words and see if they look better out there where I can see them. Often they do. Sometimes they don’t. But always I feel a tiny bit more able to move forward, having at least contained within a book whatever is ailing me.

There is much that has been ailing me in my recent past. I pour it raw and unedited into my journals. Which my children may or may not see after I am gone, and that is ok. There needs to be a private place for that. And then sometimes, after I have read back over something of a painful, humorous, or miraculous nature that I have experienced and written about in my journal, there are parts of it that sort of leap out at me, screaming (in their little tiny animated word-voices) that there might be other people who are dealing with similar things who could possibly benefit from my perspective. So I re-write, and then I share with all of you. The still, small voice in my head, (the one that I know is not my own) helps me with the timing and the editing. It feels like the thing I am supposed to be doing, and I am grateful that this thing I feel directed to do is also a thing that I happen to love.

So whenever you are feeling burdened by a thing that hurts, doesn’t make sense, makes you want to break something, or makes you want to break into song, just write it out. Soon, while it’s fresh, and in the form it first comes to you. Once you have done that, sleep on it. Then read what you wrote. Chances are, you will have put it in some kind of order without even realizing it. You will see something you missed before. Or you will cringe, throw the paper away, and swear never to write again. But you will have learned something, I promise you. And you should write again. Whether or not you choose to share what you write, and with whom, should be handled with care. And with prayer. Because words are powerful . They can change lives. In either direction, and sometimes permanently . So choose carefully. That’s all.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty: All the Cute Boys Want Me… To Introduce Them to My Friends.

This is not going to be as much about cute boys and what they want as you might think. And I have sort of battled myself over whether to write this one, because it could be a bit like opening a vein. But I’d like to think I have a little perspective on this by age 50. Or maybe I really don’t, and that’s why I need to write about it. So here goes.

I have a sort of long and stinging history of being the “friend” to the boys. Founder and President of the “Friend Zone”, if you will. The one to whom the male of the species feel they can say, “So, tell me about this friend of yours… She’s really cute/smart/funny/sexy... (pick an adjective)… Do you think she would like me??” This dynamic dates pretty much back to grade school, and now that I am single again, it appears to still be alive and well.

Most of the time, I find this only slightly annoying. I know the drill and I cannot afford to be bothered by it. So I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell them everything they want to know about my beautiful and amazing friend. And since my friends are amazing, that is an easy thing to do. I’m not saying it’s never painful, but there are worse challenges to have. The only time it really hurts is when the male in question is one for whom I myself have been holding out some measure of hope. I have only encountered this a few times in my life, but when it does happen, it is an acid burn to the heart. At any age. In order to recover from such blows, I have had to learn to file the experience under “Things That Just Are What They Are”, aka “Things I Cannot Change”. This is the file I hand off to God for processing.

Last Thursday would have been my 29^th wedding anniversary, and 3 days prior to that marked 6 years since my husband told me he wanted out. In light of the topic at hand, the irony of my marriage was that we were never really friends. Kinda tough to accept, when being a friend was the one thing I thought I was good at. In that oh-so-amicable discussion 6 years ago, he said he wanted to “remain friends”, but this has not occurred. Perhaps because you cannot remain what you have never been. But it has not been for lack of trying on my part. I have used all of my “be a good friend” chops in numerous attempts to make the aftermath smoother, but it has not seemed to help.

So the issue of the ex-husband also goes in that file I hand off to God. In fact, every challenging relationship that I have with other people goes into that file. Because no matter how kind, or clever, or well-intentioned I think I am being, I have learned that when it comes to the agency of others, I have ZERO control. Which is as it should be.

My children test me in this area consistently, particularly my youngest son, who informed me on that same Thursday last week that the school plans we had laid out for this year were not going to work for him. My response was less than stellar. There was screaming and lecturing and frustrated tears on my part, while this 13-year-old boy sat calmly, holding back his own tears and frustration, (a new level of maturity for him) waiting for me to finish my tantrum so he could tell me exactly why he was feeling what he was feeling. The jury is still out on how we will resolve this issue. And the fact that parenting this boy will never be a cakewalk is another of those things that I put in that divine file.

