10 Years and Still Standing

The more time passes, the more I'm surprised by the little things I remember about my mom.

Just a few days ago I was making an Oreo pie crust and desecrating the cookies by opening them in half and scraping out whatever synthetic byproduct it is that Nabisco calls "creme filling." While committing that unholy deed I had an almost visceral memory of my mom--someone who rarely succumbed to any sugar, much less the Nabisco kind--doing the same thing. Twisting open each cookie, using the flat end of a butter knife, and plopping the filling out into the sink.

Or like when I open my little red jewelry bags that she got me just a few days before she died. Sometimes, while searching for an elusive pair for my earring, I think about that day. It was a Monday and we went into this little boutique on University Avenue, that has long since gone out of business, as we were waiting for our table at the Bombay House. I chose out a couple tops and while I was in the dressing room my mom decided I needed this set of three beaded, red bags. The shirts have long-since gone to DI due to puberty and peasant frocks going out of style, but the bags are still a perfect fit.

Even though these memories are still very real, they have grown uber stale. I know them all by heart. I can predict which things are going to remind me of her unique way of putting on lipstick, or which people will make me recall the way she turned her head and slapped her thigh when she laughed really hard, but I can never change those memories. They are just on a repeating loop in my subconscious. Reminding me each time that I won't ever have new stories about my mom. 

No matter how hard I scratch, I will never uncover something new in those memories. In fact, not only will I not discover something new, but that bank of memories will just slowly get smaller and smaller; the continuous loop running shorter and shorter. Even with the agile mind of a 24 year old I can't how it would smell when I would burrow into her shirt and cry. Or exactly what her big, black purse looked like. Was the zipper silver? And there was a big pocket in front--or were there two on each side?

While I ache for those memories I know I have already forgotten, I want even more for my mom to know me as the person I am today. Now that I know we would have more to talk about than ever, I'm stuck having this one-sided conversation. Or worse, I try to make up her responses by patching together memories to answer my hypotheticals. Either way, I end up feeling cheated and wondering if it would have been better if I had never known her. Easier to deal if I didn't know how infinitely cool she was. 

But, like the amazing movie About Time reminded me, "we're all traveling through time together, every day of our lives. All we can do is do our best to relish this remarkable ride." Every one of us is a time traveler and, like it or not, time has one speed: forward. As much as I would love to spend one more week with my mom body surfing at Hukilau beach, Smithsonian hopping on the mall, or even cuddling up with a new book and a warm bed, I just cannot. The only thing I can do is a live a life she would be proud of. And I can't do that if I am not unequivocally in the present.

 So here I am. Living. Moving forward.

We've all got reasons we wish we could go back and travel upstream to fix a mistake or revisit the good old days, but the more we focus on the past, the more we'll miss the ride. And memories don't taste nearly as good as the actual experience.

Before I give one last toast to the present, allow me one last bit of nostalgia. Just for today. In the first few seconds of this video you'll hear Emma ask a question that I still ask to this day (but with a little different vocabulary) and I like my dad's answer. I really hope it's true.

Father's Day, Fatherhood, and Why Women Should Have the Priesthood

I might not be the only one, but ever since this last Sunday, I have been thinking a lot about fathers.

I have been incredibly lucky to have a really great father. I know a lot of you are under the impression that your dad is the greatest but -- and there is no easy way to say this -- well, you are wrong. My dad is.

I remember many late nights where my dad would stay up playing Pretty Little Princess with us. If any of you don't know what Pretty Little Princess is, you need to get your hands on a time machine, go back to 1992 and get in on this action. It was basically monopoly but instead of buying boring things like properties and houses, you earned fabulous sterling-plastic clip-on earrings, luxurious cubic zirconium beaded necklaces, and of course the petrochemical golden crown inlaid with sticker gems.

My dad also was such a good dad that he once bought me what I'm pretty sure was lingerie from a yard sale because I wanted it for dress up. And don't even get me started on how awesome his bed time stories were about when he was a little girl with long golden curls and a white pony.

In case it wasn't obvious, my dad raised all girls. So even though braiding and Barbie-playing didn't come natural to him, he still indulged us because he knew it would make us happy. Because he knows his daughters.

I can't imagine our Heavenly Father is any different. While none of us remember exactly what our Heavenly Father is like, it is safe to say that He possesses all the qualities that we know and love in our earthly fathers.  And since I know how great my own dad is, I love talking about fathers and their eternal roles in the family.

