My Grandmother

Ella Elizabeth Straup Rohan was born April 28, 1925 and died June 3, 2015. She was my grandmother, my father's mother.

That must have been a wonderful heavenly reunion, when she was reunited with her son, my father, who died in 1983. Alfred James Rohan was born April 22, 1941 and died May 9, 1983. He was her first born.

Now, I'm not going to run through the entire family history because let's be honest, I have no idea of all the details. I wasn't even born until 1975. I do know my grandmother married quite young, had three children, and then divorced. She met my grandfather, Walter Charles Rohan, and it was my dad who asked him when he was going to marry his mom. Walt formally adopted Ella's three kids, which is why my maiden name is Rohan. I was 16 when I learned that I wasn't a Rohan (descended from royalty, btw) by birth, but by adoption. :)

Grandma took care of Grandpa during multiple health crises, often giving up church service and attendance opportunities to care for him. He died December 23, 2003, at age 90. They were good together and I loved them both very much.

It wasn't weird to me, growing up, that I had two sets of grandparents. Everybody did. It wasn't until I was an adult that I recognized the strength, caring, love, and openness that it took for the adults in my life to maintain family relationships after my parents' divorce. We got care packages from Grandma and Grandpa every Christmas, full of treats and gifts. Grandma made me dresses, skirts and blouses, hand crafted crochet items, hand made bead and wood curios, and sketches and drawings. I grew up thinking my grandma could make anything, do anything, and at her funeral my aunt only confirmed that. She said, "My mom could do everything but two things--drive and knit."

Ella never drove. She never learned. She relied on Walt to drive them anywhere until his eyes got bad, and then her kids stepped up. She loved music and art, could play the organ and the piano, and sing like an angel. I have many fond memories of Grandma at the piano, but even fonder memories of her at the organ.

She was always loving and welcoming to us whenever we visited. She never differentiated between my mother, her ex daughter-in-law, and her other kids. She talked of my dad often.  I never, ever doubted their love for us. Ever. She was uber supportive of my writing and always bought books to distribute to family, as much as she was financially able.

Grandma lived a full life, and she went quickly. She didn't linger or suffer, which is a blessing. I was really okay with her passing, even though I will miss her presence in my life. I did really well during the viewing--until the closed the casket. Then it became final. Real. And I started bawling. We didn't really do a traditional funeral for grandma, but a viewing and then brief graveside service. Grandma's favorite hymns were part of the graveside service, we sang at the direction of my incredibly talented aunt Lori, Grandma's youngest daughter. And I couldn't contain the emotions that welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks.

Grandma always struck me as being very private about her own life. And the details that slipped through the family cracks are how many sibling she had, where her parents were buried, anything about her parents at all, or her nieces and nephews. I met a bunch of them at the funeral and I'm counting that as another blessing, another gift Grandma left me. I was able to take pics of my great-grandparents' headstones for our family history, and I got to reconnect with that side of the family. It even led to a job lead for Bryan (we've been unemployed since the end of April), another blessing. Another gift.

Yesterday was a beautiful, spiritual, emotional day. And I'm so grateful that I was able to come. I only wish I could have brought the entire family along.

Goodbye, Grandma. Thank you for being incredible. You've left a legacy in which I think you can find joy.

The Real Christmas

My kids are awesome. Really. They're not perfect but they're mine. And they've got really good hearts. It's easy to pick out their individual strengths and weaknesses, but I'm not doing that. This post isn't about that.

A few of our Family Home Evenings this time of year inevitably focus on the spirit of giving. Not on making your lists, and mailing them to Santa. Not on making sure Mom and Dad are fully aware of everything you want. But on what you can do for others. I actually have a great follow up planned for next week.

We don't do this every year because our kids are greedy or selfish. Rather, we do it to foster their giving natures. I want them to always be this way. I want them to grow up realizing that each of us has the power to impact the lives of others--for good or for ill, it's our choice.

Usually there's a secondary motive. We're always doing Christmas on a budget. This year is no different, except the budget is a bit larger than we're accustomed to. And when we made our list there were several things the kids discussed wanting to do. For other people. Donating to the food bank. Helping a family with their Christmas. Reaching out to a loved one turned curmudgeon.

But this year things are going to be a little different. The more I take stock of our extended family the more I realize that the people we help don't have to be anonymous faces. There are several members of our extended family who are struggling for basic needs. I've been there. The kids have been there. We all understand what that's like, how it feels. And I'm confident--no, I'm certain--once I point out those facts to them they will *want* to help. God has been good to us. We can certainly pass that along.

