A bend in the road

Last winter when Bill and I were trying to decide where we would settle when he finished his medical training, we each would express the same idea, "I just can't picture us here." Or "I don't know, whenever I think about the summer it's a big blank." We had no idea what was coming.

In one week at the end of April we found out that my mom had a tumor on Monday and on Friday we were notified that we were being kicked out of our home. OK our lease was up and our landlord's son was getting a divorce and needed a place to live, but after you live in a house for 4 years it feels like home and we have loved this place. I felt certain that if I shared it with enough people God would give me the chance to buy it. Needless to say I was sorely disappointed. That Sunday in church the opening song was "Be still My Soul" I sat next to my 11-year-old daughter who sat next to my mom. I cried the whole song.

Be still my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
With patience bear thy cross of grief and pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change he faithful will remain.
Be still my soul; Thy best thy heavenly Friend
Thru thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

The month of May was tough. We found the house we wanted early on but it took a month of negotiating and waiting until our offer was accepted. In the meantime, my mom's health went down fast. The house we found has two master bedrooms and the plan was to have my parents move into the ground-floor master bedroom; so we could help my dad care for my mom. We all were so looking forward to this.Often when I sat by her bedside she'd ask me to tell her about the house. She'd say, "I like to imagine I'm sitting out there with the fruit trees and it smells so beautiful. Does it smell like orange blossoms?"

Well we got the house, but I lost my mom.



We closed this week. We took the boys to see it for the first time on Wednesday. It is quite the house. Very quirky, there's a reason it's been on the market for more than a year--but just right for us. It is hard in this area to find a home with more than three bedrooms. But this one has six. This gives us enough room for our four kids and my dad--who plans to spend as much time as possible living with us--and still leaves plenty of room for house guests. We actually will have two guest rooms. And we love to have family and friends visit--that would be you dear reader.

In addition to the extra master bedroom this house has all sorts of curious additions. There is a large rec room on the back of the house. In the real estate ad the room was described as good for table tennis or dancing. So we joke that we got a house with a ballroom.



However, the strangest addition is the second kitchen right next to the first kitchen. One friend suggested that the second kitchen is a canning kitchen which seems plausible because the yard has 80 fruit trees.



The kids loved the fruit trees. They ran around the yard harvesting ripe fruit. They kept bringing me offerings: luscious nectarines, macadamia nuts still in the shell, miniature peaches that melted in your mouth and had stones the size of a cherry pit. Most of the trees are mysteries to me. The former owner was Chinese and loved exotic fruit. I need to quickly find out what to do with ripe sapote, lychee, jujube and persimmon. Only one tree on the property does not bear fruit. The owner called it a flower tree. In the evening the whole yard smells of this tree, it smells like falling in love.

The yard is large for So. Cal -- almost a half acre, but it is entirely paved. Most people would consider this a negative but not us. To me all that concrete means less mud in the house, to Bill it is a very good excuse to purchase a jack hammer. Our plan is to take 10 years working as a family to make the house and the yard beautiful--beautiful to the outside world--to our little family it already is.

A page from my journal

I recently reread this page from my journal and thought it captured well how I've been feeling the past couple of months.

May 28, 2009

I'm sitting with my mom--she is asleep. I came to watch her while my dad goes to a doctor's appointment. This is a peaceful, quiet moment. ...I'm holding up OK. Sometimes I think, "How am I going to get through all this?" This feels like more than my heart can bear. But mainly I just plod along grateful for all the help I get: Jen Winn's babysitting on Friday, Gary and Joan on Saturday, Colleen on Monday. Gary and Joan brought dinner. Maren watched kids on Tuesday. Beth watched Will yesterday. Christy watched both boys. Emily Wignall brought dinner. Isa brought bread. So many send notes and call and I know are praying for us...


Many other names and acts of service could now be added to this list. To those named and unnamed, thank you. Ruth

My talk at my mom's funeral June 18, 2009

A little more than a month ago, I had the great blessing of speaking
in church on Mother's Day with my mother in the audience. She loved
the talk, of course she seemed to love everything I did. Still, since I
didn't have much time to prepare and I know she approves I'm going to
give much of that talk today. And I can see so clearly in my mind's
eye the memory of her sitting in a church much like this, beaming up
at me.

I want to begin with a poem about a parent's love by Robert Hayden.

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices.

My mom loved this poem because it reminded her of own father, who
built fires in the morning to warm their cabin. I love this poem
because I relate so well with speaker, who as a child didn't
appreciate his parent's sacrifices. I love the line "What did I know,
what did I know" Like most kids, I took my mom for granted. Not until
I had my own children did I begin to have a glimpse of what an
extraordinary task it is to take care of a baby. Suddenly I was in awe
of my mom. What did I know of the sleepless nights, the physical toll
of pregnancy, the worry, the absolute loss of freedom--all for the
love of child. What did I know, What did I know.