The bottom line is that the people I love the most are always going to choose what they want to choose, regardless of what I think, and I have found that the best (and perhaps only) way to deal with this is to change the way I think about it.

Rather than feel sorry for myself when I see my friends getting stormed by good-looking men, (and I am not so naïve as to believe there isn’t a negative flip side to that dynamic as well…) I choose instead to believe that the one man that God has reserved for me is being polished and prepared by adversity, (as am I) and will be worth the wait. (As will I.)

Rather than mourn “what might have been” in my marriage, I choose instead to celebrate the day in the temple, where I was married; to walk past the always-open door of the room where the ceremony took place, and feel hope instead of regret. I choose to be grateful for the six amazing children and two grandchildren that came from that union. And to further be grateful that the most taxing thing about them is that they are too independent!

I choose to be grateful that I had just come from the temple and had the spiritual strength to handle what felt like a devastating setback, when my son told me what he did last Thursday night. I still did not handle it very well at the time, but my son did. And now I feel like we will be able to find an answer if we work together and exercise mutual respect for one another.

There are things in life that just ARE what they are. My marriage did not make it. But the next one might. My kids will not necessarily choose the path I wish they would. But they are healthy, and they are creative and funny, and they are with me. And the cute boys might always want me to introduce them to my friends. But someday, there might be one who does not. And I only need one.

Learned Lesson Number Nineteen: Sometimes It's Best to Stay Down For Awhile

We have all heard that thing about how “it’s not important how many times you fall down, as long as you get back up again”, am I right? Well, yeah. But… Sometimes it’s ok to take a little time before you get back up. Sometimes you have to catch your breath. Or cry. Or just completely surrender to being down. Sometimes, if you stay down long enough, the oncoming train will pass right over you instead of knocking you clean out of your boots. I’m not saying always. Obviously there are times when you have to use everything you’ve got to get off the tracks poste haste. But I am not talking about those times.

It is very late tonight. I got maybe 3 hours of sleep last night, worked all day, have to work again in the morning, and have some homework that is not going to get done. I just do not have the mental, emotional, or spiritual fortitude to get it done. And the homework is not the only thing in my life that is not getting done. In fact, it seems like a recurring theme of my adult life has been managing the list of things that are just not going to get done. Maybe ever. And perhaps that is ok. The jury is still out on this issue. But tonight, writing this thing about staying down is the only thing that is going to get done. Tonight, I just need to stay down. And I invite you to take a load off and sit with me for a little while. Even if it means you have to leave something undone.

I used to work at WalMart. I was working at WalMart when I was thrown to the ground by divorce. To this day, WalMart still smells like divorce to me. While I was going through this experience, I kept trying to scramble back to my feet, only to repeatedly get bowled over, again and again. By things hurtling toward me from angles I never would have thought of. I knew I could survive it and that I would eventually be ok, but the process was exhausting.

I stood at my cash register every day in my cheery blue vest, watching all manner of colorful people parade their lives before me. Staring me in the face from the aisle next to the candy were the ever-present tabloid magazines, with their scandalous headlines. At that time, there was a rather high-profile celebrity love triangle playing out before my eyes in those tabloid headlines. It was there whether I wanted to see it or not. And I did not. Because the story largely paralleled my own experience, and that was painful to watch.

I alternated between thinking it was easier for them because they had money, (while I was struggling for every dime on top of everything else) and being horrified at the thought of having your every bloody wound exposed to the entire world as it was inflicted. At least I could deal with my stuff in relative privacy.

I remember reading an interview shortly after this, (NOT in a tabloid) with the very publicly jilted party in this trio of Beautiful People, wherein she was asked how she was handling the pain. (Original question, I know…) Her answer surprised me and has stayed with me. She said something to this effect:

“Sometimes I just have to sit in the middle of it and let it wash over me. Feel the reality of the pain. It hurts, and I cry, and then I realize I have survived it. And then eventually I can get back up.”

