"Ahhhh....summer!"

by Julie Anne Thornton

Okay, so it's here. School's out, the sprinkler's are on, and I am armed with enough sunblock to protect an army, or my army at least. Liquid protection for my miniature soldiers who stand at the front of the battlefield formerly known as home, but now since transformed into a lair of strict strategy.

I have to be shrewd, cunning in my effort to keep my troop from the leering threat of summer melt down. With a determined brow, I solemnly vow the words "We're bored" will not wave its menacing face within the walls of our fort.

I know, I hear your snickering. Go ahead, you can say it. Good luck sweetheart! The same sentiments haunted my head...but I forced them out, remaining firm--loyal to my goal.

Organized job schedules, piano practice, and structured reading time...and what happens?
Before I can take some sort, any sort of evasive action, the voices come. "What can we do? We're (oh no, please don't say it. Please...) bored!"

Auggghhhh!

Take a deep breath, and then another. Think of a soothing...hold on. It appears a diaper clad soldier is clutching at my pant-leg and hollering through dramatic tears about something. What? Your doll...outside...over the fence?

Time to call in for reinforcements.

"Honey...when are you coming home?"

The Scrapbooking Expo...a semi-annual retreat for women of paper-loving means.

Yes...it's that time of year again. When the throng of scrapbookers make their bi-annual migration to Sandy, Utah for the long-awaited USA Scrapbook Expo. I, along with my loyal mother and sister-in-law join the rush of suitcases and totes as they race through the wide, carpeted hallways into the table-filled mecca of scrapbook heaven.

Paper stacked to the ceiling, adhesives, stamps, embellisments of every kind fill the arena. Why do we come? We are women.

It is within us to create. We are intrinsically designed to build upon that which is good, and make it better. We do this in scrapbooking. We take a simple photo, and transfom it into more than just paper and ink. We formulate it into a piece of geneological art.

Scrapbooking is journaling with flair. It is documenting our lives as mother's, daughter's, grandmother's, sister's, and friends in a three-dimensional approach. What could be better?

With that being said, I expect that two days from now, when we hoof it up with the drove of scrapbooker's trampling their way towards the crowded expo, I will happily bellow "Moo-re paper please!" with the rest of the herd.

Parenthood?

by Julie Anne Thornton

I still remember the morning my husband and I entered the cracked and mildewed bathroom of our one bedroom apartment, and peeked at the sleek plastic pregnancy test in my hand, it's small, square window glowing victoriously with a vibrant red plus sign.
We both burst into tears, hugging each other tightly, as visions of parenthood danced in our heads.

Now...my profusion of tears come for a variety of reasons as I travel down the bumpy road of parenthood.

They come when my two-year old feels the need to become my personal hairdresser while I sit at my laptop, profusing through an eternal list of e-mail.
Needless to say, we're lucky my hair has multiple layers.

They show themselves when the same two-year old decides it would be a magnificant idea to use her big sister's blue nailpolish to re-paint the stairwell.

They leak through when my kindergartner (the crown diva herself), refuses to eat anything but ham sandwiches, "two pieces, toasted, with mayonnaise, and cut into four squares".

They teeter at the corners of my eyes when my eight-year-old son decides giving Mom a kiss on the lips is no longer "cool".

Sigh. But then, I have to remind myself about the other tears, the good tears.

Like the ones that come when my toddler throws her arms around my neck, her tiny lips slathering me with a large, wet kiss.

And the way my eyes well when my sandwich diva tells me she never wants to get married, because she wants to live with me forever.

Or the sprinkling that comes as I watch my son read a story to his baby sister, making her giggle as he points out the illustrations.

Of course, I can't forget the drops that form when my almost-eleven-year-old snuggles up to me, despite her ever-nearing proximity to teenagerhood, and says "I love you Mommy."

Those tears are the best, drowning out all others filed within the "less than desirable" category.

In short, neandering through the potholes of parenthood is not always an easy task, but I have to admit, those deep cracks sure make you appreciate the smooth stretches of road.

Death Is But Another Season

by Julie Anne Thornton

Each year, our family, like many others, looks forward to spending precious time together over the holidays.

We eagerly count down the days until that magical time when we: help the children hang a bundle of christmas ornaments on the fake-but-almost-real looking tree, frost three inch thick sugar cookies, listen to christmas carols until we just can't stand it anymore (this pertains more to Trent), and so on and so forth...

And thus the 2008 holiday season proceeded, the six of us running to and fro in our quest for the ultimate Christmas, blissfully unaware of the deeper spiritual repurcussions this particular Christmas would bring.

Aside from the gift-buying, party-going, food-consuming holiday Christmas has become; Trent and I do our best to direct our families thoughts on the Savior. Despite our best efforts, we still harbor small concerns as to whether our children feel the spirit of Christ as intimately as we'd like during our holiday celebrations.

This Christmas season, however, gifted us with a beautiful and personal reminder as to why we celebrate this sacred time of year.


About two weeks before Christmas, we received word that Trent's grandfather's health was failing, and he was not expected to live longer than a week. That evening, the six of us traveled to where Trent's grandfather lay bedridden, heavy with the knowledge this stop was more that just a casual visit; it was a good-bye.

The hour that followed was precious, as the spirit of peace enveloped us in its warm and tender hands. Trent's grandfather was fully conscious when we arrived-- a gift we will always cherish. Each of our children were able to wrap their little fingers in Great-Grandpa's large, knarled hands and tell him of their love for him. The return of love from Grandpa's eyes was unmistakable, and the spirit in the room was so strong, we knew it was a special and sacred time.

As I gave a final kiss on Trent's grandfather's wrinkled cheeks with tear-filled eyes and gently bade him farewell, an eternal truth echoed within the walls of my heart. "Families are Forever" it simply said, but the power behind its words consumed my entire being.



The funeral that followed was priceless, as our extended family and friends gathered around as we celebrated the life of an irreplacable father, grandfather, uncle, brother and friend. There were tears, yes, but also smiles and bubbles of laughter. It was a time of mourning, but also a time to celebrate life and love.



But, it does not end here.



The day after Christmas, we received another phone call informing us that my Grandmother's health was plummeting, and she was not expected to live longer than a week. The next morning, I received a second phone call from my father, informing me that my grandmother had passed peacefully away the prior evening.



Once again, we found ourselves driving to meet with extended family and friends to honor a beloved family member who's work on this earth was finished. We were blessed to reflect for a second time, on the life of a faithful woman who dedicated her life to church and family.



As we chatted with our extended familial network over scalloped potatoes and ceasar salad, I reflected on the unfathomable gift our Heavenly Father gave us with the birth of his son Jesus Christ; and on the unconditional love our elder brother holds for each one of us as he willingly sacrificed his life to fulfill the most precious of promises--eternal salvation.



So, that is why this Christmas was different from most. Why we held our children in our arms as we sat gathered around the brightly lit tree, and rehearsed to them again the great plan of salvation. And when my five year old with tears in her eyes said," But, I don't want you and Daddy to die," I could calm her fears with this promise, "Don't worry. We will always be together, because Jesus made it so we could."



And now, it is my prayer, that when the Christmas tree is pulled from the attic and "Jingle Bells" begins belting its famous tune over the air waves, my children will remember the unforgettable Christmas. The one that placed in their young hearts a personal witness regarding the truthfulness of forever families.