Religious Garments (More Than Just a Colander Hat)

When Phillip gets up in the morning, he eats breakfast while he reads the news on the computer and sometimes leaves interesting stories up on the screen for me.

This morning it was Woman Wears Colander for Driver's License Photo.

Yep. On her head.

The lady was a Pastafarian, a member of The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. It's a parody of organized religion, but it's an official church nonetheless. They're allowed to wear spaghetti strainers on their heads in government-issued IDs because it's their "religious clothing."

Get it? Pastafarians? Flying Spaghetti Monster? Colander hats?

As I read the story I started laughing uncontrollably. Then again, I'm not very reverent. Phillip thinks I'm going to get struck by lightning one of these days.

Of course, I only think it's hilarious because I don't think these folks really understand what they're making fun of.

Real religious clothing, as opposed to wearing a colander on your head, is an outward reminder of inward commitments to God. Almost every religion has some kind of sacred clothing or object to symbolize their faith and stay connected to the divine.

People wore religious clothes even way back in Exodus, when Moses and Aaron got all these detailed instructions from the Lord Himself about the holy breastplate and ephod and robes they were supposed to wear during their priesthood duties (Exodus 28.)

I have the highest respect for religious people and the physical reminders they carry around with them. In fact, I'm one of them.

Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wear religious clothing, too, but unless you're married to us or share a locker room with us at the gym, you probably won't see them. We wear them under our clothes. We call them our temple garments.

Garments are white to symbolize purity, and they remind us of the covenants (promises) we've made in the temple. I suppose they look like an undershirt and a pair of boxer briefs, although they're obviously more meaningful to us than any old undershirt.

Latter-day Saint temple in Fort Lauderdale, FL

There are three things I really love about the symbolism of temple garments in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

1. We wear them all the time. We don't just put them on when we're going to church on Sundays and then change into something else afterward. Since they symbolize our ongoing commitment to God, it makes sense that we'd always have them on, right?

I don't know about you, but during most of my waking hours I feel like my brain is a wheel powered by a hamster on methamphetamines. So it's really, really helpful for me to be wearing garments, because whether I'm at my kid's soccer game or at girl's night out, there's this physical reminder of my real priorities in life.

2. Garments aren't restricted to just a few key people in the congregation — all faithful temple-attending Latter-day Saints wear them, regardless of their education, gender, marital status, or position in the church.

Garments are called 'the garments of the holy priesthood,' and we all get to wear them. Just think about that for a minute. We're all very much a part of God's kingdom on the earth and He wants us all to participate in His power.

Since we serve in ministering roles on a rotating basis in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we're all either clergy or "clergy in waiting," so to speak. We may not be Relief Society presidents or bishops now, but one day we probably will be.

And aside from our official roles at church, we're all responsible for ministering to someone right now, like our families. I love that temple garments reflect that.

3. Garments are strictly a personal reminder for the person wearing them. They're not for show or to make a statement. Garments are simple and plain.

Remember how Jesus called out the Pharisees for "mak[ing] broad their phylactories, and enlarg[ing] the borders" of their prayer shawls? (Matthew 23: 5) What started as a reverent practice of wearing religious clothing had turned into a "my prayer shawl is better than your prayer shawl" contest. (For more on what the heck a phylactory is, see this short article with pictures from Brigham Young University—Idaho.)

People are weird, and can make just about anything into a competition. But with garments, there's nothing to show off. They're our underwear, for goodness' sakes.

Because garments aren't meant for anyone's eyes but our own, they're just a personal reminder of the promises we've made with God in the temple.

Religious clothing — or any religious object, really — is so great because human beings learn best when things are tactile, physical, visible. Jesus taught in parables because sheep and coins are things we can easily see and touch. Those physical objects help us focus our minds on things we can't see and touch.

Like parables, I think garments in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints teach symbolically. A leader of our church named Carlos E. Asay put it beautifully when he said:

I like to think of the garment as the Lord’s way of letting us take part of the temple with us when we leave. It is true that we carry from the Lord’s house inspired teachings and sacred covenants written in our minds and hearts. However, the one tangible remembrance we carry with us back into the world is the garment. And though we cannot always be in the temple, a part of it can always be with us to bless our lives.

So if the Flying Spaghetti Monster people want to make clever jabs at religious people by wearing colanders on their heads, I say let them. Of course I could be offended, but I choose to laugh.

Religious garments are an ever-present reminder of the power or God and my commitment to Him, and no kitchen tool can change that.

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7 Quick Takes about Servicing your Water, Crying to Strange Harp Players, and a Food Snob's Version of a Low-Key Thanksgiving

It's 7 Quick Takes Friday!