It's been almost 12 years now since the birth of my first daughter and
I've become more acquainted with "love's austere and lonely offices."
In fact that has become sort of a catch phrase in our home. Whenever I
have to do another undesirable chore for a child--such as cleaning up
bodily fluids in the middle of the night--I say to myself just another
one of "love's austere and lonely offices." I find the phrase a
comfort because it turns menial work into an office of love. I feel
like I belong to a special order of those who love and indeed I do. As
followers of Christ we should all be well acquainted with "love's
austere and lonely offices." When he was on the earth he said, "A new
commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved
you." John 13:34

My mom was a woman of great faith. And she lived out that faith in
service. She knew well "love's austere and lonely offices." She
sacrificed so much. Whether it was getting up early in the blue black
morning to drive a daughter to swim team, or staying up late waiting
for a son to come home. My mom almost always made nutritious homemade
meals and we almost always complained--loudly. She planned and packed
for fun vacations with educational side trips and we whined that
we couldn't be like everyone else and go to Disneyland. My dad worked
long, long hours and she really had to do most of disciplining, caring
and teaching on her own. She was a worrier and yet, she put aside her
worries and actually pushed her children to go out into the world and
grow. One of the things I'm most grateful for is that when I turned 18
she made me move out. She said it was an important part of growing up.
I really didn't feel like moving out, but I did and I loved it. It was
an important move that gave me much needed confidence. She hated it,
only later did I realize how much she missed me. But she gave up what
she wanted, for what was best for me. That's what she always did. I
cannot possibly list all the sacrifices she made for her family and
many, many others who were dear to her.

When I spoke on Mother's Day and had the great blessing of publicly
thanking my mom, I thought I was beginning to understand a little of
my mom's love for her children. But really, I hardly knew. I think for
the last few years she's been in a good deal of pain. But rather than
inconvenience us she mainly suffered in silence. In her last few
weeks as her body grew weak and her spirit grew stronger, I could
just feel my mom's love. I'd sit by her bedside and she would hold my
hand and look at me with such adoration. I was and am overwhelmed by
her love. I realize I never even understood how much she loved me.

I cannot help but think that my mother's love is like God's love and
even those of us, who believe and feel God's love and care daily in
our lives--we don't really understand how dearly, dearly we are loved.
Indeed, the ultimate of "Love's austere and lonely offices" occurred
in Gethsemane. Elder Holland an apostle in our church spoke of this
recently he said:

"I speak of the loneliest journey ever made and the unending
blessings it brought to all in the human family. I speak of the
Savior’s solitary task of shouldering alone the burden of our
salvation. Rightly He would say: “I have trodden the winepress alone;
and of the people there was none with me. . . . I looked, and there
was none to help; and I wondered that there was none to uphold [me].”1

One of the great consolations of this Easter season is that because
Jesus walked such a long, lonely path utterly alone, we do not have to
do so. His solitary journey brought great company for our little
version of that path—the merciful care of our Father in Heaven, the
unfailing companionship of this Beloved Son, the consummate gift of
the Holy Ghost, angels in heaven, family members on both sides of the
veil, prophets and apostles, teachers, leaders, friends. All of these
and more have been given as companions for our mortal journey because
of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His gospel.
Trumpeted from the summit of Calvary is the truth that we will never
be left alone nor unaided, even if sometimes we may feel that we are.
Truly the Redeemer of us all said, “I will not leave you comfortless.
[My Father and] I will come to you [and abide with you].”20

I read that passage over the pulpit a little over a month
ago, scarcely knowing how important that message would become to me. I
testify that God has not left his children alone. My family has not
been left unaided. The comforter is real. Yesterday morning I woke up
with such a heavy heart I did not know how I would get through the
day, a day in which I was expected to dress my mother's body and
attend her viewing. But we went to the temple in the morning and we
were given such a great gift of comfort--an absolute outpouring of
peace and joy and the sure knowledge that the soul is immortal and we
will see our mother again.

I am so grateful for my Savior Jesus Christ, because of the lonely
path he trod, I will see my mom again in a beautiful resurrected
disease free body. I am so grateful for the restored gospel of Jesus
Christ especially for temples a place where my parents were sealed so
that their marriage does not end at death but extends into the
eternities. And I am so grateful for my dear mom. It will be hard to
live the rest of my life without her, but death is not the end. I will
see her again. I so testify in the name of my Savior who made it all
possible, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen

My Dear Mom

Zoe Ann Farnsworth
August 24, 1943-June 14, 2009

Zoe Ann Farnsworth, daughter of Harold and Ruth Ann Johnson, was born in Boise, ID on Aug. 24, 1943, and died June 14, 2009 in San Diego, CA due to carcinoid tumors.

Zoe and her older brother Kay grew up in Boise. But their fondest memories of childhood were in the mountains of northern Idaho picking huckleberries on the shores of Payette Lake.

