It's like watching rain drops race on car windows,

and shooting stars we both saw. 

It's like straight from the drier clothes and the first sip of a Chevron fountain drink. 

It's like the smell of desert rain. 

Like good morning texts

and belly laughs.

Like Parowan walks and heated car seats. 

Like lucky pennies and the new Blink 182 song. 

Like waking up to another hour to sleep before your alarm goes off 

or a Sunday night when there's no school on Monday. 

It's like the quiet that comes when it's snowing,

and the package I'm excited for getting delivered. 

Like never running out of mascara and remembering we need milk before M&D closes. 

It's like an extra blanket on my side and trash cans that always make it out to the street on Tuesday mornings.

Happy 7th Anniversary sweetheart. 

I'll love you and we'll be happy forever. 

They're not for us. 

The treats. 

The bread. 

Homemade chicken noodle soup.

Chocolate Chip Cookies.

They're not for us. 

They're for Mrs. Smith. She just had a baby. 

They're for Brother Johnson, his children are grown and moved away, and his wife passed away years ago. 

He's alone. 

They're for the new family on the corner. 

We don't know their names yet, but we will.

Just after 3 when shoes came off and coats and backpacks were hung up, most days we could smell something cooking. 

"Is that for us?"

"No".

But I think in another sense it was. 

"I need your help delivering!"

My mom did it for us

to teach us about Him. 

The One who always gave the bread away

even when He was hungry. 

To the moms.

To the lonely. 

To the new. 

And somehow when we got home there was an extra plate of cookies with just enough for us. 

And the pot seemed to hold an endless supply of soup. 

Enough for everybody. 

We made cookies this week. 

They definitely weren't as good as my mom's. 

As we loaded up plates and put shoes on my own little boy asked, 

"Are these for us?"

"No". 

But I hope he figures out that they are. 

When Hank was tiny, we read the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000.

Based on one artist's rendition of the story, Hank insisted that Jesus didn't feed the multitude fish and bread, but fish and cookies. 

I wouldn't put it past Him. 

At the very least, He can feed a multitude with cookies today. 

When we got home Hank found that there was a cookie on the cookie sheet left just for Him. 

He said it was delicious. 

He asked to do it again. 

​And that makes me happy.

Magic comes easily to me.

I’m surrounded by it.

I am convinced that fairies still live in our flowerbeds,

And I can’t afford to leave a lucky penny in the parking lot alone.

Stray eyelashes mean wishes.

Ladybugs are lucky.

Magic.

When I was in high school someone told me that if you looked at a clock at 11:11 you could make a wish.

Every day I catch wishing time I make the same wish.

It comes naturally now.

After almost nine years.

“I wish that Jake Topham will have a good day”.

I like to think my wishes come true most days.

There’s magic in the wishes.

In the ladybugs.

The lashes and the flowerbeds.

But mostly there’s magic in Jake.

In our little life.

In the thank you prayers.

Extraordinary magic.

A few nights ago we turned on phone flashlights and shined them up at the ceiling.

Our little family found magic in shadow puppets.

Hands became bunnies, puppies, ducks, and more.

We laughed and told stories.

Magic.

My favorite part was when Jake’s big strong hand and Hank’s growing one met to make a lopsided heart on the ceiling.

As I watched all snuggled up in our bed it was as if I was seeing my own heart up there.

Magic.

We fell asleep with smiles on our faces.

I saw theirs before I closed my eyes.

These boys are magic.

Happy Valentine’s Day to my very favorites.
​
I couldn’t be happier.

It was so hard to wait.

When the milk we picked up from the grocery store would expire after Christmas I knew we were getting close.

Homemade countdown chains and hour charts helped me through the last few days of school before Christmas break, then it was off to Parowan.

Christmas Eve in Parowan was one of my favorite days.

I remember play and laughter with cousins frequently interrupted by quick trips to check the time on the digital clock on the microwave or kitchen stove.

The minutes went slowly.