—1—

Decorating for the holidays is difficult around here because I'm so cheap (I like to think of myself as 'thrifty') and also because I'm so picky (I like to think of myself as 'classy.') So this inexpensive, nice-looking Thanksgiving centerpiece courtesy of my daughter was perfect!

She made this Thankful Tree at a church activity. At Family Home Evening on Monday, (only Mormons call it this, but it's like a weekly family devotional or a quick little Sunday School lesson at home) we talked about gratitude and added more leaves to the tree.

So two birds with one stone: got a pretty centerpiece, and avoided playing "scripture charades" again for FHE because I forgot to plan something ahead of time.

—2—

Went to a kid's birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, where I haven't been since my parents used the place to bribe reward us for being good during long shopping trips. Some things were different, others hadn't changed.

Different: Chuck E. Cheese has gotten a lot more sensitive to cultural and religious diversity. Through song and animatronic puppetry, I learned all about Hanukkah and how Munch likes his potato latkes.

Same: The pizza still tastes like cardboard and I still rock at skee-ball.

—3—

As I was sitting at a red light, I noticed this water treatment truck ahead of me:

Among the services listed was "hydrofracking." What in the world is hydrofracking? And how do I know if I need it done? Clearly I need to drop everything I'm supposed to be doing right now and Google this.

—4—

Drove into Boston again for my son's outpatient surgery. I'm really starting to love that drive. Just kidding. Every time, it only seems to get more excruciating.

It was a long day, but he important thing is that the surgery went well, things are looking good, and odds are that this is the only surgery he'll need in the foreseeable future!

—5—

After I handed my baby to the anesthesiologist, cried in the bathroom for a few minutes, and then walked down the hallway to the surgical waiting room, I heard... live harp music.

Apparently there are volunteers who play the harp in the surgical waiting room and the NICU at Boston Children's to help soothe and relax the people who have to be there. 

I talked to the harpist afterward (translation: totally embarrassed myself by thanking her for the beautiful music and then bursting into tears when she asked about my son) and she said she'd been playing at the hospital for 8 years.

—6—

Meeting the harpist made me think about how there are more ways to do good in the world than donating canned goods to the food pantry. There's physical suffering, and then there's emotional suffering. When you're in the middle of an emotionally hellish situation, someone using their talents to help you through it can be just as much of a godsend.

Years ago, I read a very emotional story about an organization called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, where volunteer photographers take family pictures of parents with their stillborn children in the hospital, so they can take memories home with them in addition to their grief. 

Just proof that whatever your talent is, you can find a way to use it to somehow ease the suffering of others.

—7—

Because of the surgery and all the other life craziness happening this week, Phillip decided to keep it simple this Thanksgiving. If you're wondering what "keeping it simple" looks like for a food snob, this is it:

Brining the turkeys for 24 hours in a solution of salt, garlic, rosemary, whole peppercorns and cloves, apple juice, Worcestershire sauce, and brown sugar.

The man puts freaking orange slices in the brine solution and calls that "keeping it simple." All I can say is, heaven help the rest of us.

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Asking 'What If'

My baby boy went in to Boston Children's Hospital yesterday for his first (and hopefully only) surgery.

It was a straightforward procedure. It took about 3.5 hours and things went even better than expected.

He's been through a lot, but being a resilient little guy he's bounced back from every challenge.

I wish I could use the phrase "bounced back" to describe me. Every one of his scares and setbacks has aged me about a decade.

I felt like I was 100 years old by the time I finally left Children's with him yesterday.

The surgery waiting area at Children's is really big. There were probably 20 of us wandering around, staring out the window, getting Snickers from the vending machine and checking our phones to see what time it was, wondering how much longer.

Although nobody spoke to each other much, we we all knew whose child was having what. There's no privacy when you're fielding phone call after phone call on the status of your kid in surgery. So I knew we were lucky.

My son was only there for day surgery, and I'd be sleeping in my own bed tonight with him at my bedside (heavily medicated, but still at my side.) The couple next to me were camped out with blankets and pillows waiting for their child's 14-hour brain surgery to be over, and that was only the beginning of a long hospitalization.

Other parents were there knowing that this was only one of many surgeries their child was going to have to endure. Maybe some paced the room with the heavy probability that their child wasn't going to make it through this surgery at all.

Relatively speaking, my son and I had it easy. It was an afternoon of surgery and then we got to go home. The possibility of complications, especially life-threatening ones, was small.

Still, I had a hard time feeling peace that day. It wasn't the worst day anyone has ever lived through, but it was one of the hardest days I'd ever had.

During that time in the waiting room, I kept running over the "what if"s in my mind. I brought a stack of Christmas card envelopes to address while I waited, but I couldn't focus long enough to write out a single one of them. What if my son needs follow-up surgeries? What if there are complications? What if, what if, what if.

In moments like this I realize that faith is the opposite of fear.

