Today has been a hard day.

I got the dreaded call when I was just about to put my leftover dinner from last night into the microwave at work during my lunch break.

"It's Elise," said the frantic voice on the other end of the line, Elise's sweet teacher at school. "She started seizing ten minutes ago, a really bad one. We gave her the Diastat (her emergency medication) at four minutes, but the seizure hasn't stopped. The paramedics are on the way."

"I'll be right there," I said, grabbing my jacket and my purse. My coworkers could guess what was happening. Unfortunately, this was not our first rodeo.

"Let us know how she is," they called anxiously as I ran out of the building and to my car.

As many times as I have run through scenarios similar to this, it never gets any easier. Sometimes it gets harder, as a matter of fact. The first time is such a new experience, with so many unknowns, that you have no idea what to expect. Then the fifth, fifteenth, and twenty-fifth time rolls around. By then you know too much. You know what is "normal" for your child, you know what to expect, and you know what you instinctively dread.

What if this is the last time she is able to come around afterwards? What if her brain and her functionality is fundamentally altered from this episode? How many seizures of this magnitude can a tiny body like my little Elise's put up with? What if they can't make them stop?

All of these questions raced through my head as I drove to the school, trying not to speed too much but knowing full well that I was at least 15mph over the limit. I couldn't help it.

Elise had just started to ease back into consciousness when I pulled up at the school. I talked about the recent changes in her medications with the paramedics, who believed it was most likely just her body trying to adjust to something new. I declined transport to the hospital, since she had only just seen her neurologist three days before, promising to call the doctor as soon as I got home. Then I signed a waiver and drove her home, watching her anxiously in my rear-view mirror, as she couldn't seem to sit upright and continued to lean awkwardly to the side.

Once home, I struggled to get her out of the car, since in her loopy, drugged-out state she was fighting me off, kicking and crying. I awkwardly carried her still battling sixty pound frame into the house. Exhausted and emotionally drained, I finally fell with her onto the carpet in the family room.

​And then I cried. A lot. Big, ugly, convulsive tears that saw no end. Crying is rarely delicate and glistening, like it is in the movies. It's violent, wrenching, and all-consuming.

Sometimes it is hard for me to remember the advice a dear friend gave me twelve years ago after we received Elise's diagnosis of lissencephaly. She had already been dealing with the complications of severe seizures with her own daughter for four years. While I was in the drowning terror of the upcoming unknown I asked her, "How do you do it?"

"I have learned to just live through each day," she said simply. "I don't think about tomorrow, or five years from now, or how I will manage when she is twenty. I take a deep breath and get through one day at a time."

The advice is simple, yet profound. Focus on the task at hand and trust that you will be given the strength to get through what will come.

It was just last night that I attended a beautiful meeting with the young women in our ward, with the theme, "I Am His Daughter," meaning a literal and divine daughter of a Heavenly Father. Each young woman got up and briefly spoke on what projects and goals they have been working on this last year and what they learned from them. I spoke on Elise's behalf.

I told them of the strides that Elise has made this last year. How she can recognize her name when it is written out, How she loves to repeat the letter "E." How she loves her yoga class at school and laughs almost the entire time she practices.

​And I told them of how regardless of how much or how little Elise has physically learned this last year, the most important thing was what we have learned from her.

I have learned of patience. I have learned of hope. I have learned of faith. I have learned of love.

After the program several people came up to me and exclaimed how strong I am. Their words were sweet and sincere and I thanked them graciously, but inside I was screaming,

"I'm not strong! I'm not brave or amazing! I am weak and I am tired! There are days that I wonder how I will ever make it through!"

As part of the program, the young women stood and sang a song together. They pulled a chair out for Elise to sit on front and center. What they sang was "I Am His Daughter." I posted a music video for the song below for you to experience it's profound meaning for yourself.

As the girls sang they carefully placed pictures in Elise's hands for her to hold. One was a beautifully framed image of the words, "I Am His Daughter." The girls started crying as they looked at this precious little girl holding those words, portraying the words that she physically cannot say for herself.

In the final chorus they placed a picture of the Savior holding a child in his arms and they sang these words:

"And when I'm feeling small,
And wondering if I'll ever, find courage to stand tall
Through His love I remember

There's so much more to me
He helps me see that I have so much to offer
I am His daughter
He loves me the way I am
He's my strength when I stand
He is my King, and my Father,
I am His daughter."