Which the world and I have seen her do often since then.

I would venture to add to this, “Repeat as necessary”. I used to fight back the painful feelings and the tears and the despair. Resist unhappiness at all costs. Be optimistic! Be shiny and happy when people are looking. Laugh instead of crying. This is my nature, this is what I strive for, and gratitude always gets me back there. Eventually.

But I have learned that this process cannot be rushed. Sometimes the best therapy is to sit on the bathroom floor and sob it out for a while. Or collapse on the couch and admit that you are blue, and tell some people about it. Perhaps even put it in writing. Then stay down long enough to steady and strengthen yourself. Long enough to heal, to recharge, or to get some sleep. Perhaps until an outstretched hand extends itself to help you up. Whichever of these things comes first. THEN, get back up.

Life’s “ups” would be meaningless without the “downs”. So it’s ok to stay down for a while. Really. Maybe the next outstretched hand will be yours, reaching down without judgment or condescension to help someone else up from that familiar place. Because you have spent time down there, and you understand.

Learned Lesson Number Eighteen: Choose to Surrender to Truth

We just celebrated Independence Day. For me, this particular holiday sort of marks my surrender of a great deal of my own personal independence, in that my first child was born on that day. And I use the word “surrender” for a reason. It is because I made a conscious choice to give up a certain level of freedom in exchange for the honor and opportunity of being a mother. That said, I certainly had no idea of the extent to which my life would change, and in ways I had not thought of. That little “parenting” exercise we did in high school where we had to carry around a raw egg everywhere we went was a weak representation at best. The first parenting lesson I learned was that a full night’s sleep and sitting down for an entire meal were things of the past. Not that I ever really got the full night’s sleep before, but that is another topic. It’s a different thing entirely when you are CHOOSING to stay up all night.

Agency is kind of a Big Thing. In the religious faith I was raised in, we believe that there was a war waged in Heaven over the right to choose, and that those of us who are here on the Earth are here because we opted for free will. Having said this, the question arises, WHY is the right to choose for ourselves such an intensely important thing? And if we all chose free will before we came here, why does the battle over freedom still rage? I think it comes down to what we believe to be true. And Truth is a tricky subject. Many people have lost their lives over the inability to agree with others about what is true. Every war has roots in that debate.

I am not here to define truth for anyone. Although I do believe that certain things are true no matter what any of us think. I also know there are those who will disagree with me. But I’m pretty sure that the Earth is round, and that we need oxygen to breathe, that fashion trends will always repeat, and that God exists. I also know that there are a great many circumstances in this mortal existence wherein the “truth” varies in the extreme from one individual to the next, based upon individual experience and perception. Which is REAL and VALID, and should never be dismissed. I believe that truth can be found everywhere, that it stands up to any test, and that those who actively seek it will ultimately find it. I also believe that if we love unconditionally and attempt to see things through the eyes of others, MORE truth will become clear to us.

Awhile back, I took a World Religions class at a community college, taught by a professor who had multiple degrees, (a couple from Harvard) and who was very passionate about what he was teaching. He was in his late 70’s and had this deep, booming voice that commanded attention. I was completely blown away by the depth of his knowledge on the subject of religion, and I hung on every word. I was amazed at the thread of common truths that wound through all of the major world religions, and in a class that only barely scratched the surface, I could not get enough information.

Not everyone felt this way. There were a couple of young students in the class that just really did not care about the material, not because they were irresponsible kids, but just because they did not have the age and experience to truly appreciate what this man was trying to teach them. I remember one particular class where the teacher had reached the end of his rope with these kids and he slammed his book down on the table they were sitting at and kind of lost it a little with them. They were obviously shocked at this response, and they did not come back to the class after that. I felt bad for them, for what they were giving up, and for the teacher, who had spent years fighting to obtain the knowledge he had. Because he chose it and fought for it, his knowledge of the truth he was teaching had great value, and he wanted to share that.