Anyway, in the past, I never understood it when people said that. I understood that faith and fear vaguely opposed each other somehow, but it didn't quite make sense to me.

It seemed kind of like this game my kids used to play, where they would pick a random word and try to find its opposite: "Hole is the opposite of mountain," "Bird is the opposite of fish," "Fear is the opposite of faith." Close, but not exactly.

There must be something to this whole getting older and accumulating life experience thing, because now I'm starting to get why faith and fear are opposites.

Fear is anxiety over the unknown. If I believe I'm the one in charge of my life, then I have to know what's going to happen to me and I have to know if I'm going to be able to handle it. If I don't know what's coming then I don't know if I can hack it.

I'm a control freak. I know how to do fear. And it feels really bad.

Faith is having confidence that God is in charge. It's knowing that whatever road lies ahead of me is the one that's best for me. No matter what happens, even in the worst of all possible scenarios, God has the power to turn it into an opportunity for growth and goodness.

I don't think it's bad to want to have a handle on the situation, but sometimes you can't. That's when you need to choose between faith and fear.

One important caveat: being faithful doesn't mean you'll sail through all your troubles with a smile on your face the whole time. Faithful people can still feel pain. They can still be sad and stressed. It can still seem like a long, hard road.

It seemed like I spent years in the waiting room half-listening to reruns of Dog with a Blog on the Disney Channel in the background. I felt like I was trying to prop my eyes open with toothpicks on the drive home. When my son and I came in the door, Phillip took one look at the raggedy pair of us and said "I can't tell who looks worse, him or you." 

I think it's possible for a person to have faith but still feel totally worn out. It's draining to know that someone you love is going through something difficult or painful. 

But worn out is different than carrying the weight of every what if on your shoulders. It's better than being afraid.


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Finding Our Family Motto

This seems like a phenomenon that might be unique to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but a lot of the families I know have a family motto. 

Kind of like a mission statement, or something that describes what their family is all about.

My friend Liz's family motto is: Work Hard, Play Hard, Serve Others. (A few years ago she tried to add "love God" but her kids, having grown accustomed to the original motto, ran her out of town with pitchforks for suggesting a change.)

I recently read The Parenting Breakthrough, which, by the way, is excellent (and I have a serious parenting book addiction, so I should know.) The author's family has several mottos including, "Boyacks follow the prophet."

We don't have one yet, but I really like the idea of putting a stamp on your family identity with a catchy motto. 

It's something that can run through the kids' heads whenever they're about to make an important decision. In their autobiographies when they've become famous and influential, our kids will probably attribute their success in life to our family motto.

Too much pressure?

Well, I'm up for the challenge. Shortly after finishing the book I mentioned, we sat down for Family Home Evening and held a collective brainstorming session. From now on, we were going to be an effective, cohesive family with a statement no longer than 140 characters to prove it. (Or wait, is that Twitter?)

Well, our Family Home Evening wasn't an overwhelming success, because we started by arguing over how to say our last name.

Having graduated with a bachelor's degree in English, I can tell you that it would be correct for our family motto to say "Evanses are (great/smart/snazzy dressers/whatever.)"

But Phillip thinks that "Evanses" sounds weird. He wants our family motto to say "Evans' are (poor grammarians, etc.)"

I may not be the best English major, but I can tell you that when he suggested Evans', my entire soul cried out in anguish. There is nothing right about the formulation of that sentence.

Normally I'm not a stickler about grammar. (I will never say the word "whom" even when it's right because I don't like the way it makes me sound.) However, there are a few rules of the English language that I hold inviolable, including the one that says you can't just stick an apostrophe anywhere you feel like as long as it's near an S.

Besides, if our family motto begins with "Evans are," that would mean our last name is Evan. Which it isn't.

So there we were, gridlocked in the Evanses-Evans' debate, and I offered a compromise. What about "An Evans is..."? True, it sounded like the beginning of the world's worst family motto (maybe something like "An Evans is a person for whom temperance is a virtue,") but at least it was grammatically correct.

While Phillip and I were busy hashing this out, the kids had removed all the couch cushions to the floor and were jumping between them to avoid lava, meaning that Family Home Evening was officially over.

So... that kind of went nowhere. But I'd still like to have a family motto.

Before we got sidetracked by grammar issues, my kids did manage to contribute "Evanses like pie." And I guess that's pretty accurate, but maybe not quite broad enough.

In the past, I've seriously considered applying the words "Don't freak out" in vinyl lettering on the wall of our home, since going bananas is often our kids' auto response to setbacks.

Maybe that could be our family motto?

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7 Quick Takes about Saying Cheese, Driving in the Labyrinth, and the Light at the End of the Tunnel

It's 7 Quick Takes Friday!