Like I said, I have good kids.

So we're just going to turn our focus ever so slightly inward. It may mean the girls don't get brand new beds but rather get the beds they have fixed up to last another few months. That's okay. It may mean the boys have to wait till their birthday to get that weight bench set. That's not too far off.

One of the neatest things about doing good for others is how it spreads, like ripples on a pond. Filling hearts with warmth and love is never a wasted effort.

Merry Christmas!

Overcoming Oneself

This is another one of those posts where I don't know if I should put it on my author blog or here, because it has to deal with both. But, since I'm going to focus less on writing and more on me, I chose this blog.

We all do it. I do it. You do it. So it should come as no surprise that I've done it.

Again.

What am I talking about? Well, I've been stupid. This is a bit more serious than doing something stupid. It's a moment when you really just shut your brain down and become actual stupid. Briefly.

Years ago when I first accepted God's call to write my stories for His glory, He gave me a precious gift. He said that all I ever needed to do was ask, and He would personally become my barrier between myself and the influences of Satan. He would keep the tempter at bay and allow me to do the work He has ordained me to do.

When you think about it, that is an awesome gift. As in something that can NEVER be paralleled or matched. And I used it. There were times when, creating my first novel, I had to pray before I sent an email or it wouldn't reach it's destination. Satan was working hard against me, and he hasn't given up.

If you've been keeping up with my blogs, you know in early December I chose to heed the Spirit's call to quit my job and write. I received confirmation from my Heavenly Father that I have TWO callings in this life. The first, and most important, is that of mother. Nothing will compensate for short-changing my children. The second was that of writer. This is not a hobby. This is not a job. This is a CALLING FROM GOD. An important distinction, I think.

So, for a while I did pretty well. I took a week off after leaving my job and then wrote a 7500 word Christmas story. And I thought I had found the groove. I started working on The Lost Princess. Then the holiday came. And then we got word that my mother in law had passed away.

And then everything fell apart.

I'm not kidding. The weekend of her death our computer--where I do all my writing--and the refrigerator DIED. Kaput. Within the next week, our heater stopped working as it should. The dryer developed this insanely loud clunking sound every time it runs. The washer refused to operate on any cycle other than normal with cold water. No more large loads. No more small loads. My father in law knew a guy who came out to fix the fridge, which turned out to need only a $22 part. That time. And I managed to get internet on my hubby's laptop, which is what I'm now using. I don't have all my stories, and some of the ones I have aren't current--like the one I was working on when the PC died. That I've had a hard time getting back to.

But it didn't end there. My son broke his arm playing keepaway after mutual one Wed night. His twin brother got the flu. My youngest started getting these incessant and unceasing headaches. Bryan is having a difficult time coping with everything and it's left him troubled and moody. Yesterday, the same son with the broken arm came home and showed me his finger (on the opposite side of the arm he broke) was all swollen and hurting. He'd injured it trying to play one handed basketball with his friends because he didn't want to let them down. While taking him to the ER I had to make a short stop at the school so my daughter could get her play scripts and a guy in a truck backed into me. My 11 yr old daughter lost a classmate in a house fire. And the fridge died again Monday morning. For good this time.

WE are under attack. I'm not kidding. While I can see the hand of God in everything we are going through--the broken bone could have required surgery, but didn't. The flu was extremely mild and he got over it quickly. The finger wasn't broken. The damage to the car was minor. A friend had a spare fridge which we picked up yesterday--it's pretty clear we are being assaulted at every turn. I still haven't been able to fix my PC. The dryer, washer, and heater are all still acting up, but they are working and so aren't getting attention right now. Because of all of this, I have been unable to write anything. Which is what I quit my job to do. And I'm paralyzed. I sit down to write but nothing comes, until I go to bed or am somewhere I can't write. The creativity is there, it's alive in me, but the outlet isn't working.

So I have been thinking quite hard about that gift God gave me, that precious barrier. But I hadn't done anything about it. Why? Well, therein lies the stupid part. I have a horrible weakness that is a form of pride where I don't take my problems to God because I don't want to bother Him.

As if I can burden Him. As if anything I can bring Him would be too much. See, stupid. So I've been trying to take on Satan myself, announcing my plan to fight him and not back down from what I know is my calling in this life.

And, obviously, I've been failing. Duh. Why in the world would I try to take on the father of all lies by myself, when all I have to do is call on God's protection and He takes care of him for me? Again, stupid. What's worse is the detriment to my family.