There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

After a bit more crying this afternoon, the tears finally began to slow down. Elise had gotten annoyed with me so she kicked me away, as if to say, "Come on, Mom! Get it together!" So I picked myself up and started the usual routine of making sure all of her needs were met.

A few hours later, she is now in the hyper stage of being drugged and is wreaking havoc on the house. She is still wobbly, but she insists on walking all over, pulling open drawers and cabinets, dumping items out of baskets and investigating the garbage can. I can hear her jabbering happily to herself as I sit here typing.

I felt compelled to write down the barrage of feelings that overwhelmed me today. Maybe I just needed to get it out. Maybe someone out there needs to hear that everything is going to be okay, even when it doesn't seem possible. I didn't even know exactly how this post was going to end. I was so overwhelmed and distraught when I started writing, but now all I feel is peace.

I am struck with a deep and penetrating thought. Elise is beyond doubt a beloved daughter of her Father in Heaven. She is precious and perfect, a light to all those around her.

But so am I, for I am also His daughter.

I may not always be strong or courageous, but I am given strength when I stand. I am loved for who I am, with all my faults and weaknesses. I feel His love for me on a daily basis. And there is more to me than I ever give credit to myself.

​Because I Am His Daughter.

​

​A friend from work lives on a small farm. Among other animals, she has seven chickens. Every night as the sun begins to set, six of these chickens make their way into the coop where they are kept warm and safe, moving by instinct and without any coaxing from my friend. However, one silly chicken, Miss Gray, does not follow her fellow mates into the protection of the coop. She is a bit slimmer, so she is still able to fly a short distance. Every night she flies up to the top of the enclosure fence, where she perches for a moment, and then flaps down into the darkness of the forest. My friend has no idea where she goes or what she does all evening, but she always finds her the next morning back in the enclosure, rooting around the feed bucket.

Miss Gray may think she is having a grand adventure every evening. Perhaps she even thinks that she is getting away with something. But my friend knows that this is a dangerous habit. She knows that there are frequently cougars and other predators in the forest and that one morning Miss Gray may just not come back home.

​As we are preparing our families to fight in this dangerous world which we live in, are we giving them the essential tools they need to be safe and kept from the prowling predators of sin, addictions, and pride? Are we helping them to understand how the gospel acts as a refuge from the darkness in the world? 

​In order to strengthen and protect our families from the pitfalls of the world, the First Presidency has recently suggested a focus for members of the church. It is “Strengthening faith in our Heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ through Sabbath Day observance at church and in the home.”

One of the suggested topics, and the one which I have been pondering on for a while now is how to teach our children that the Sabbath is a delight.

In Isaiah 58:13-14 it reads, “If thou turn away...from doing thy pleasure on my holy day; and call the Sabbath a delight,....and shalt honor [the Lord], not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words: Then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord.”

How do we teach our children that the Sabbath is a delight? Rather than regarding our Sunday worship as a dreary obligation, how can we help them see what a blessing the Sabbath is to our souls? Here are my thoughts on what has helped me and my family take more delight in the Sabbath.
 
Preparation:
First is preparation. With two young children and a teenager still in our home, preparation at our house in most cases means PREVENTION. If we want to avoid tantrums, meltdowns or other unholy communications on a Sunday morning, we have learned that we need to do certain things. The little girls need to be bathed the night before. Church clothes must be found and chosen on Saturday evening, ensuring that everyone has something clean to wear, including all shoes, ties, socks and tights. We need to have a plan ready for the meals of the day, so I am not rummaging through the kitchen, pulling my hair out while the kids moan about how they are starving.

Of course, even though Eric and I know that taking care of these basic needs on Saturday is always a good idea, this does not mean that all these things are routinely completed. However, I know that when we are prepared, our Sabbath morning is less rushed and I am better able to feel the Spirit in our meetings and more prepared to partake of the Sacrament.

What sort of preparations would improve your family's worship on the Sabbath?

​Set a Pattern:
Second is to set a pattern. A pattern is a model used as a guide, or a repeated design.

