A happy home

A birthright or a mess of pottage?

I mean, which one would you rather have? An inheritance in Israel or a bowl of soup? The answer seems obvious, right?

In the Old Testament, the story of Jacob and Esau always puzzled me. I mean, the idea that the eldest son traded his birthright for a measly bowl of soup? Incredulous.

Honestly, how hungry (and short-sighted) would one have to be to sacrifice his entire inheritance to satisfy an appetite? It just made no sense.

Thousands of years later we live in a digital age where our appetites for pretty much anything (good or bad) can be satisfied with the click of a button.

We decry philosophies that involve any sort of denial of one’s self, proclaiming that “living authentically” is the be all and end all to our existence.

But what if what we think of as “authenticity” is contrary to our divine nature and birthright? What if delaying gratification allows us to achieve an inheritance in the afterlife? I personally believe it will.

What can we liken in our lives to Esau’s irresistible mess of pottage? What appetites are we satisfying today that compromise our ability to achieve all that our heavenly parents have and want to give us?

I can remember going skiing as a teenager and ending up on the lift seated next to a total stranger. We struck up a conversation and discovered that we’d both grown up in the same religion. He’d decided as a teenager that Sundays constituted valuable skiing time and eventually quit going to church in favor of spending the Sabbath day “in nature”, so to speak. He traded God for skiing. Could that be a mess of pottage, of sorts?

Or how about my grandparents, who decided that rather than choose the faith of their ancestors they wanted to spend most of their days on the golf course. They were good people. But in my mind, they had traded something eternal for something very temporary.

Those are fairly trivial. But a so-called “mess of pottage” can be anything but. What about a person whose sexual orientation doesn’t seem to mesh well with God’s commandments? One who longs for a fulfilling relationship but who has been taught that the bounds the Lord has set means that marriage will remain a distant (if not unattainable) reality, if he/she wants to keep the commandments, that is.

That’s super rough. Life can seem long and hopeless under those circumstances. I don’t blame anyone who chooses fulfillment in this life over the promises of the next when their reality is homosexuality.

And yet, when this life is over and those promises are fulfilled, might it seem silly that we chose the bowl of soup over eternal glory? Maybe. It all comes down to faith and patience, right?

I don’t have all the answers.

The good news is, we have a lot of time to figure it out. Esau may have sacrificed his birthright, but it’s not as if he lost everything. Twenty years later found Esau managing his own property, reconciling with his brother Jacob, and burying his father.

He was still blessed, despite having lost the birthright.

Isn’t that beautifully merciful and just at the same time?

I believe in a God who exacts standards of behavior in order to inherit certain blessings. I also believe that one does not have to be perfect to inherit some measure of those blessings.

Our inheritance will be in direct proportion to our level of commitment of keeping our covenants with him.

I personally hope I can keep my eye on the prize. Though the sacrifices I make to be true to my eternal covenants are at times exhausting, the payout is too great. And thankfully, I get glimpses of eternity often to remind me that living the gospel benefits me not just in the next life but today.

A mess of pottage might be just what we want in the moment. But my faith rests in the promise that my birthright is far better than a bowl of lentil soup.

My father dwelt in a tent.

I recently completed and restarted my study of the Book of Mormon. Sometimes it feels a little like Groundhog Day, as if there is little possibility I could still glean new insight or wisdom, considering that I am reading the exact same book for the umpteenth time.

And yet, heeding the prophet’s call to study it again and again, I turned right back around to 1 Nephi and started reading.

When I was a teenager and someone would ask me which scripture verse was my favorite, if I was in a snarky mood, I’d respond with “And my father dwelt in a tent.” I was kidding, of course, but as I have matured and gained insight, I’ve started to wonder at why Nephi made mention of this fact not just once, but several times in his record.

Specifically, he notes on three separate occasions: “Now all these things were said and done as my father dwelt in a tent in the valley of Lemuel.”

With a limited amount of space on which to write, and the fact that it was labor-intensive, why did Nephi repeat himself over such a seemingly trivial thing? Well, for starters, he’s simply giving a point of reference, so we know when and where certain events occurred.

I’m sure the scholars could write an entire book about it, but I’ll just add my humble musings on the matter. Take a look at the stories that precede Nephi’s references to their tent-dwelling in 1 Nephi 9, 1 Nephi 10, and 1 Nephi 16.

Each of these chapters contains a vision or prophecy. An occasion where the heavens were opened and Lehi (or Nephi, as the case may be) received revelation from God. Is it any coincidence that such revelations came as they “dwelt in a tent”? I think not.