Even backwards sometimes.

It was so hard to wait.

It’s still hard.

I can’t sleep.

Maybe you are still awake too.

I can’t wait for the big smiles I know are coming.

But there is beauty in this waiting time.

Magic even.

Do you think it’s hard for Jesus?

He gives the best gifts.

He is the Best Gift.

Nephi prayed, broken-hearted on behalf of a people who saw signs and believed in a Savior. (3 Nephi 1)

“Will you come?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” Jesus replied.

I wonder if it was hard not to come today.

Joshua was called to be the prophet after Moses.

He carried a heavy mantle.

Joshua said,

Sanctify yourselves: for to morrow the Lord will do wonders among you. (Joshua 3:5)

Parted rivers and promised lands waited for Joshua and his people.

Tomorrow.

I bet it was hard for Him not to do such wonders today.

I saw a picture that took my breath away.

It showed a boy hunched over his work, face frustrated and focused.

Angels in the top corner of the frame flew to his aid but were held back by one with arms open wide.

The Art by Brian Kershisnik is titled

“Divine Intervention”.

Waiting isn’t easy.

I think sometimes Heaven holds even the Divine Son at bay.

The blessings will come.

But not today.

Tomorrow.

Divine Intervention.

Because the perfect gifts come at the perfect times.

I bet He stays up late.

On Christmas Eves.

Looking forward to smiles.

To carefully planned and packaged Gifts.

I don’t know on which tomorrow those long awaited blessings will come.

But I bet He stays up late.

Preparing.

I bet He lies awake, too excited to sleep.

Because tomorrow, He will come.

And He will bring all the wonder.

So for those still awake, waiting on tomorrows,

He is not asleep either.

And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, and he will save us: this is the Lord; we have waited for him, we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation. (Isaiah 25:9)
​
Happy even.

Merry Christmas.

I was almost a Parowan High School cheerleader you know.

I brought my mom to the parent meeting and everything.

Though I never put on a uniform or learned any routines, I like to think I embraced the title.

Cheerleader.

It’s hard to be two.

It’s a phrase we say sometimes at our house.

A tiny boy with big emotions.

But one thing helps.

Cheers.

When it’s tough to share or hard to do, we cheer.

We cheer each other on.

And Hank has,

for a long time now.

Hank is an excellent clapper and compliments freely.

This morning after we said our prayers, he looked at me and said,

“Good job Mom!”

Daisy cheered for me.

With our cancer experience it was uncertain if we would be able to have children.

We went into that phase of our lives with hopeful hearts but guarded expectations, expecting some difficulty or delay.

Miracles occurred and Hank came quickly.

Daisy and Brenen, my brother and sister-in-law were already pregnant with their first child.

She was about four months along when we discovered we were pregnant.

Though we were thrilled to share, there was a moment of hesitation on my part.

I was a little nervous.

I didn’t want Daisy to feel as if we were trying to steal the spotlight.

I didn’t want to take any attention away from Daisy’s difficult pregnancy and how excited we all were for that little girl to join the family.

When we told her she cried and hugged me so hard and so fast.

I couldn’t stop the tears from coming either.

There was no hesitation.

No comparing.

She was so happy for me.

Cheering me on.

My mom always gets excited when she sees a Boulevard truck.

She is genuinely happy at the prospect of a neighbor getting a new couch or a new dishwasher.

A few weeks ago, the Boulevard Truck showed up with something for her.

I hope the neighbors cheered.

If not, I know God does.

Nevertheless, be of good cheer, for I will lead you along.
The kingdom is yours and the blessings thereof are yours,
And the riches of eternity are yours. (D&C 78:18)

He is our Greatest Cheerleader.

He comes to the parent meetings with each of us.

And whether we wear the uniform or not,

We should cheer each other on.
​
I am sure that makes Him happy. 

​So far, there’s nothing terrible about two.

These past few weeks have been filled with leaves, pumpkins, belly-laughs, and big brown eyes.