Which is why I love Father's Day.

On Father's Day we get to focus on the abiding gifts that men are able to develop and use as they progress to become Heavenly Fathers themselves. And since men and women are equal partners in the eternal scheme of things, I think men are often pushed out of the spotlight when we speak of raising children.

Don't get me wrong, mothers are absolutely fantastic. I miss my mom everyday and am so grateful for all the mothering I got. She instilled in me a great love of people, learning, and--most of all--good food. But I wouldn't have become the person I am today without both the love from my father and my mother. This is because being a father is more than just being a provider and a priesthood holder. The fact that my father holds the priesthood only enhances his roles as a spiritual patriarch of our family. But  this does not mean that priesthood is a complementary binary to motherhood.

Any toddler who has taken a bath with siblings, cousins, neighbors (gasp! yes. The level of required familiarity for bathing was on the lower side for toddlers in the Thomas household) knows that boys and girls are made differently. And, without going into too much detail about the birds and the bees, it is safe to say that women's role in bringing children into this world is a bit more intense. Because of that, it is often implied that women are inherently the more intense parents.

But I think this is a seriously flawed way of looking at our roles as parents, and ultimately the roles of our Heavenly Parents. And since the Prophet Joseph Smith taught that "If men do not comprehend the character of God, they do not comprehend themselves" (TPJS, p. 343) this kind of pondering is well worth the mental exertion. So just because the woman cooks the baby, it does not mean that she holds a more emphatic role as a parent. In fact, if that were true, Heavenly Mother must be a more significant parent than Heavenly Father. This is a point I don't think many would be willing to concede.

Comparing motherhood to the priesthood is a bit like comparing apples and doorknobs. Or doughnuts and taxes. One does not replace the other, or even act as the other's counterpart. LDS.org defines the priesthood as "The authority and power that God gives to man to act in all things for the salvation of man."

Some of you might point out the first "man" in that sentence as clearly something that is meant strictly for men. But if we use "man" as referring to specifically the group of people who possess both an X and a Y chromosome, then priesthood only allows for the salvation of that same specific group. Now if we use "man" as referring to all people regardless of gender -- as, alas, we so often do -- then it means that priesthood is not only nonspecific to the masculine gender, but isn't even specific to fatherhood.  

Now imagine a family where both mother and father can be examples of worthy priesthood holders. Or where a stay at home mom is able to give her child a priesthood blessing if a medical emergency comes up. Priesthood wouldn't supplant the roles of motherhood, just like it doesn't take away from the roles of fatherhood.

I know that women having the priesthood would be different. And some of you are probably even thinking of stronger words than "different," but isn't that good?! We believe that God will prepare us "line upon line, precept upon precept," so why should anyone expect that we have already received every revelation we need? Should we call up President Monson and tell him that he can retire? Because if we don't believe in ongoing revelation then we have no need for God's mouthpiece on earth. And while you're at it, let's rescind every change that God has ever mandated for this earth.

But you can't do that. Because everything God has created for us has been about progression and building upon things that are already good and true, starting with the separation of the light from the dark. So not only should we expect things to change, but we should be open and excited for the changes! After all, who knows how long Adam was out and about naming things before God made Eve. I'm sure Adam didn't complain about that change improvement.

So instead of seeing women's ordination as changing the church, think of it as adding to the truths that we already have.

Receiving the sacred ordination of the priesthood would only enhance the unique gifts each mother brings to her family, but it would do more than that. If both women and men were to hold the priesthood then we wouldn't have to pretend like women should hold a higher parenting role than men do.

If you believe in a Heavenly Father and Mother who love, nurture, and guide equally, then it only makes sense that our earthly roles should prepare us for that. I love both my heavenly and my earthly fathers and am so grateful for the roles they play in my life.

9 Years Later

Hey mom,

A great day for hair in the Thomas household

Wow. It has been a long time since we last talked. Nine years, right? Only nine years… It feels like an eternity to me. Does it feel that long to you? I’m sure you’re busy, but I like to think you have days that feel like they’ll never end because you just need to talk to me. You know that feeling you get behind your belly button that yanks down hard and lets you know you need something more? Maybe you don’t, but I know I do.

Things are going pretty great here. Work is still work, but at least it pays well and I have an end in sight. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you! I will be going to BYU Law this fall. The same law school you went to so many years ago. Pretty soon my picture will be posted in the same hallway yours is.