Lehi was a very wealthy man in Jerusalem. Surely the demands of a large family and estate overwhelmed him and his wife Sariah at times. They lived there prior to Babylonian captivity, when Jerusalem’s inhabitants were ripening in iniquity.

Their means probably put them in social circles where there was pressure to keep up with the Joneses, so to speak. Maybe Sariah shuttled her children to and from various activities and a frenzied pace became the norm. Perhaps she worried about her kids’ friends and the influence that a privileged life was having on their commitment to the important things in life.

It’s possible that family time was slipping away from them and that a study of the word of God took a back seat to any number of activities that pulled them in different directions. (I don’t pretend to know what those are, but I do know that a life of entertainment and hobby is not uncommon among families whose finances are secure. Surely, that applied anciently, as well.)

In any case, Lehi and Sariah and their family left it all behind to “dwell in a tent” in the wilderness. Family time was the only time now. Social engagements canceled for good. Hobbies? Who has time for those when you have to find your own food?

In this simplified existence, I’m sure that quiet time with God became more prevalent, not to mention, necessary. Removing all distraction was a gift to Lehi and his family, as they learned to navigate life with the bare minimum, not knowing where they should go or what they should do.

I can’t help but see some parallels between this experience and the 2020 pandemic. Keeping up with a family of seven before COVID hit our country was utterly exhausting. I lived life in maintenance mode, moving from one event/project to the next.

Sure, we studied the gospel regularly in our home, but sometimes only half-heartedly or in a rush to wrap it up to get kids here or there or because they had homework to complete. Half the time we were missing at least one family member.

My personal quiet time of reflection came at a great cost as I had to wake ridiculously early to fit in any sort of scripture study. I fell asleep often because my body couldn’t keep up with the pace of family life.

As the pandemic hit, we figuratively left behind Jerusalem with only the necessary provisions (toilet paper included). Our lifestyle instantly simplified, we found joy in our family relationships, in simple pleasures, in studying the gospel with greater purpose.

Without all the distraction, I have found I am more in tune with my children’s needs. I have more energy to read up on how to navigate the troubles they experience, and more time to commune with the One who has all the answers.

Aside from a few camping trips we took this summer, we have not left everything behind to dwell in a tent. But, by stripping away much of our pre-pandemic baggage, we’ve discovered a closeness to God and one another that I dare say took a back seat for far too long.

We didn’t need that bucket anyway.

In mid-September, Jack tagged along to Rachel and Eve’s soccer practice. We managed to finagle getting them both on the same team and now instead of practices every single day of the week and two games each Saturday, we’ve consolidated it down to two practices and a single game.

All my ducks in a row.

The first practice I got to sit and enjoy an hour and a half on a cool fall evening chatting it up with the other parents while the girls kicked the ball around.

So when I brought Jack to the following practice, I had high hopes of lounging in my camping chair once again, shooting the breeze, while he happily played on the playground.

Except that’s not how it turned out. At all.

Within fifteen minutes of sitting down, Jack asked to go to the bathroom. It was number two. We were at an elementary school. That was closed. Closest bathroom was a 5 minute drive to the grocery store. So that’s where we headed.

I rushed into the store, carrying him all the while and made a beeline for the restroom at the back. Lucky for me, I chose the aisle housing the diapers and wipes, grabbing a package of the latter on the way.

We cleaned him up, discarding his soiled underpants, purchased the opened package of wipes, and headed back to the playground.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack informed me that he had to go to the bathroom again. Number two. Again. With his pair of underwear now missing, I knew we had not the time to run to use the grocery store restroom again.

So we did the next best thing. I pulled a sand bucket that, by some luck we were still storing in the trunk for our numerous trips to the lake and asked him if he would like to use it as a makeshift toilet. He did not even hesitate.

I took a picture, which I refrain to share because, while I don’t think Jack will mind that I blogged about this age-appropriate experience in his life when he reads it years in the future, he might resent my posting visual proof of the encounter.

It’s pretty cute, I do have to say, though.

I tossed the bucket and its contents in a nearby dumpster and we headed back to the playground.

Fifteen minutes later. (You can guess what I’m going to say). He has to go AGAIN! How backed up WAS this kid anyway! He non-chalantly asks to use the bucket. To which I inform him that I chucked it and start pulling my hair out at my limited options.

We go back to the car, I open the hatchback, dig through the trunk, and grab a grocery sack of all things to store his third bowel movement in an hour. Man, I was grateful I’d bought those wipes.