This life I lead is better than I deserve.

They say that’s what mercy is.

Compassionate treatment of a person greater than what is deserved.

I saw mercy a few days ago.

Hank loves Grandpa Dave.

To Hank Grandpa is motorcycles and piles of leaves and Rhino rides and wrestling.

I hope that Hank will remember he is mercy too.

Grandpa Dave went outside to put air in the car tires.

Hank came along too, in awe.

He watched Grandpa fill up the first tire, attaching a hose to the valve stem.

Hank followed him to the next two tires shouting “Pump it up! Pump it up!”

On the last tire Grandpa waved him over.

He got down close to Hank,

No easy feat when you are over 6 feet tall.

He looked him right in his eyes and said, “Here, hold this”.

He handed Hank the tiny black cap for the air valve from the last tire.

Hank cradled it with wonder, understanding he had an important job.

Hank is two.

And two years isn’t long to have with your hands.

Somewhere in the moment between Grandpa turning towards the tire and back to Hank, the tiny cap was gone.

It was an accident.

It was inconvenient.

It was the last tire.

Grandpa Dave didn’t say a thing.

He did not complain or moan or groan.

I tried to apologize for the tiny toddler mistake, but he brushed it off.

“I’ll get one off the motorcycle” he said.

Hank missed it.

I didn’t.

Mercy.

There was no punishment or scolding or requests for apology.

There was no reprimand or even judgement.

Just a grandpa.

Just a little boy.

Just mercy.

I love hearing Jake talk about his dad.

He says that Dave has learned something it takes most a lifetime to understand.

Character is about how you treat someone who can’t do anything for you in return.

It’s about mercy.

It’s about not letting a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved.

Jesus Christ is mercy.

We call the place where He sits the “Mercy Seat”.

That phrase heralds back to the Old Testament days of travelling tabernacles.

The Ark of the Covenant, an ancient part of the tabernacle, was a beautiful seat designed for the Savior to sit when the priest entered the Holy of Holies to offer sacrifice.

That sacrifice represented all the mistakes and shortcomings of all the people.

They brought them to the mercy seat.

All their lost caps and failed important jobs.

And those mistakes were safe with Him.

On His Mercy Seat.

I never noticed how many tires there are in my little life.

Car tires, stroller tires, motorcycle tires, bike tires.

I notice now because Hank pumps them all up.

He pretends to fill up each one with air and finishes with a

“Thank you, Grandpa Dave”.

Thank you, Grandpa Dave.

And thank you, Jesus.

For the mercy.

The prophet Jeremiah said,

It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.

They are new every morning.

We can never use Him up

Or wear Him out.

His compassion,

His mercy,

Is new.

Every morning.

I’ve always been a morning person.
​
A happy one even. 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

And according to Dan Santat, the author of my favorite children’s book, the best part of the story comes “After the Fall”.

After the fall.

In this tiny, beautiful story, Humpty recovers but returns to his normal life feeling a little broken.

Life is hard now.

He is afraid.

He doesn’t even sit on the wall anymore.

He used to love it up there.

Used to.

One day he gathers all of his courage and creates an intricate paper airplane to launch from the wall.

He climbs the ladder despite his fears.

And when he gets to the top, he turns into a bird.

He learned to fly.

Four years ago today Jake and I fell.

Stage Four Hodgkin Lymphoma.

Every other Thursday for the next 6 months we walked into the cancer clinic in St. George for intense chemotherapy.

A favorite teacher gave me a copy of Humpty Dumpty’s story.

Each bird in the sky and a little plaque on our fireplace reminded us we were,

“Learning to Fly”.

Every other Thursday we parked in the same parking lot and sat in the same waiting room and spent the same hours in the same infusion clinic.

We walked past the same statue out front.

We walked past it every other week, but I never stopped for a closer look.

A handful of weeks ago I came across a picture of the statue.

I recognized it from the quick glances I gave it every other Thursday.

I looked a little closer this time.