—1—

We haven't taken family pictures for a loooooong time. So when our photographer friend Bret offered to shoot some for us, we were thrilled because (1) we need Christmas cards and (2) the kids keep getting asked to bring family pictures to school and we don't have any that include the baby.

We got plenty of great shots of the kids and even some of Phillip and I. Try to guess what was going on around us while these were being taken:

There was a baby at my feet and a child trying to photobomb us from the sidelines. I was also trying to judge the level of property damage from the volumes of my children's gleeful screams and they went running through the hallways of the building.

—2—

About that building where we took pictures. Did I mention that we found a zombie in it? Well, let me back up.

After photographing Bret took us on a tour of the building, which is an old cider mill built in 1880. Like many old buildings it was full of funky hallways and weird stairwells, and because it was dark by then my kids thought it was scary. Phillip helped by warning them to watch out for zombies.

The last stop on the tour was the creepy, ancient boiler room. We had to squeeze down a narrow iron spiral staircase to get there and almost had heart attacks when we found ourselves face-to-face with a blue woman (yes, she was painted blue) clutching a chain link gate in front of her and snarling.

Turns out that she was also doing a photo shoot (although I can't guess for what,) and we couldn't see the photographer until we got around the corner. She wasn't exactly a zombie, but close enough to terrify the kids.

From the number of times she's mentioned this incident already, it looks like this is going to be one of the formative events of my 3-year-old's childhood.

—3—

Another rumination on family photos: how old do kids need to be before they can give a coached smile that looks somewhat normal?

When we instruct our kids to "say cheese," they think we mean one of the following:

• Squint and wrinkle your nose
• Show me all the teeth in your face at the same time
• Tuck your lower lip completely under your top row of teeth and bite it
• Stare at us blankly

That must be why my kids in pictures look confused, insane, or both.

—4—

Life with an engineer, exhibit A:

Papers Phillip leaves around the house to show us how smart he is.

—5—

After many years, Phillip and I have agreed to disagree on what color our house actually is. I say yellow, he says green. 

Which is why I was so excited when one of our kids brought home this drawing from school:

Definitive proof that we have "a yello hows."

We happened to have company when I saw this paper, so just for good measure I asked "What color do you think our house is?" After some thought, our guest uncertainly said, "Tan?"

—6—

Let's talk for a minute about driving in Boston. To me, driving in that city is proof that converting 1700s carriage roads into freeways ad hoc doesn't work well at all.

There are a billion wonky intersections, lanes that peel off to the side without warning, merge areas that are too short to actually merge, and street signs stacked so high you can't even read them all (let alone figure out which sign is pertinent to you) before missing your turn and getting honked at by a Prius.

You think your GPS will save you? Ha. Driving in Boston once caused my GPS to have a seizure. After three "recalculating" announcements, it freaked out and the little car icon just spun around in a circle for a full 10 seconds.

Needless to say I avoid driving there at all costs. But we needed to discuss the results of my baby's MRI last month with a neurosurgeon at Boston Children's Hospital.

—7—

When we got into the doctor's office, the first thing he said was, "Well, I feel bad that you had to drive all the way to Boston so I could tell you everything's fine!"

Which is exactly why I'd asked the receptionist — repeatedly — if we could just pretty pretty please do a phone consultation instead. Once I figure in round trip drive time to Children's, getting lost 1-2 times, walking at toddler speed from the parking garage all the way to the waiting room, plus the time for the actual appointment, we're looking at a 4.5-hour voyage. The receptionist said no. I'm having a hard time maintaining charitable feelings toward the receptionist.

Illustration of my preference for the phone consult instead of the office visit.
photo by Gabriella Fabbri

But sitting in the doctor's office I couldn't even be mad, because I was so deeply relieved this meant one less surgery for my son. He's been through a lot in his short life. He has one unrelated surgery scheduled for next week, and hopefully after that we'll be in the clear for a while.

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Worst English Major Ever

In college, I majored in English literature.

This is information I don't usually volunteer when I'm getting to know someone. Because when I mention I was an English major, they inevitably say something like "Oh really? So what do you think about the dichotomy between egalitarianism and racism in Moby Dick?"

An even more embarrassing question (and let's be honest, I don't get a lot of off-the-cuff inquiries about Moby Dick) is: "So what's the best book you've read lately?"

At which point I have to confess that I haven't read anything besides picture books since March.

In my defense, getting into a novel isn't as easy as it used to be, especially high literature. Part of that may be age, part of it may be having a house full of young children. 

I know part of it is definitely exhaustion.

I usually don't realize how tired I am until I pick up a book, especially a wordy 19th century classic. A Tale of Two Cities might as well be a rag soaked in chloroform over my face. And I love A Tale of Two Cities.

Also, I found that years of having toddlers and babies at home has really impaired my ability to focus on just one thing for long periods of time.