Within minutes the girls returned to the car from their soccer practice. Jack had very little of the anticipated playground time under his belt and I sustained more trauma than I had anticipated for a beautiful September evening.

The frozen yogurt run I’d promised the girls was abruptly canceled in favor of a hurried and stinky drive back home to avoid yet another blowout.

After seventeen years of this, you’d think this would be a walk in the park. In fact, the blog posts from when my girls were this age are replete with this sort of anecdote.

To the contrary, after seventeen years of potty accidents and outings gone wrong, I’m so over it. Cute as Jack is, I’m counting down the days until stuff like this is a distant memory.

The under appreciated robot vacuum.

For my birthday in April, Tim bought me a robot vacuum. I chuckled a bit, as I’ve had other items on my wish list for far longer but the techie in him must have made that gadget jump out at him because that was his first pick.

We named him “Mo” and considered him our “quarantine pet” (because there was no way in H we were going out to buy a puppy). The fact that Mo was Tim’s top pick for my birthday present was a bonus because he tackled all the setup and programming of our new addition.

And what a great addition Mo has been. He runs around the house at 3 o’clock every morning dusting up the mess beneath our couches that in our pre-Mo years only got cleaned up once every month at best because it requires moving furniture.

Another bonus: I only have to sweep the kitchen once a day.

Final bonus: my kids actually pitch in to pick their stuff off the floor at the end of each night, motivated by the horrifying possibility that Mo might eat up their precious earbuds.

Best quarantine pet ever.

We’ve settled in with our cleaner floors and have quite forgotten what life was like before Mo.

In other words, we’ve begun to take him for granted.

So, of course, in Mo’s indignation at being under appreciated, he starts malfunctioning. Each morning for the past week, he has failed to make it back to his docking station.

Not because he got tangled up in a cord somewhere, or stuck under a piece of furniture. Nope, the lazy bum ends up smack dab in the middle of the floor, as if he’s forgotten his purpose in life.

And suddenly I’m stepping all over crumbs on my kitchen floor. I’m painfully aware of the dust that’s collecting under my couch. I’m considering adding vacuuming back to the kids chore rotation, because how else will we keep the downstairs carpets clean?

Mo might as well have been named “Mom”. How much of what I do gets taken for granted day in and day out? Heck, I’ve been at it for so long that I’m confident no one even knows what I do anymore, let alone wonders how they would do without it all?

Things just “magically” happen around here.

Most of the time it’s not a big deal. Until I catch the kids complaining about my less-desirable traits and have to remind them how awesome I am. Or until I notice them sitting around on their butts and feel inclined to invite them to pitch in. That usually helps them develop a deeper sense of gratitude for the things that I do on a daily basis.

No, I’m not one to be a martyr.

I also know that gratitude does not just bless the giver, but the receiver. So, since I am often on the receiving end as well, this little experience with Mo reminds me to appreciate all the small acts of service from which I benefit.

Turns out picking crumbs up off the floor is kind of a big deal. Who knew?

Nine kids and me-a homeschool co-op tale.

Yesterday I hosted our first homeschool co-op of the academic year. There are four families and nine kids between us, aged 4-11. Planning a 3-hour lesson/event to accommodate such a wide range of ages presented some challenges, understandably.

I’m finding I have to rewrite my internal script, though. Although grouping kids by age is particularly effective for core subjects like math and language arts, it isn’t necessary for ALL subjects.

We parents decided that this co-op would focus primarily on enrichment and fun. Science, music, physical education, art, etc. We each teach the core subjects as families Monday-Thursday so we can have fun on Fridays.

This Friday “fun” day I taught “All About Water”. I kicked it off with a demonstration on clouds/precipitation, another on solubility and wrapped it up with a floating “m” experiment.

Then we split into pairs-an older kid with a younger kid-and did rotation stations.

One station required the kids to play music on glass vases. I gave them colored patterns to play and they had to guess which nursery rhyme it was. It was a hit.

Here are the worksheets I created to facilitate the activity:

Nursery-Rhymes-with-Water-and-Answer-KeyDownload
Water-Music-Write-your-own-songDownload

At a second station, I taught them various watercolor techniques-crayon resist, salt technique, oil/water painting, and plastic wrap press.

A third station hosted a huge bin of water beads where they could search for the alphabet or complete a measuring activity. But mostly they just messed around with them. A pretty satisfying experience in and of itself, apparently.

The final station was a sink or float experiment. Pretty self-explanatory.