So last night, while I was minding my own business (which here was being exhausted from yet another round of hospital visits and X-rays, stress, and aggravation) I checked my email. And received this from a friend and fellow writer for God:


Okay, so, you're going to think I'm crazy, but in case you don't, I'm going to say it anyway.

I strongly recommend that you get a blessing of protection.

All the stuff you're going through sounds a whole lot like my last year, and I can't share everything that happened, but I'll just say that I got a blessing of protection, and most of it stopped.

So ... take that for what it's worth.  :)

I knew she was right. And I knew the time had come to stop putting off asking for God's protection. So when my husband called I told him I needed that blessing, and he reminded me there was something I can do myself until I got it.

So I did. I got down on my knees and apologized to my Heavenly Father for my pride and weakness. I begged Him for the barrier He promised me. I renewed my promise to write good things.

And then I wiped my tears and sat in the silence of my house (at 1:30 am even though the kitten tried everything to get my attention during my supplication) and realized something vital--

I could breathe again. The air was somehow cleaner. I felt peace. And it was precious. You sometimes don't notice how deeply the influence of evil has permeated your life until you ask God to force it out.

I can still feel it, the peace. I noticed a distinct change as I listened to the kids getting off to school this morning. (yeah, after not going to sleep until well after 2am I could not get up at 6 to help with that) Bryan was calmer. The kids were kinder. It was a miracle, right here in my home.

So I thank God again for helping me. The gratitude will remain in my heart, but I wanted to say it publicly. He loves me. He loves all of us, but that doesn't diminish the fact that He loves each of us individually. He knows us. He knows what we need. He is never as far away from us as we are of Him. Think about it.

Tender Mercies

Not entirely sure why I post these things here. Maybe it's to help someone who may be struggling too. Or maybe it's just because this is as close to a journal as I'm ever going to get.

I want to share something personal that happened to me Sunday. Lately I've missed a lot of Sundays at church due to incredible headaches or work, and I kind of think God was just waiting for me to show up so we could have words. See, I've really, truly been struggling with the status of my job in my life. I hate that it takes up so much of my time, and that I feel so responsible and that it pulls me away from what I know in my heart to be what I'm supposed to do on this earth.

5 years ago, I accepted God's entreaty to write for Him. Last summer, I became so concerned about temporal needs that I got a job. At the time it felt very much the right thing to do. I even got a blessing. And, to be blunt, I still don't know why getting this job was the right thing then and isn't now. Perhaps it's just because of how it's taken over my life. One promotion. Then another. And suddenly it's all I think about.

Back to Sunday. I was in the middle of Sacrament meeting, filled with inner turmoil, when very suddenly I heard in my head these words, "Quit your job and write."

Immediately I balked. "No! We can't afford to live if I quit now. Bryan's income won't support the family by itself! I can't. I want to, but I can't."

Again. "Quit your job and write."

Those of you who have had the holy spirit overwhelm you understand that it creates a physical response. My whole face opened up. My eyes were leaking. My nose was leaking. (I don't cry like one of those dainty movie people) I was shaking all over. You simply can't DENY the spirit when it hits you so strong.

Obviously, since I'd just become a sprinkler in the middle of Sacrament, my family noticed. The girls asked what's wrong. Bryan asked what's wrong. He passed me a note because I couldn't speak. I wrote it out to him. And I added that I needed a blessing and a quiet place to pray. So we got up and went to a room and I cried all over his clean white shirt and expressed all my doubts and fears and yet knowing it's what I have to do.

Quit my job and write.

After I'd settled down a bit and run out of tissues, he gave me a priesthood blessing. It was simply a confirmation of what I already knew but had temporarily lost sight of. My first calling is that of Mother. My second is that of Writer. Then the other things come into play. I need to pray more. Go to the temple. He has things for me to do, and, with faith, He will take care of our needs.

I know this. And I have let my job interfere with mothering my children. It's certainly derailed my writing. So, deep breath and plunge. Sometimes I feel the net is there to catch me, but it also has deep holes just big enough for me to fall through. I'm not perfect. My faith is not perfect. But I'm trying.

God's timing is exceptional. That night at work I got a call from one of my son's friends about something my son had done. If I had faced that, and the ensuing fallout, without that blessing and renewal of purpose, I would have been at a loss as to how I would work my job, help my son, and still make everything work out.

I keep forgetting this is God's concert. We're just the instruments in His orchestra. It's NOT up to me to make everything work out. It's up to ME to let HIM in enough to provide the answers we need.