Those Russian novelists with their 1,500 page tomes just kill me, but I feel like I have no credibility as a graduate in English lit unless I've read Anna Karenina (I have, yay!) and War and Peace (I haven't got the strength.)

A shot from my extensive home library.
Honestly, I haven't read half of these.

Then there's the problem of my long-term memory. I'm constantly surprised by the important events in my own life history that I've completely forgotten about, letalone fictitious events in novels about other people.

Recently I sat down with a friend to eat pizza and watch a period drama on Netflix, and we chose the 2012 remake of Great Expectations.

Here's what I knew about it going in:

• I'd read it in high school
• It was written by Charles Dickens in the 1800s
• It had a boy named Pip and a lady in a wedding dress

And... that's it.

I had written a paper on this thing, and yet entire plotlines, entire characters (important ones!) had been completely erased from my memory over time. Sometimes I wonder how I'll know when I start to develop dementia.

Another similar experience happened years ago, when I decided to start plowing my way through classic works of literature that I'd never read before, starting with Gulliver's Travels.

I don't remember why I chose that one. Maybe as a mom with little kids I empathized with the main character getting hog-tied by the Lilliputians, or maybe it was around the time Jack Black was starring in a movie based on that title and it made me feel like the world was getting too stupid.

In any case, I was 90 pages into Gulliver's Travels when I slowly put the book down and said to no one in particular, "I've read this before." Not just after a few pages. I didn't realize this until I was nearly a hundred pages in.

Some people review books on Goodreads to share their opinions with the masses; I do it so I can remember what it was about and whether I liked it or not.
 

This is embarrassing, but I share it publicly to let other English lit grads know that it's okay not to have opinion on the communist allegory in Animal Farm, especially if you just spent your afternoon trying to get a tiny dictator to take a nap because he desperately needs one and so do you.

Even with a literary mind, the space you can make in it for literature will ebb and flow according to your stage in life. More simply put, there's a time and a season for all things, and this is just not the season for me to divulge that I'm an English major. Then people expect me to know stuff.

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Why "Do You Want More Children?" Is the Wrong Question

Society at large assumes that people will stop having children after number two or three.

If you have five or more, you are obviously crazy and really bad at following social norms — so there's no telling what you might do.

The question parents of 5+ get is no longer "Are you done?" but "Do you want MORE?!?"


And I really do detest that question, mostly because I think it's a strange question to begin with.

A child isn't like an iPhone or a new car, where all I have to consider is how it would impact my life. Saying that I want — or don't want — a human being to exist based on how it affects me is just weird.

Even if Phillip and I were positive we were at maximum capacity and couldn't possibly handle having any more children, I still wouldn't feel comfortable saying "I don't want any more." That statement reduces kids to messes and noises. It dismisses the worth of a life by making it all about what I want. 

But I know what people are getting at. "Do you want more children?" isn't the existential question I'm making it out to be.

They're asking if I really want to spend another 2 years changing diapers. Do I want the exercises in sleep deprivation, eating dinner standing up every night, and packing like I'm going on a 10-day tour across Europe every time I leave the house?

They're asking if I somehow enjoy the sacrifices inherent in being a parent.

And my answer is: not all the time. I'm as lazy and selfish as the next person. Whenever Phillip and I talk about any big purchase or life decision, the first question I ask myself is "Would this create more work for me?"

There are tons of things I don't want because they require sacrifice. I don't even like to have live plants in the house because you have to, like, remember to water them.

Parenthood does include some drudgery and unpleasantness, I won't argue with that. But there's more to it than just the endless loads of laundry and school lunch-making when they're young.

What really bothers me about the question "Do you want more children?" is that it's terribly short-sighted. The intense and sometimes brutal years of parenting young children are brief. I won't always be changing diapers and waking up 200 times a night. For most of their lives, my kids will be adults, and I think the best part of parenting is yet to come, when they're all grown and flown, and I get to watch them make their own lives for themselves.

Only talking about children in terms of what the parents "want" doesn't take into account the fact that kids aren't little forever. One day, they leave the nest and affect the lives of thousands of other people. A kid isn't just my kid, they're also future neighbors, coworkers, spouses, parents, and friends.

Doesn't all that matter in the decision to bring another human life into the world? In light of that, doesn't the fact that I'll be wiping rear ends for another couple of years start to seem less important?

I struggle with how to answer the question of whether I want more children, especially when it comes from the guy behind me in line at Staples. He's in the middle of doing his errands; he wants a quick "Yes, I want a hundred kids" or "No, I'm never getting pregnant again" response so he can hurry up and get to the post office before it closes.

But everything that runs through my mind can't be summed up with a simple "yes" or "no."