I printed out these labels with a column each for “sink” and “float”. Then the kids got to attach them to the correct column.

Sink-or-Float-SignsDownload

After that we broke for snacks and free play time while I blew up a bunch of water balloons for the grand finale-squirt gun races, a frozen t-shirt relay, and water balloon baseball.

I was lucky the weather cooperated-it shaped up to be crazy hot and the water play was a welcome reprieve. The whole experience probably appeared chaotic from a classroom standpoint but man it was fun.

Those kiddos were so stinkin’ glad to get together-which is something they would not be getting at public school anytime soon, sadly. I feel for everyone who is miffed about the woes of virtual learning and COVID in general, but me? I’m living it up on the homeschool front.

Summer-not completely canceled.

Our summer beach-going plans were shelved thanks to COVID.  But it wasn’t ALL bad.  We kicked it off by marching a couple willing kids up and down a mountain on a 13 mile hike over Memorial Day weekend.  It was pretty brutal.  But what views!

We capitalized on everyone else’s reticence to travel by booking a cabin up at Redfish Lake Lodge in Stanley.  Most years they’re completely booked soon after they open their booking window in January.  So it was a last-minute splurge.  We hiked the first day and spent the next on the beach kayaking and paddleboarding.

 

We took an overnight camping trip in early July that almost ended in death thanks to a Google maps mishap that took us on the backside of the mountain on a road that was neither paved (not a big deal for we Idahoans) nor wide enough for our Suburban to navigate safely.  Near-death experiences are not my fave.  After a nail-biting hour and a half, we made it safely to our destination.

On the Fourth of July we marked the occasion by going white-water rafting.  Eve began the trip a little nervous about falling out during a big rapid but by the end of the trip she was doing tricks off the raft.  Such a funny girl.  We were also glad to infuse a bit of our money into a local industry that was suffering the effects of reduced out-of-state travel.  Happy Birthday America!

Later in the month, we booked another campsite at one of our favorites up by the North Fork of the Boise River.  It’s not too far from us as the crow flies, but because the drive includes 19 miles on an unpaved, windy road (graded for regular cars, at least), it takes a couple of hours to get there.

Within a few minutes of our arrival, Eve happened upon a small rattlesnake, which definitely soured our experience from the get-go.  Considering that we were two hours from a reliable medical facility, the thought of anyone in our crew getting bitten was a scary thought.  We stuck one of the girls on “rattlesnake watch” so we could set up the tent without worry.

 

Well, we picked the wrong girl.  She got engrossed in her book and looked up to find the snake within striking distance of her leg.  She flinched slightly and it shook its tail as a warning.  So she held absolutely still until it made its way past her and into a hole in the ground by our neighbor’s campsite.  So we were now two for two on camping trips where we narrowly escaped death.  Scary.

 

The grand finale to our summer was a family reunion with the Jacksons in Island Park, Idaho.   We spent a day in Yellowstone (not near enough, obviously) and the rest of the time hanging with family, ATV-ing, floating the river, playing 9-square, board-gaming horseback-riding and eating.  

 

Add in plenty of trips to the reservoir up the road from us, our annual Boise river float, walks and bike rides along the Greenbelt, summer cooking/sewing classes with friends and a tomato harvest to die for and that’s a wrap.

 

Not too shabby for a COVID summer, eh?

Hopping on the homeschool train.

Eve’s has had more than her fair share of rough days at school.

She gets distracted easily so she beats herself up emotionally over not being “as smart as her sisters”. (Not true, but perception can be powerful.)

She gets in trouble on occasion for doing something impulsive (but completely innocent) and dies inside at the humiliation of being disciplined and STILL not understanding quite why.

She feels the desire to wiggle, and fidget, and express herself freely but has to suppress it all in a public school setting in favor of “not making waves”.

Since about 3rd grade she’s come home from school on several occasions begging me to homeschool her. “Please mom,” she’s said. “I can’t go back there tomorrow.” I told her I’d think about it and that it was not a decision to be made impulsively. And then she’d get a good night’s sleep and head out the door the next day with only a little prodding, consoled by the fact that not every day turns out as badly as the day before had.

I didn’t really want to homeschool her, despite my willingness. I figured the hard-earned lesson of pushing through a difficult situation would be lost if I gave in too easily. Plus, she LOVES her friends. Without the school community to bind them, would those friends come around less and less? It wasn’t worth the risk.

And then COVID happened. And as I sat with her to go over the school work the district provided to finish out the school year, it was clear that there were some serious gaps. I watched her take HOURS on her own to complete assignments that should have taken just over 1 hour.