We're Never Done

I learned something amazing about my son yesterday.

He. Is. Incredible.

To be fair, I thought I knew that already. Really. This kid has survived 2 near-death experiences, he's zany, tender, and can draw like no other kid you've ever seen. He's just as incredible as my other kids, who are all incredible in their own ways.

But this kid showed me something. He showed me the depth of his heart. And it rocked me to my core.

This is how my journal would read, if I kept a journal:

He entered her hospital room, and nothing in the world mattered except her. He sat down next to her bed, took her hands, and asked her how she was doing. Then he asked her how she was feeling, which are two different things. He held her hands the whole time. Talked about his day. Talked about school. Told some stories. LISTENED to her stories. They laughed together, and they also sat in silence. I had to end it, because I have 4 other kids to tend to--but I promise you I wish I could have left him there a couple hours more. I witnessed something miraculous: A 12 yr old boy's love for his grandmother.

I take no credit for this child. He is the personification of the love Heavenly Father and Jesus has for each one of us. He is an angel walking among us, masquerading as a lively--and occasionally irritating--preteen boy. His capacity for love and compassion are astonishing.

This is the boy the school wants to evaluate and test to see if they can find something "wrong" with. I promise you I will not let him be labeled. I will protect his heart with everything I have. He sees the world differently, but that does NOT make him wrong.

Change--In an Instant

Last week, I posted about the house that has really been calling to me, the one I thought I wanted more than any other house for my family.

This week it hardly seems important.

Wednesday night, my friend Rebecca White told her friends and family she has breast cancer. She's 35, like me. She has a young family, like I do. She does these awesome crafts and home schools her kids. She even beads necklaces.

Friday she had a mastectomy. Yesterday, they removed the bandages.

I'm bleeding inside. I feel like I've dodged a cosmic bullet. This could just as easily have been me. I've had grandparents with cancer, but nothing has hit me so hard as this. Becky's young, she has her whole life ahead of her, and I want to do everything I possibly can to help ensure she can enjoy it.

Click HERE to find out what I'm doing and how you can help. It's just my other blog, but there's a lot of information there I want to share with you.

It's not logical or practical to just install myself in her house so I can hug her all the time. But I want to be there for her any way I can. Becky is a generous, loving, caring person, but at this time in her life she needs all the angels she can get.

You can help. Be one of her angels.
Thanks for listening.

Reflections

Sunday, a friend of mine said something that absolutely broke my heart. She said she'd gotten a call from her cousin that week saying their 4 year old child had died during the night.

You just never forget those kinds of calls.

When I was fourteen, yes--a millennium ago--my mom got a call like that. It was my oldest brother, who said their second son, 17 month old Mitchel, had died in his sleep. Watching my mom start to cry as she slid down to the floor was something that I'll never forget.

It was so much like the call we got when my dad died I knew what had happened before she told me.

I was seven when my dad died, but that's the kind of thing that brands your memory in a searing, permanent way. My mom sobbing on the phone. My brother holding me while I cried. And it had started out as such a wonderful, fun day.

When Mitchel died, no one was expecting it. His death affected me in so many ways. I'd never met him on this earth. The year before he was born, we'd tried to drive up for a visit and rolled our car after hitting black ice. In my youth, that experience made me incredibly nervous to attempt that trip again, so when my mom went up there when Mitchel was a baby, I was too scared to go. Stupid 13 yr old thing to do. But there you are. I couldn't go to his funeral either, since it was near the end of May and the school told my mom we couldn't miss our final exams. Stupid school. BTW, no school will ever dictate to me what family events my kids experience or miss. Just sayin'.

I'm not trying to lessen the pain felt by Mitchel's parents, or the lasting effects his death had on his current and future siblings. It's a devastating thing to lose a child, no matter how much of the gospel you understand or accept. It's hard to take comfort in the knowledge that they are in a better, safer place and that they are now spared the evils of the world when you are ripped apart inside. When you see their favorite shirt, or toy, or their room, and can't help but think you can't hug or hold them anymore. For now, at least.

I would sneak into my kids' rooms and watch them sleep, and make sure they were breathing, well past their second birthdays. I couldn't help myself. The idea of waking up in the morning to a dead child haunted me for the longest time. In some ways, it still does. We are not in charge of when God calls his children home. That's why, after Jeffrey had his life-saving surgery, I started counting the months and years I had him with me. He could have died before he turned a year old. Having him in my life now means a little more because of that. I don't take any of those moments for granted.

Or at least I try not to.