The truth is, I'll always want more children. I'll always want to witness the miracle of another tiny, perfect little person fitting just right into our family, filling a gap I didn't even know was there. I'll always want the fulfillment of raising another human being to go out into the world to do their best.

What I want, though, isn't always the right thing for our family. It depends on what Phillip and I feel we can handle and what's best for the kids we already have, for starters.

As it turns out, "Do you want more children?" isn't the only question there is to ask.

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A Gospel of Joy

Usually we listen to people give talks in church, but today was the Primary Program.

Primary is the kids' organization of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and during the Primary Program they go up front to sing and tell us about what they learned at church this year.

I always like the Primary Program, and not just for the funny moments like when a teacher started to help one of the 4-year-olds with his line and the mic picked him up telling her in no uncertain terms, "I can do it myself!"

What I enjoyed was that the kids wrote their own parts ahead of time on a certain gospel topic (e.g: "Jesus Christ" or "families") and it was so honest and from their hearts. 

My favorite part of this year's Primary Program was when one child came to the front and said, "Heavenly Father wants us to be safe and have fun!"

I love that, because I believe in a gospel of joy.

Everything about God's plan for us is designed to bring us joy. In fact, we call it "the plan of happiness." In the Book of Mormon, 2 Nephi 2: 25 tells us "men are, that they might have joy."

Think about it: God made more beautiful places on earth than any of us could visit in a lifetime. The vastness of the universe and the variety on the earth testifies to God's creativity and His desire for us to be surrounded by beauty. He wants us to enjoy it.

When we come to earth, we're born into families. And when we grow up we have the opportunity to go and create families of our own. I think all people, religious or not, agree that family is one of the greatest joys of life. On their deathbed, no one ever wishes they'd spent more time at the office.

The angel who announced Christ's birth to a group of shepherds said "I bring you good tidings of great joy" (Luke 2: 10.) God sent His Son to make our joy full. Through Christ we have hope. Jesus' Atonement covers every sin we've committed and every wrong that's been done to us, erasing despair and hurt and replacing it (eventually) with joy.

I also believe that the Holy Spirit communicates truth to us through joy. When I first learned about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as a teenager, I studied it for about a year and a half before getting baptized. How did I decide to join the church?

I knew the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was true because it agreed with the scriptures, it made logical sense to me, and most of all, following its teachings brought me joy. Never once has it brought me sadness or regret.

Joy is more than just happiness or entertainment. Joy is a lasting sense of well-being and fulfillment, and it comes through knowing and living the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

To those who are struggling with a perception of a harsh, angry God: please open your heart to the possibility that God is actually your Father in heaven who loves you and wants you to have joy.

For what it's worth, I believe He's constantly offering us the gift of joy and anxiously waiting for us to accept it. And that includes you.

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7 Quick Takes about Food Snobbery, Nathan for You, and a Survivor Named Tiny

It's 7 Quick Takes Friday!

—1—

Phillip's birthday was on Saturday. Birthdays always present a special challenge, because Phillip is a food snob. 

Being married to a food snob is never easy, but especially so on birthdays, because you can't impress a food snob with a mere Better Crocker cake mix in a box. They like tastes they can describe as "sophisticated" and "complex." 

What I came up with this year was apricot date dark chocolate bars with raw cashews, sunflower seeds, and almonds. 

As a non-food snob, how do I know what will qualify as "sophisticated" enough? I've found that a recipe is usually suitable to make for a food snob if I first have to Google 2 to 3 of the ingredients to figure out what they are.

—2—

Lest he come across too harshly, let me say that Phillip is also an awesome guy who would never, ever complain about my cooking. He appreciates every meal I make no matter how simple (or burnt, or late) it is.

The difference between us is that I cook to keep everyone alive, and Phillip cooks because he takes pride in the craft. So he is our holiday cook, and prepares the most elaborate and beautiful meals you've ever seen, tasted, or smelled in your life.

Thanksgiving dinner 2013. I won't even tell you how many hours in the kitchen (for Phillip) this represents.

While my friends are working their tails off in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, I'm relaxing with a book because my only job is pretty much folding the napkins at the table. Looking forward to it.

—3—

My 3-year-old was recklessly stomping around by the baby's head, and here was the conversation that ensued:

Me: Be careful.
3 Year Old: Why?
Me: I don't want you to step on your brother.
3 Year Old: And squeeze him and break him and go to heaven and live wiss Jesus?

Um... yes. In not so many words.

—4—

The third grade Veteran's Day concert at my kids' school went just as expected. Some kids forgot to wear the right color, some kids didn't know the words, there was lots of waving to parents in the audience, and one kid cried. It wasn't a musical masterpiece, but I took a few pictures and enjoyed the concert for what it was.