As a freshman at Boise Jr. College, Zoe met Ken Farnsworth Jr. Their courtship continued even after she transferred to Oregon State and he moved to the University of Utah. Five years later, Ken visited Zoe in San Francisco where she was teaching school and proposed to her at Half Moon Bay.

After their marriage and move to Salt Lake City, UT, three children followed in quick succession: Kenny (Becca), Mike and Michelle (Erik Lehnardt). At this time the young couple began searching for a faith. They were baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on Dec. 18, 1971. This decision shaped and guided the life of their family for good. A year after they were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple they welcomed another daughter, Ruth Ann (Bill Mitchell). When a neighbor abandoned a foster child, Zoe took him in. Later, Dan was adopted into the family.

Zoe sacrificed her time, her health and many personal pursuits to nurture these five children

.

While her husband worked long hours building his business, she sewed magical costumes, supervised chores, fostered a love of reading, limited television and taught her children to cook. Her mothering was infused with humor and she was known to dye the mashed potatoes purple and disguise a turkey neck as the largest sundae to surprise a greedy son.

Zoe passed on her love of gardening to all her children. In every home she lived in, she designed, planted and tended a garden of fruits, vegetables, perennials and roses. Even in her last two years when her health failed her, she planted herbs, strawberries, and calla lilies at her winter home in San Diego.

Cultivating friendships came as naturally to Zoe as growing flowers. She had several “best friends.” Every holiday was marked with thoughtfully chosen gifts for friends and family and she delighted in surprises.

Survived by her 92-year-old ailing mother, Zoe was her caretaker until just weeks before her own death.

From diagnosis to her last breath, Zoe’s husband Ken served her every need.

Though her death came too soon, she was well prepared. She was fully cleansed by the atonement of Jesus Christ. She wrote her testimony in her final days saying, “I know Heavenly Father loves all his children and sees the deep good in all of us.” She also saw the good in everyone and had a great talent for forgiveness. It was a privilege to be with her in her last few weeks.

Her father precedes her in death and she leaves behind nineteen grandchildren who will dearly miss her pig stories. No one can tell a story like Grandma Zoe.

Friends and family are invited to attend a viewing in her honor on Wednesday, June 17^th at Larkin Mortuary 1950 E. 10600 S. from 6-8 p.m. Funeral will be held on Thursday, June 18^th at 11:00 a.m. at the Pepperwood Chapel 2195 E. Pepperwood Drive.

Pictures for Daddy

Bill's been out of town for nearly a week now and we sure are missing him. I bet he is missing us too. So I took some photos for him. This is what everyone in our house was up to at about 4:36 p.m. on Tuesday afternoon.

Lizzy just home from school snarfs a Samoa.

John is building a private island for the worm he and his friend Sage discovered. After taking this picture, I stood for awhile looking at the mess and wondered what a good mom should do when her son plays in the mud. I like to believe I'm allowing him to fulfill a deep inner need, but maybe I'm just letting him run wild.

Zoey is doing her homework. Zoey takes school seriously. After I took this photo, she informed me that she had already started on tomorrow's homework.

I am folding laundry.

Will is sleeping. I do know exactly what a good mom does when she finds her two-year-old sleeping. Stroke his hair, listen to his breathing, stand in the still room, savor the moment.

On Temples

I don't talk much about my faith on this blog. I figure most of you know that I am Mormon. I worry about talking too much about my beliefs because I don't want to profess much and do little. I hope that my life can be a testament of my faith. But sometimes I feel like speaking out. My sister and a friend recently started a blog called "Let's Talk Religion and Politics" it's meant to be a safe place for those of different faiths and political backgrounds to have meaningful conversations. This seemed the perfect place for me to say a few words about why I love the temple. Please check it out. Ruth

Love that Boy!

It is hard enough for a family of six to get a decent family photo, but if John is in the family it is nearly impossible. He spoils/improves (depending on your point of view) pictures by purposely pulling silly faces. In 2007 our attempt at a Christmas card was a fiasco. This year our friend Isa took more than 300 shots which was barely enough because John made a goofy face in all but something like three. One morning I found Bill sorting through the photos and cropping all of John's silly faces. Below is just a sampling.

As he worked in photoshop, Bill kept repeating a line from a poem by Walter Dean Myers. "Love that boy, like a rabbit loves to run. Love th boy, like a rabbit loves to run." Now whenever John does something exasperating, such as rub a glue stick on Zoey's chair, someone in the family says, "Love that boy." I'm often saying "Love that boy" as I take John to time out, which is often.


Today is John's birthday, he is five and we all truly do love that boy. After witnessing an afternoon of John's explosive energy and astounding capacity for destruction, a neighbor boy nicknamed him Nuclear John. An apt name but John has his quiet side too. He loves to be read to and will be still for hours listening to a book. He also grows quiet and focused as he builds with his blocks. He picks me flowers and leaves me love notes on my pillow. I may be blinded by a mother's love, but I think most of John's wildness is simply an enthusiastic celebration of life. John never gives a hug with out a running start. I call them attack hugs.

Love that boy!