My mother is a quilter. She has spent countless hours masterfully assembling hundreds of quilts over the years. She has tried to teach me how to quilt, but I always struggle with the exactness of following the pattern. In quilting, a pattern must be followed exactly for the pieces to line up properly. I like to be creative and do my own thing, which means my cooking recipes are never the same, since I frequently throw in whatever ingredients strike my fancy, and I generally have an organic approach to the design of any craft projects I am working on. This creative, loosey-goosey approach does not work well with quilting, but this doesn’t keep me from reverting back to my old habits. I always seem to think blocks are lined up “close enough,” or I can fudge the seam allowance here a little, but the end result is always disastrous. What seems like such a tiny little deviation turns into puckered fabrics, blocks that are not square, points which do not match, and a pattern that is no longer recognizable. Then my mother makes me pick the whole thing apart and start all over again until I get everything lined up exactly.

When I was growing up, my parents set a pattern of Sabbath worship. Not only did this pattern help me, as a child, to know what their expectations were for our conduct, but I have found over the years that it has also given me a reference to look back on as an adult.
In our house on Sundays, I knew that the television would not be on, the laundry would not be run, homework would be put aside, and unless we were on our deathbeds, meetings were always attended. My mother would prepare a lovely meal, the nicest of the week. Church lessons were discussed over the dinner table, everyone would pitch in with the dishes, and my mother would dish out a special treat while we selected a board game. Sometimes we would pull out our various musical instruments and collaborate together on hymns, and sometimes the evening was spent in quiet conversation by the fireplace.

These are my memories of Sundays. In the midst of our crazy, hectic lives there was always the respite of these joyful days spent together as a family.

Now that I have a family of my own and I know how difficult it is to replicate even ONE of those traditions, I can’t help but admire my parents and their continual commitment to rearing their children in the gospel. I’m sure that my siblings and I had squabbles, just like we did on every other day of the week. I’m sure there were times that the dinner was burnt, our meetings ran late, or our clothes were not properly pressed, but that is not the part that stands out in my memory. I just remember the feeling of great love and acceptance which was always present in our home, particularly on the Sabbath as we spent so much time together as a family.

What pattern do you want to establish in your home? What traditions or attitudes toward Sabbath worship do you want to pass along to your children?

My great-grandmother taught my mother that for every stitch you make with your needle on the Sabbath, you will have to pick it out with your nose in heaven. It may sound silly to us today, but it made an impression on my mother. To her grandmother, sewing represented work and the never-ending task of running a household. To my mother, it represents her dearest hobby, something which she passionately works on six days of the week. However, with her grandmother’s voice echoing in her head, she has never picked up a needle on Sunday, choosing instead to use her personal sacrifice as a sign to her Heavenly Father of how she loves and honors Him.

​Of course, not all families are the same. The pattern you set for your family may be completely different than the pattern I set for mine. The only thing that matters is that our pattern is based upon the teachings of Jesus Christ. When we use these guidelines, in conjunction with the guidance from our beloved church leaders, the pattern we set for our families will be beautiful and unique, providing our family with confidence and protection for generations to come.

​Make it Special:
Lastly, in order to set the Sabbath day apart from the rest of the week, think about ways in which you and your family can make the day special.

You can create family traditions.

A sister in our ward recently spoke about a tradition they do on Sundays with their two young children. Every week the children take turns selecting what activity they will do together as a family, and then they do it. It could be baking cookies, going for a walk, playing a game, or playing with Legos, anything they want. Their children look forward to Sundays all week, because they are actively involved in planning what special thing they will do together.

Another sister in our ward recently taught a lesson in Relief Society about family history work. As a result of studying and preparing for her lesson, she learned of all the blessings of protection and faith promised to families who do their family history work. She wanted that for her family, so she made a commitment that before she could take her weekly Sunday nap she would do family history work together with her teenage children for one hour. Although grumbling at first, her children soon jumped on board with doing the work and in turn developed strong and beautiful testimonies of family history work for themselves.

There are many ways that you can make the Sabbath day special in your home. Serving others, visiting the sick and lonely, and sharing time together in family gatherings-- all these things will help bring the true purpose of the Sabbath day into your home. I have often found that my most sacred and special moments are the quiet, gentle conversations at unexpected times with one of my children as we are reading, doing the dishes, or driving in the car. My testimony and love for my Savior grows every time I testify of Him. Create an atmosphere on the Sabbath where these opportunities can occur frequently in your home. Not only will your testimony grow, but your children will be strengthened in the light of the gospel and find true delight in the Sabbath.