It was a statue created by a local artist named Jason Millward.

The piece was for sale and happened to be on display in front of the St. George Intermountain Cancer Clinic.

The bronze statue of a mother swinging her daughter through the air was called, “Learning to Fly”.

Learning to Fly.

The plaque reads,

“Teaching our children how to soar above the norm and achieve their fullest potential”.

Learning to Fly.

It was there the whole time.

Just in case I looked up.

It was four years ago but sometimes it still feels like yesterday.

The miracles of those months are still fresh in my mind and heart.

They haven’t ceased either.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about it.

I think about Jake.

About us.

I think about Jesus and how close He was.

In the details of it all.

Even now.

Even years later I see His fingerprints.

An artist, an author, a teacher,

inspired to put a book, a statue, evidence of God’s love,

right where I could see it.

In case I looked up.

We took a trip to St. George.

We added our lock to a gate to represent our little story.

To remember.

And then we took Hank to a bronze statue.

We pointed out the birds in the sky.

We told stories about a God who sees.

Who we can see if we look up.

We’re teaching him to fly.

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. (Isaiah 40:31)

Learning to Fly.

Things are beautiful from up here.

Even this is a happy anniversary.

I remember learning long division in elementary school math. 
 
It started out simply, with nice round numbers that could easily be divided. 
 
I still remember when I discovered decimals. 
 
My teacher explained that anything could be divided by two, not just even numbers. 
 
How?
 
Decimals helped us break the odd numbers in half. 
 
And even then, decimals could be divided,
 
and divided,
 
and divided again.
 
I learned that anything could be divided by two. 
 
No matter how small it already was. 
 
It could always be split. 
 
Shared.  
 
Forever and ever. 
 
Divided, broken, somehow made more. 
 
If all things denote there is a God, He must have a place in math. 
 
Maybe He’s in long division. 
 
The nice round numbers. 
 
I think He is in the decimals too. 
 
The broken numbers. 
 
And how somehow, broken makes more. 
 
At night we sing about Baby Sharks, twinkling stars, and Jesus. 
 
Last night it was “Tell Me the Stories of Jesus”. 
 
I really do love to hear them. 
 
The healing, the helping, the watching, the loving, the forgiving. 
 
“Tell them to me”. 
 
I wish I could have been there for them. 
 
For Him. 
 
For those moments when broken was more. 
 
The scriptures say it was getting late. 
 
The disciples requested the Savior send the people away into the city to get food to eat. 
 
Jesus’ compassion would not allow anyone to be sent away. 
 
Give ye them to eat. (Mark 6:37)
 
The disciples were used to impossible. 
 
But this?
 
Feeding 5,000 men and their wives and children?
 
They offered to go to the city to buy bread for all.
 
Though they had no money between them. 
 
Jesus asked them to collect what food they had. 
 
A lad in the multitude had 5 loaves and 2 little fishes.  
 
I think sometimes we imagine Jesus making more loaves and more fish appear. 
 
Maybe. 
 
But what if it wasn’t more loaves and fishes.
 
What if it was what they had, just broken.
 
And when he had taken the five loaves and the two fishes, he looked up to heaven, and blessed, and brake the loaves, and gave them to his disciples to set before them; and the two fishes divided he among them all.
 
And they did all eat, and were filled. (Mark 6:37)
 
Divided. 
 
Broken. 
 
Little, broken things fed a multitude. 
 
Jesus fed a multitude. 
 
Somehow, broken makes more. 
 
It’s something Jesus is good at. 
 
Long division. 
 
Broken. 
 
More. 
 
I have had broken times. 
 
Times when my spirit ached.
 
When confusion reigned and heaviness and fatigue were constant companions. 
 
But like little fish and odd numbers, Jesus found a way to make more of me.
 
In the broken. 
 
More kind. 
 
More patient. 
 
More helpful.
 
More holy.
 
More like Him. 
 
Broken makes more. 
 
And that makes me happy.