I listened to her verbally flog herself when she didn’t grasp a concept easily or couldn’t quite come up with the descriptive words she thought would grant her an “A” on a writing assignment. I cringed inside a little when she admitted that she never asked for help on an assignment.

I might have cried when I realized that public school simply wasn’t working for my daughter.

So when the school district came up with a plan for the fall school year that gave us plenty of options-all of them inferior to what school would normally look like (understandably), I made up my mind.

If Eve wasn’t thriving in an optimal public school environment (and I do believe that our local schools are close to optimal in many ways), she certainly would flounder in the current circumstances.

It was time to homeschool. And I was actually giddy about it.

The rest is history. I have shifted my time and energy away from our local elementary school and invested it entirely in my two youngest children. We’re combining efforts with other families through co-ops so that Eve still gets the benefit of associating with and learning from other kids and teachers. And she has a soft place to land when she struggles emotionally. Academically, she is thriving. Absolutely thriving.

Instead of 7 hours a day of school, we average about 3, leaving plenty of time for field trips and pool time and play. It is just what the doctor ordered.

At this rate we may never go back.

P.S. It was amazing to me how once I’d made the decision, everything literally fell into place. One thing after another from the curriculum we chose to the co-ops we formed and even the space we converted into our “classroom”.

One tiny example is that as I was shopping for furniture, I would find exactly what I wanted on Wayfair and then I would check Craigslist, “just in case” I could find something similar for cheaper. Every time I found either the exact same item or something better. For cheaper. Things like that may seem trivial. But, to me, they’re like little love notes from heaven helping me see that we’re on the right track.

All the ways that our family’s pandemic experience was an “ideal” one.

When life was “canceled” a few months ago due to the arrival of a pandemic on our shores, I did a little happy dance. Read about it here.

I was suffering from burnout, which can easily become the norm for mothers of several children (five, in my case) who desperately feel the ticking time bomb that is my time with them at home.

It’s tricky to find a balance when trying to give our kids every opportunity in life because along with that comes a whole lot of chauffeuring, volunteering, teaching and training. All while trying to manage a semi-peaceful household.

Well, I have to say that during January through March, I was failing miserably at achieving that balance. Enter COVID-19. Devastating to most. A godsend to me.

So, while I don’t mean to minimize what others have gone through over the past few months, I would be forever ungrateful if I failed to acknowledge the countless advantages our family had during quarantine.

First, my husband had a job that could easily be done remotely. Not only did this guarantee us a stable income but it meant that we could take daily walks during his lunch hour. (And I had backup with child-rearing if I really needed it).

Second, unlike so many couples, who both had to work from home, as well and single parents who go at it alone every day, we had the luxury of a stay-at-home parent. That meant I could minimize interruptions to Tim’s many Zoom calls, keep the kids from killing each other and help with schoolwork without taking a hit to work productivity.

That is a position few families found themselves in and it was not lost on me. Or Tim, for that matter.

Third, we live in a neighborhood with numerous walking paths and enjoy a wonderful fenced backyard where we can be outside while social distancing. Watching videos of Italians serenading one another from their balconies was both heartwarming and heartrending. The thought of the only access to the outside world being from a balcony sure made me feel spoiled in my single-family suburban home.

Fourth. There are seven people in my family. No loneliness in these parts. Want to play a board game? Great! There’s plenty of people to join you. A round of badminton? Doubles? Easily accomplished. Need a shoulder to cry on? Not a problem.

The annoyances that come along with large families are not few, but you can bet we were all glad to have plenty of options for a partner in crime during our quarantine.

Fifth, I finally found myself grateful for the extra 750 square feet we added onto our abode almost two years ago. The process was a terrible headache but you can bet that seven people (most of whom are now adult-sized) crammed into 3200 square feet around the clock is a whole lot better than those same people fighting over 2500 square feet of territory.

Sixth, after evaluating our food storage, I was delighted to find that we could probably last about 6 months without going to the grocery store. Aside from fresh milk, produce and eggs, we were in good shape! And I even had canned varieties of all three if we really got desperate. (But…yuck!)

And on that note, I got my hands on a cow from a local friend (we’ve done this before) just before meat processing plant outbreaks and the price of beef shot up. Our freezer is jam-packed with locally-butchered beef that will last us two years, easy.

Lastly, I can’t say enough about how much my faith sustains me in daily life.