At these kinds of events, I'm always slightly puzzled to see some of the parents around me taking a continuous video of the entire 25-minute concert. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate our veterans and I love my kids, but I think I'd poke my eyes out with a fork if I had to sit down and watch the entirety of "Thank You, Veterans" again on video. Is anyone really planning on doing this later?

—5—

Looking around on Amazon Instant Video for something to watch after the kids are in bed, Phillip and I stumbled on Nathan For You. I've only seen the one episode so I can't guarantee that it's any good, but it's certainly the only show I know of that combines comedy, business consulting, and reality TV.

Phillip thinks Nathan is the only one acting and everyone else is real; I think it's all staged. What do you think?

—6—

In the spirit of generalizing on things I don't know anything about, I noticed that Nathan from the last take has this dry, deadpan humor where you sometimes really can't tell whether he's joking or not. Is that a Canadian thing? 

I ask because we know one other Canadian, and he's exactly like that. But if my college sociology class taught me anything it's that two isn't a very large sample size, so I could be wrong here.

—7—

Surprise, surprise! We have a new addition to our family. My daughter's class finished their science unit studying crayfish, and we're the proud new owners of one of the survivors. This is Tiny:

Don't you love it when teachers pawn the class pets off on the parents?

Tiny may be little, but she's apparently a fighter. Half of the crayfish died in territory skirmishes during the 3 weeks they were living in the tank at school. We'll see how long she lasts in this crazy house.

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Marriage to a Food Snob

photo by Zsuzsanna Kilian

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who are food snobs, and those who aren't.

I didn't really know Phillip was a food snob when we got married, and to tell you the truth I think he's gotten worse over the years. He recently told me "The older I get, the more I realize there are only a finite number of meals I get to eat in my life, and I don't want to waste them on mediocre food."

There are many perks to making a food snob your life partner. There are also many annoyances. If any of you should ever marry a food snob, let me give you a little tour of the life you can expect.

• You'll get over being offended when he automatically brings his sea salt grinder to the table with him — without even tasting dinner first.
• You'll have all the Laffy Taffy and other cheap, sugary candies to yourself because he's "just not impressed" by two-dimensional tastes.
• You'll never eat at Applebee's again. Dinner dates will now mean hopping from one ethnic restaurant to another, looking for a hidden gem with a native chef who cooks authentically. (If you also happen to have a lot of money, you'll frequent expensive restaurants that serve very tiny, very beautifully plated dishes of roasted quail.)

Marriage to a food snob also means you're off the hook for Thanksgiving dinner for the rest of your life. Yet everything will be made from scratch and will taste divine.

Thanksgiving 2008. Pretty sure we were the only poor grad students having a dinner like this.

For illustrative purposes, I'll tell you how Phillip makes our Thanksgiving stuffing. The man starts by baking bread from scratch and cutting it into cubes. Contrast that with how I make stuffing, which is pushing my cart to the Stove Top aisle and letting my kids choose between "Savory Herb" and "Mushroom Sage."

Over the years, Phillip and I realized our true incompatibility when it comes to fancy cooking and now I'm only given very specific Thanksgiving tasks such as "take the pan out of the oven at 2:30."

Oh, and I wash dishes.

But don't be fooled, cleaning up behind a food snob as they make a 5-course meal is no small feat. These people use four different bowls and five utensils to mix anything. By the time we're done with Thanksgiving, I've washed everything in the kitchen at least three times.

To the food snob, cooking is part art, part science. They use all those bowls and utensils for a very good, very boring scientific reason about not wanting to overmix the flour. I get it, I just don't care.

I was once cooking with my daughter and asked her to read me the recipe. When she got to "In a separate bowl, mix the—"

I held up a hand, interrupted her and said, "We're not doing that. Let's just put everything in one bowl."

"But that's what the recipe says," she protested.

"I know. Some cooks do it that way, like Dad. And some don't, like me."

She considered that for a minute. "Is that why Dad's food is better?"

And bless her heart, she's right. Dad's food is better, and any chef worth his salt (haha, see what I did there?) will agree you should keep the dry and wet ingredients separate until a precise moment in the cooking process.

Nevertheless, I still see it as an optional extra step for people who just really like to wash dishes.

I'm not even going to go into how I feel about marinating.

I will talk about stovetops, though, which I think are entirely too complicated. Our burners have 20 heat settings. Twenty. Do you know how many I need? Two: "on," and "off."

I'm often accused of overcooking our food, but I just don't have the time to mess around in the kitchen with this "low heat" nonsense.

I'm a utilitarian cook. I cook to keep everyone alive, and if I'm never mistaken for a gourmet chef then, well, there are worse things in life. As long as the food is tasty enough, I have no problem skipping steps that will take more of my time and only make subtle differences in the flavor.

I'm not lazy, I'm just really good at cost-benefit analysis.