A favorite movie scene of mine, (and, ironically, of my former husband) is from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”, where there are a certain number of tests that must be passed by certain characters who are trying to obtain the Holy Grail. The respective success and failure of these men was directly connected to their motives and also their knowledge of the truth about what they were seeking. The one with the self-serving motives, who had no knowledge of or respect for Christ, and therefore no clue about what type of cup He would have used at the Last Supper, was literally dissolved away, movie-magic style, after drinking from the wrong cup. The guardian of the Grail then observed, “He chose... Poorly”. The beauty of God’s plan is that we are allowed to choose poorly. And He loves us enough that we are also allowed to choose more wisely the next time around. We also need to allow others that same right.

Years ago, my husband and I attempted marriage counseling. In one particularly memorable session, the counselor asked me what my favorite candy bar was. I told him “Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, of course.” He then asked my husband how much he thought I would enjoy a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup if he took it and jammed it down my throat. If it was my favorite, why wouldn’t I appreciate that? After that session, my husband chose not to return because he felt like the counselor was “taking sides”. He had the right to choose that. And now we are where we are.

The rewards and the consequences of our actions are meaningless when we are compelled, and they are priceless when we have chosen freely. This is true whether the choices we make are good ones or bad ones. If a decision we are compelled by someone else to make turns out to have negative consequences, we tend to blame the other person and learn nothing from the painful experience. And even if the choice is a good one, we cannot possibly appreciate the value of it because we did not choose it.

This particular principle is a challenging one to practice and remember when we find ourselves faced with allowing our children to use their agency. I don’t know if that ever gets easier! Most of my children are legal adults now, and I still feel like I want to make some of the tougher choices for them. Give them the benefit of my experience. But one of those things I believe to be true is that everyone must learn by their own experience, and sometimes that can be tragic. This is where my belief in God and my choice to surrender my will to His comes in.

It might seem contradictory to fight so hard for freedom of choice, only to surrender it again. But I have come to learn that He knows far more about what is ultimately best for me, for my children and for those who I love in this life, all of whom I have zero control over. So I love unconditionally and I lay the hard things at His feet. I trust the truth that He lives and He loves me, which is a truth that I have found enough occasions in my life thus far to test thoroughly. Enough that I am willing to surrender my own will to His.

It has not been easy getting here. And I have to reboot on a daily basis. Work on my relationship with Him. Make that choice to surrender anew, every single day. And the more I practice this, the more I realize that I am not giving up anything. He will never force me to turn to Him. And His plan is so much better than mine. Trust me, I have measured my plans against His, and mine are far less satisfying. What He can do for me is FAR cooler than anything I can come up with on my own. So His is the Truth that I choose. I choose it every day, and I wait with faith and anticipation to see what He will bring me in return.

Learned Lesson Number Seventeen: Repetition Bears Repeating

OK, I know this title sounds like a quote brought to you by the “Department of Redundancy Department”, but bear with me. And know that I will be repeating myself. I am suddenly reminded of a song by “Toad the Wet Sprocket”, wherein the lyrics “I will not repeat myself” are repeated several times… Don’t know why I remember this. Perhaps because I used to play that particular song often. REPEATEDLY, even. Repetition makes things stick. And repetition in combination with music is an unbeatable memory tool. How many silly TV commercials from your childhood do you remember because of this combination? That’s what I thought.

As powerful as repetition is, it can also be frustrating. In fact, it can drive you downright bonkers, depending on what is being repeated. I was just over at My Three Sons’ house, and one of them had written, in marker, on his brother’s mirrored closet doors, the lyrics to “The Song That Never Ends”. Over and over, top to bottom, on both doors. This really made me laugh. And now that stupid song is stuck in my head. Thanks, guys. But my point is taken, right?