Too bad no one will know that Alexandra Sandvik was raised by the curly-haired blonde who graduated in ’80. I remember you told me that you were recognized as a Featherstone descendant at a family reunion once just by your unique nose. No one will ever recognize me as your daughter by any physical trait you gave me, but maybe I will be recognized in different ways.

Like remember how we both like the same books? The whole time you were with me I don’t think I ever read a book that you didn’t read too. And since I devoured the entire juvenile fiction section at the Provo library, that was quite a feat for you.

You would read ones from the Scholastic Book Club like Maniac Magee and Whatever Happened to Janie. Then I would read your grown up book club books with you like Angela’s Ashes and the Color Purple. A lot of times those books scared me but I never told you that. I can’t wait to tell you about some of the new books I’ve read.  

I’ve also inherited something from you that I didn’t anticipate. Remember all those vacations we would take with early morning hikes and long drives? How I would complain the whole way? Well, it turns out I love nature’s bounty just as much as you now. 

Once the outdoors couldn’t offer me anything better than a sturdy tree to climb and a body of water to swim in. I’ve since turned to oohing and ahhing over things like sedimentary rock formations and dark clouds rumbling over mountain tops. But I have to admit I'm not as interested in bugs. I'll keep my animals furry and slobbery.

For a long time I was afraid to talk about you. Afraid to use the past-tense. So I would just avoid ever mentioning you; pretending you didn’t ever exist because that was easier than accepting the fact that you were once my best friend and are now inexplicably gone.

But what I didn’t realize is that I was killing you all over again. By refusing to accept the pain of the memories I had of you I was throwing away the only piece of you I had left.

I promise I won’t do that anymore, mom. I want to revive your memory so that I can feel you right by my side again. I might not get to introduce you to Jason – or do you know him already? I don’t know how things work up there – but I can make sure he knows you as well as anyone can through stories. And when the time comes to having kids I want to make sure their grandma is more than a name and a face.

So until we can all sit at a big table around a fabulous meal, I’ll try to keep in touch!

Love you mom.

Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November

Can I just start out this post with a few kudos to our new President elect? Just in case Barack stumbles across my blog in his spare time I'd like to let him know he's done fine. This election has been filled with almost every emotion available to humans; on both sides (even though Cindy McCain's face is not capable of anything but that smile-like grimace). I know my political experience is nothing, seeing as I've only known Bushes and Clintons in the White House, but this election was pretty exciting. Apart from re-defining the lines of race and gender, the election had some pretty impressive merchandise.

My favorite is this Obama-ka.

Not only is this a great day for America, but it is a great day for the world. Because it is the day David B Thomas was born.

My dad.

Whether it's helping me do my Beaver County report in roughly the time it took to make my cinnamon toast before the bus came, because I had neglected to tell him anything about the report until an hour before it was due. And it still turned out awesome. Fully equipped with a pin-the-tail-on-the-beaver game and partly factual information from the one and only brochure Beaver County has.

Or driving me all the way back down the canyon to get a coat from grandma's house when my seventh grade vanity prohibited me from wearing his oversized olive green sweater and I had forgotten my own coat. Even though he was so mad at me he wouldn't speak the whole way down, we still made up over the obligatory, raspberry-filled powdered donuts from the gas station.

Or when he sacrificed the lawn, and the wood floors, and the carpets, and the garage door, and almost everything else below knee level in the house all just to give me what I wanted even more than a little sister: a puppy. When I made myself a collar and a tail and pretended to be a dog myself, he didn't see it as creepy like everyone else, but he saw it as an endearing cry for the dog I so sorely needed.

I know it's hard for my dad to be the only sane one in the midst of three very different girls, and a lot of times what we mean gets lost in what we say, but the best way to say I love you, is by not saying anything at all.

When I ran the jeep into a car in our driveway on New Year's Eve and instead of yelling at me you just laughed and helped me out of the driveway so I could go to my party.

That told me you love me.

When I hit my middle school crisis, and was positive no one understood what it meant to be a 13 year old at Farrer Middle School, you listened to all my woes, and even made a packet of all my talents, complete with pictures and diagrams, when I didn't think I was good at anything (which I still have today).

That told me you love me.

Especially when I'm five thousand miles away and I'm too busy having the time of my life, and get stressed about all the little things I was supposed to do before I left (like planning a return ticket for the right day) and you swoop in on your white horse and take care of everything.

That told me you love me.

Here's to another amazing year with an amazing dad.