Conference at Our House

A tenet of faith that differentiates us from most Christians is our belief that God has called prophets and apostles in our day. Consequently we view Conference as the Israelites would Moses at Sinai. Or the Corinthians with Paul. God’s word. Spoken through his servants.

We look forward to this event. It floats to the top of our priority list. We come away renewed and re-committed. I love October Conference.

For many Mormons this October weekend includes tradition. Seeing old friends or mission companions. Fall festivities. Tastes of the seasons. Like Shelah who blogged at Segullah about the smell of baking granny smith apples while listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and replacing summer clothes with neatly folded sweaters. A beautiful post. But I had to laugh at the contrasting state of affairs in our home Saturday morning.

No nostalgic aromas.

Nothing folded neatly.

Here’s a glimpse into Conference at our House. Saturday morning session. With all it’s poignancy. And irony.

Eliza is in time-out for trapping Ali with a butterfly net. Ali is crying. Sami yells to be heard, “Mom! Will you put my butterfly wings on?” Gordon is crying in his crib upstairs (I’m hoping he’ll put himself back to sleep.) Another confrontation: Eliza pushes Ali off a chair. Ali feigns dead bug on her back. Legs flailing. Still crying. I put Eliza in time-out again. Both babies are crying now. I’m on the edge emotionally. All patience is quickly draining.

I’m sure there was a positive finish to this sentence but that’s all I heard. The boys are still crying as I try to print coloring pages for the girls. All three are arguing over who gets to take the printed pages to Mom. I leave the kids in charge of the printer (!?) to give a binky to Gordon. While holding Spencer (still crying), I try to make two bottles and place them in warm water. I drop the glass measuring cup on a plate in the sink. The plate breaks. “Aaaaah!” Deep breath. “Eliza? Will you carry the Boppies downstairs so I can bottle-feed the boys?” She jumps to help. While heading down the stairs I glimpse Doug returning from his bike ride. Relief!

Mom: “Eliza! Come down off the table! Don’t throw the phone!”

Eliza: “Mom! You’re not being patient!”

Sami: “Mom! Look! I’m a cow!” (On all fours. Mooing.)

Ali is playing with a train and singing along to the tune of “I’ve been working on the railroad.”

Mom: “Ali – will you go get my pump?”

Ali: “Oh yeah Mom!” Sweet little helper. For the remainder of Elder Osquthorpe’s talk I can’t hear much over the whoosh whoosh of the breast pump and the crash-bash-farm-noise of future leaders.

Doug bears his treasures from his ride to the top of Millcreek Canyon. Maple leaves. Soft. Velvet. Red. One for each girl. He kisses his daughters on the cheek. Gordon and Spencer are no longer crying. Full tummies. Offering smiles.

Doug cleans the playroom, folds blankets, stacks toys while I staple packets of coloring pages together. Doug brings out the table and chairs. The girls clamor into their seats. I get the buckets of crayons. Doug puts the boys down for tummy-time. I explain the coloring pages and kiss Ali whose feelings were hurt again. The girls quietly color for a few minutes while Doug and I laugh at Elder Bednar’s remarks about young families.

Eliza recognizes the song as one I sing to her at bedtime. Ali shows her coloring masterpiece to Daddy.

I stop tapping away at the computer to survey the scene. My five beautiful children busy and content. Playing quietly, kindly with each other. At least for a moment. Sami finds “cupcakes” in Doug’s ears with her pretend otoscope. My handsome husband dangles colorful toys in front of the boys. Eliza rubs Gordon’s head. “Hey Buddy” she says. And kisses his cheek.

My heart is full. I know we are doing God’s work. Communing with Him not just on weary knees at the end of the day but minute to minute. I need His Spirit, temperance and strength. I lose my patience too often. I want to do better.

The mail clangs through the door and I think of all the days the mailman must hear someone crying as he slips envelopes onto our floor. Still. There is a peace here. Peace when I remember family is everything. When I remember that all of this is temporary and eternal – with things bigger and grander still to come.

I know what he says is true. Yet I feel sad. In my haste to meet everyone’s needs, keep everyone fed, clothed and happy, sometimes I forget the reason for it all. The reason for Him. A Redeemer. For us. For family.

Love.

I throw diapers in the trash, place my milk in the fridge, come back downstairs to sit with my family. I smile at Doug. He smiles back.

Ali climbs into my lap. An unseen hand picks up the pieces of my tattered soul. Smoothes them out. Folds them neatly. Tells me I can.

We change. We move on.