Having said that, most, if not all, of the basic spiritual laws that I live by in my adult life, I learned through repetition as a child. Often in conjunction with music. That is how I know that “I Am A Child of God”, and other equally precious truths. In my job as a teachers’ aide this past year, I was reminded first-hand of the power of repetition as I did phonetic drills with small children learning to read. At the end of the year, I got to see first-hand the amazing results of their progress.

There is a character in Greek Mythology by the name of Sisyphus. Sisyphus was a king who thought he could hang with the Gods, and consequently got himself condemned to push a rock up a hill for Eternity, only to have it roll back down every time he got it near the top. I have been intrigued with the story of Sisyphus since the first time I heard it. This was sometime during the early years of my marriage, when my days were full of the repetitive tasks that come with having small children and running a home. No matter how many times you change a dirty diaper, there will always be another one. No matter how many times you do the dishes or the laundry, there is always more. I could feel for Sisyphus, even though I have never done any of the evil stuff he did to earn his punishment. Still, I really felt like I was pushing that stupid rock up the hill every day of my life.

Although I have managed to advance beyond dirty diapers, (except in my role as Grandma, which only occasionally requires this of me) I still can relate to Sisyphus. And my interpretation of the story has moved beyond just being able to relate. I now feel like I am a bit closer to accessing the deeper meaning. On its own, the neverending task of pushing a rock up a hill seems tragically pointless. Yet, it follows that the process of doing this over and over again builds up an amazing amount of strength.

One of my favorite movies is a little gem called “Groundhog Day”, where a cranky and selfish Bill Murray finds himself repeating the same day, Groundhog Day, over and over again. Trapped in Punxsutawney, PA, awaking over and over to Sonny and Cher on the radio, he tries every extreme thing he can think of to escape the torture, eventually coming to realize that the only way to break the cycle is to embrace the day and keep trying to get it right.

In assessing the path my life has taken, particularly over the past 5 years, I am seeing the repetition of painful lessons that I keep thinking I have learned, only to have them surface yet again. In many ways, I feel like I have been trapped in Punxsutawney for the past 5 years.

As a single mother facing the sometimes staggering fallout of managing a family split by divorce, (and the very real prospect of remaining alone) I have gained peace and perspective from the repetition of basic truths that I hear when I attend church and go to the temple. Some of these things are repeated word for word, every time, and after years of hearing them this way, they are seared into my soul, and I find I can more readily access them when I need to.

I have found myself, more than once, on my knees, pleading with God about why this crappy stuff keeps happening. Asking Him, “What am I MISSING? Why do I have to go through this AGAIN? How long will this agony last?” If you have been following this blog, you will have already read about some of these experiences. The answer to this series of questions is, of course, that the lesson will repeat until the message sinks in. Until I really embrace the day and get it right. This “day” can take a lifetime, and I know I am not alone when I say that sometimes this is spiritually exhausting. Endlessly repeating the same pleas to the Lord can be emotionally draining. But I do it anyway. And I do it again. And again.

It is often in the repetition of something I have heard so many times before, but never internalized, that I find my answers. I will read a familiar scripture, and it suddenly has personal application to me and whatever I am dealing with. The older I get, the more this happens.

It is starting to sink in for me that repetition is how we keep the good things in our lives, and it’s how we make them better. Including our relationships with the people we love. If we don’t interact with them over and over, love them and tell them, serve them REPEATEDLY, then nothing sticks, and life is empty. We all have to do our time in Punxsutawney. So push the rock up the hill, whether you feel like it or not. And sing along with that annoying song until you find a reason to like it. Then repeat the process.

I have one more parting thought to share with you. There is one thing in life that many people think needs to be repeated that in fact does NOT. When shampooing one's hair, it is NOT, I repeat NOT necessary to repeat after lathering and rinsing. This is just the shampoo companies trying to up their profits. I learned this from David Letterman, and it has saved me maybe hundreds of dollars over the years. Someday I hope to thank him personally for opening my eyes. And now I have opened yours. You're welcome.