What sort of traditions would you like to implement in your family? How would you like to set the day apart from the rest of the week?
 
A Sacred Sabbath:
Elder Russel M. Nelson taught: “Faith in God engenders a love for the Sabbath; faith in the Sabbath engenders a love for God. A sacred Sabbath truly is a delight.”

​I love the opportunity which we have every week to step away from our normal labors and cares, and immerse ourselves only in the Lord's work. I feel strongly that the more we turn away from our own pleasures and focus on what the Lord would have us do, the more our families will be blessed. In Doctrine & Covenants 59:15-16 we are promised that "....inasmuch as ye do these things [Sabbath observance] with thanksgiving, with cheerful hearts and countenances...the fullness of the earth is yours." Health, prosperity, and protection are all promised those who learn to observe the Sabbath with a willing heart. How could these blessings be anything but a delight for our families?

​After pondering and studying more about the Lord's expectations for the Sabbath, I know that I feel a renewed desire to work a little harder, prepare a little more, and create Sunday traditions that my children will always cherish. I know that if I do these things, I can help my children truly delight in the Sabbath. They will then choose to stay within the warmth and protection of the chicken coop, rather than seek their own way in the dark and dangerous world. Instead of dropping in occasionally to nip a little morsel of truth like the unwise Miss Gray, I know that consistency in honoring the Sabbath will inspire our families to stay grounded, feasting on the words and promises from a loving Heavenly Father. Then the Sabbath truly will be a delight.

This morning I received news that a friend's husband passed away unexpectedly, leaving behind five growing children and a devastated wife. Amid the feelings of shock and loss, I couldn't help but contemplate my own mortality, my own fragile and human existence in this world. I began to think about what I would be leaving behind, my legacy, you could say.

If I were to be taken tomorrow, what would my legacy be?

I know what I would like it to be. But am I doing all that I can to ensure my legacy will never be questioned? Will my children be able to say with confidence, "We do not doubt that our mother knew it?" (Alma 56:47-48)

Do my children know my testimony of a loving Father in Heaven, and in his Son, Jesus Christ? Do they know how the knowledge of who I am, a daughter of a supreme and divine Father, is ingrained in the very fabric of my soul? Do they know that this knowledge is the foundation of everything I know, and the guiding truth for everything I aspire to? Do they know how my love for our Savior, Jesus Christ gives me the strength I need to get up every day, to go through all the tedious motions of life, and never give up when life seems more than I can bear? Do they know how much I rely on the Savior's message of peace and hope every day, and especially when the blackest and most profound darkness has threatened to overcome me? Do they know how the Savior's light can conquer all-- darkness can turn to light, fear can turn to courage within, and despair can turn to everlasting happiness and peace?

Do my children know how much I love them-- how deeply, profoundly, and utterly I adore them in all their quirks, fancies, and imperfections? Do they know how proud of them I am, how much potential I see in each of them, and how I am constantly amazed at the people they are growing to be? Do they know how much I weep for them, pray for them, plead for them, fight for them? Do they know how much I see, and that through every heartbreak or struggle they face, I am in the background agonizing with them? Do they know how much I rejoice as I witness their growth, as they develop their talents, or courageously face their weaknesses? Do they know they are a piece of my heart and an eternal link to my soul?

I wish to leave a legacy of faith. I wish to leave a legacy of love. 

Words will only get me so far, however. As vital as it is to hear it from my lips, my children must feel this legacy of mine through my actions, by the way that I live my life, by the principles and truths which I teach, and by the way that I serve others. 

For now I will go say my prayers with them, hold them a little closer, and tuck them into bed a little more tenderly, clinging to the hope that my legacy will be etched into the center of their hearts.

Today was a very special day at church, one which we look forward to every year. The children of our congregation put together a program of music and spoken word, illustrating what they have learned through the year at church. It is always precious, with moments of hysterical cuteness nestled among tender truths shared through the eyes of the most innocent and pure. It is my favorite Sunday of the year.

Today's program did not disappoint. This year the children have been learning and gaining a testimony that our Savior, Jesus Christ lives and loves them each individually. It was a beautiful program, with heartfelt stories of how the children know they are loved by the Savior.