Last night we were having what we call "loaded baked potatoes," where there are a zillion tasty toppings and the baked potato is really just a vehicle to get them all into your mouth. Translation: the taste of the potato is not that important.

Perfect! I'll just stab some potatoes a few times with a fork and throw them in the oven. But Phillip was in charge of the potatoes last night. He had to drizzle them with olive oil and season the ever-loving daylights out of them first. As a result they were so delicious I could have eaten them all by themselves.

The moral of the story is: let a food snob loose in the kitchen and some seriously beautiful things will happen. Phillip creates his own recipes, doesn't use measurements, and cooks by seasoning and tasting. He loves to experiment in the kitchen. He's always soaking or carmelizing something.

Because of his appreciation for fine cooking, it's delightfully easy to buy Phillip gifts. I think for the last five years' worth of birthdays, Christmases, and Father's Days I've gotten him some kind of kitchen gadget. You want a flour sifter? A set of nice pastry brushes? Ceramic pie weights? A stainless steel pastry blender? Okay!

Another thing food snobs love? Eating healthy. I agree with minimizing the number of foods I buy that come in a package or bag, but food snobs often take it to the next level. If you don't know what I'm talking about, maybe this video will help:

When I first saw this I found it hilarious, because I am (almost) married to that guy. But the words "Phillip, come watch this" died in my mouth as I turned around and realized he was taking a pan of kale chips out of the oven. True story.

The long and short of it is, I love my food snob and wouldn't have him any other way. It's part of what makes him Phillip.

Just don't ask me to mix the wet and dry ingredients separately when I cook. It's not gonna happen.

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Favorite Responses to Comments on my Family Size

With 6 kids, I don't get as many rude comments from strangers on the number of children in my family as I expected, but it does happen. 

Unfortunately, if you ambush me in the produce aisle with a snide suggestion to tie my tubes I'm guaranteed to be speechless until after you've already walked away.

If you're like me, don't despair because I've made a list here of my favorite responses to odd remarks and impolite inquiries about the size of my family. 

Have them at the ready, and you'll never need to kick yourself again for thinking of the perfect reply 15 minutes too late.

Are they ALL yours?

Out-loud response:

• Yes, and I feel very lucky to have each and every one of them.
• Well, they're God's but He loaned them to us.

In-your-head response:

• No, I just fed them once and now they all follow me around.
• What?! How long have all these kids been behind me?

Are you going to have more?

Out-loud response:

• Not today!
• We'll be happy with whatever number of children God wants us to have.

In-your-head response:

• Yes, I'm just trying to make the world a more beautiful place.
• Let me ask God real quick... kay, He says it's none of your business.

You're crazy!

Out-loud response:

• Actually, I've always thought of myself as lucky. 
• Um, thanks?

In-your-head response:

• Wow, that's quite an assessment for never having met me before.
• And you're rude! [Okay, you can say this one out loud if you really want to.]

Was s/he planned?

Out-loud response:

• Oh yes, God always has a plan.
• That's not really a polite get-to-know-you question, but yes.

In-your-head response:

• Well, we were having sex, so...
• Yes, but enough about my family planning. Tell me all about yours!

Don't you have a TV?

Out-loud response:

• Are you offering to buy us one?
• No, there's too much sex on TV.

In-your-head response:

• If you think watching TV is more fun, I'm pretty sure you're doing it wrong.

I'd kill myself if I were you! 

Out-loud response:

• Oh, I couldn't imagine my life without any of these guys. They're great kids.

In-your-head response:

• I don't blame you. It's horrible to be surrounded all day by people I love. And they even love me back, yuck!

• That is hands-down the most dysfunctional thing I've heard all day.

You know what causes those, don't you?

Out-loud response:
(I usually try to keep it positive, but here I included even the sassy answers as out-loud; anyone who asks this is just trying to embarrass you)

• Why, yes I do — have you been looking for someone to explain it to you?
• Yes, and I'm obviously really good at it!
• No, could you please explain it to me, slowly and in great detail? I want to take notes.
• Of course, that's how we knew what to do when we wanted another one!

With the exception of maybe the last question (which I've never gotten personally but known others who have,) I try to be gracious and tactful. With my out-loud answers, anyway. 

I try to see comments from strangers, even rude ones or weird ones, as opportunities to share something about the joys of loving many children. The general opinion that children aren't worth the effort, even among people who are parents themselves, is so sad to me.

Something I hear a lot when I'm out with my kids goes something like "I can't even handle my two, I don't know how you do it."

I've responded different ways to this, but I often like to paraphrase Christina over at Hands Full and Loving It: "The same way as you — one day at a time and the best I can."

Raising children is difficult work sometimes, and all of us parents need to lift each other up at every opportunity. Rock on, moms and dads. You're doing an important job.

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