When all this pandemic crap hit the fan, church was canceled indefinitely. Being able to meet in our home for Sunday worship and daily scripture study has been a tender experience. As our family has refocused on the things that matter most, we’ve gained an added measure of peace that things are gonna be all right in the end. It is our faith in Christ that grounds us in that soul-sustaining belief.

So, while I can’t say my first pandemic has been ALL fun and games, I CAN show gratitude for the fact that, in our case, we were dealt a much softer blow than so many. My personal hope is to ease the burden on others for whom this has not been the case. I’m trying anyway.

The summer of the best friend.

When my kids were younger I cringed a little at the term “best friend”. Anytime I’d catch one of my kids and a friend call each other “besties” it just didn’t sit well with me. I’ve always found the term to be a bit exclusive. As most superlatives are.

Though it never evolved into a formal sit-down discussion, my girls knew how I felt on the subject. “It’s just a good idea to surround yourself with lots of great people without unintentionally excluding others by claiming a “bestie” for oneself.”

“It’s better to not put all your eggs in one basket and instead have several good friends that you can count on equally.”

“You might want to include so-and-so in this particular gathering/outing. Otherwise she might feel left out.”

These are the types of things I’d say that likely bred an aversion to “best friends” in my children. Mostly to help them be a little more other-centered and inclusive-also to ensure that they don’t get too complacent in their relationships.

Fast forward to 2020.

After a couple of months of “you can see no one outside your family”, we graduated to “pick a small group of friends and limit yourself to hanging out only with those few this summer.” Huge paradigm shift. But necessary in a pandemic.

So while I am still a huge advocate for casting one’s net wide when it comes to friendships under normal circumstances, it appears that during the pandemic we will be a little bit more choosy about with whom we hang out. “Summer of the best friend”, I’m calling it.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose.

Different is good.

When I was a missionary in Taiwan twenty plus years ago, I had an a-ha moment of sorts one day. As I was stopped at an intersection while riding my bike, I heard someone shout the Chinese word for “foreigner”.

That’s what Taiwanese people often do when they notice a non-Asian.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard someone shout out “foreigner” in reference to me. But it was the first time that I glanced around me, wondering who the heck they were talking about.

You see, I’d been living in Taiwan for 15 months at that point. I’d been living exclusively with native Taiwanese people for half of that time. I spoke the language fluently. My dreams were in Chinese. I’d even begun to acquire a taste for tofu.

For all intents and purposes, I thought I was Taiwanese.

It took me a moment to realize that the “foreigner” was, in fact, me. But the lesson I learned from that experience has stayed with me. I learned that we can become one with people who are different when we are immersed in their culture and truly work to understand and love them.

Racial tensions in the U.S. in recent weeks have upset me more than I can express. It saddens (and sickens) me to see how many lives have been adversely affected because of the color of one’s skin.

As people have shared their experiences with racism, I’ve been shocked. Not because I disbelieve their accounts of those experiences. Still, because I have never witnessed such things, I therefore find it unthinkable that they actually happen.

I think racism has sort of always existed in a bubble to me. When you don’t deal with something on a daily basis, it’s easy to develop a naïveté concerning it. I currently live in a racially homogenous place in comparison to many of the places in which I lived in my earlier years. And in ALL of those places, I was fortunate to associate with mostly compassionate people so it would be difficult to imagine them as perpetrators of racism.

The trouble with living in a bubble is that the assumptions you adopt regarding the inherent goodness of people can inhibit a motivation to fight for those who are marginalized.

Aside from living life as a person of color, the best way to develop a desire to advocate for them is through empathy. And empathy is much easier to achieve when one knows someone personally who has been a target of racism. And despite knowing many people of color throughout the course of my life, I am ashamed to say that I haven’t taken the time to really contemplate what life must be like for them.

Maybe it’s because they never felt safe expressing such sentiments to me. Maybe it just never came up. Maybe, because I cared for them and never really viewed the color of their skin as an impediment, I failed to acknowledge that others might.

I don’t beat myself up too much about it. Because my fundamental belief that we are all children of a loving Heavenly Father has guided the way I treat others.

Still, the events in our world have stirred in me a desire to do better. To ask more questions. To not take for granted the opportunities life has afforded me simply due to the color of my skin. To open my eyes to the plight so many individuals face and try harder to mourn with them. And to ease their burden in any way I can.

I’m not quite sure how to do this yet.

But I know who does know what I can do. He (Jesus Christ) is also the one who will right all wrongs in the end. And although I trust in His ability to do so, it is still my charge to emulate Him and to do my best in this life to advocate for those who cannot do so for themselves.