One song in particular was especially moving today. It was called "The Miracle," and lists the many amazing miracles which Jesus Christ performed while on the earth, but explains that the most important miracle is the supreme sacrifice he made for each of us. The words of the chorus are as follows:

"Jesus is the God of miracles,
Nothing is at all impossible to him.
But I know this above all miracles
The most incredible must be
The miracle that rescues you and me."

The song was beautiful and there was a strong feeling of the Holy Spirit present in the chapel, testifying of truth as the children sang. There was one tiny part, however, which brought tears to the eyes of everyone who listened. It was the sweet little ting of a triangle being rung by my 11-year-old daughter with special needs.

Elise loves music. As soon as the first note sounds, she is bouncing in her seat with the biggest grin across her face. She is mostly nonverbal, so Elise communicates with laughter, smiles, and swooping motions of her arms along with the music.

Today, however, Elise's voice was heard crystal clear along with all the other kids, in the form of a shiny silver triangle. Her teacher helped by holding the triangle and guiding Elise's hand with the striking wand, but it was clear that Elise knew she was making the beautiful sound. The grin on her face and the light in her eyes could be seen from across the room.

I couldn't help but think about what a miracle Elise is in my life, as well as the lives of those around her. She is a spot of sunshine in an often dark and gloomy world. The sound of her laughter and the feeling of her sweet strangling hugs can carry me through my toughest times. Just being near her makes my worries and stresses seem to melt away.

I am so thankful for a God of miracles. I know that He lives and loves His children. I see evidence of this love everyday when I look in my sweet daughter's eyes.

​She is my little miracle.

Tomorrow we will be packing the car up to the rafters to prepare for a trip. But this isn't just any old trip. My oldest daughter, Heidi, will be leaving the nest to attend college at BYU-Idaho. The campus is in Rexburg, Idaho, 800 miles by car from our home in Everett, Washington. I know, because I already googled the distance. I also know that, according to google, it should take 11.5 hours to drive by car. By my own experience, however, I know it is more like 14 hours. Of course, that is in a car packed with four kids and one adult with a teeny bladder (and I don't mean my husband). It is the same school that my husband Eric and I met at twenty-one years ago. We absolutely loved going to school there. I will never forget all the amazing experiences and memories made on that campus and in my first little apartment of six girls.

I remember the nervous energy I felt as I walked into my apartment for the first time, to meet the five strangers that I would be living with for the next year. I remember not knowing how to say goodbye to my family, as my parents tearfully gave me a last hug. Like me, they also did not like to prolong things, so as soon as my mom had ensured that my kitchen was stocked with enough milk, cereal, and hamburger helper boxes to last me a month, they left me to start a new chapter in my life.

Six girls sharing two bathrooms, one refrigerator, and a communal pile of clothes and accessories. I was in heaven. We stayed up late talking and laughing, with plenty of goofing off in between. One roommate brought a Jane Fonda exercise video to school with her and we did one of her routines almost every night. Another girl made homemade facial masks with avocados and bananas, making our apartment and our skin smell yummy. We would pass around bridal magazines, dreaming about our own happily-ever-afters, and tease each other about the boys that were constantly hanging around the apartment until curfew.

I had never been surrounded by so much girls-only fun! Even though we had never met before the first day of school, my roommates became my dearest friends. They were my family away from home. In fact, we are still in contact with each other to this day. (On a side note, one of my roommates became my sister-in-law, meeting my husband's brother at our wedding, but that's another story!) Through my relationships with them, I realized how much my life could be enriched by having a handful of girlfriends at my back, looking out for me, encouraging me when I am down, and giving me a healthy dose of silliness and laughter to boot.

After Eric and I were married we shared an old derelict apartment which was above a clothing store and down the block from a frozen yogurt shop. The building was condemned the year after we moved out. I still remember the door which couldn't open all the way into the tiny bathroom because it hit the side of the toilet, and the gaping hole in the floor which was directly beneath our ancient claw-foot tub. Those tubs look fashionable and fun in gorgeous magazine spreads, but in real life, the lack of insulation was torture. Rexburg winters are pretty cold. I will never forget the frigid baths we had to take, since the tub was not equipped with a shower, and the air from outside would come swirling in from the floor, ensuring that our baths were quick and efficient.