No Priesthood for me, thanks!

I have read a little about the Ordain Women movement going on in the LDS Church. I confess up front that I am not extensively informed on all the reasons behind the desire some women have to stand on equal ground with our brothers in the church and have the privilege of being ordained to the same offices of priesthood authority. I am not trying to downplay their very strong feelings or discredit any of their arguments. I just want to say for myself, no thank you. I do not want the priesthood.

If the Lord really opened it up and allowed that women be ordained to the priesthood, would it be optional? The brethren are expected to receive the priesthood at a certain age, and if they have not, they are not considered to be spiritually "on track" until they have. Their leaders work with them patiently and persistently until they are worthy of ordination. If I said I didn't want to opt in, would I be frowned upon as a less faithful member of the church? Would I be shirking my responsibilities to excecise all the blessings afforded me by the gospel? I hope not, because I would not want that responsibility. I would NOT want the possibility looming over me that I might be called to be a bishop, a stake president, an area authority. My hands are full enough already. I believe in obediently accepting every call to serve that comes through my leaders. If I had the priesthood I would have to be ready and willing at any moment to accept calls like that, even if it meant doing it while my children were still young. Of him unto whom much is given, much is required. I don't think having young children would be any excuse to not be given such duties. If God were to say, okay it's time, we would have to shoulder every call without complaint. I would do it, but please, I'm not ready!

And I don't think I will be in this lifetime. My motherhood responsibilities will not end when my children leave home. I expect I will be a grandma, and my kids will still need my advice, and my babysitting help, and want to have visits from grandma. I know my mom took no greater delight in anything than from doing all those things for us. If I had heavy priesthood duties, I would not be as free to do all those things. I know our families often have to make sacrifices when mom or dad have demanding callings, but really, can't we at least be guaranteed some kind of relief from how demanding it can get?

Giving Purpose to Pain

When I was in my early 20's I exercised my grown-up rights and adopted a kitten. She was an absolute doll. I picked her out of the litter because while all the others were frolicking on the floor, she lay in my lap and just started at me with her electric blue eyes, her wise little soul gazing deep into mine. It kind of took my breath away, and for the next 6 months, she was my best friend. I thanked God every night for her, giggling my way through my bedside prayers because she was nuzzling my face and begging for my attention.

That chapter of my life ended with my kitten contracting a pair of fatal diseases and having to be put to sleep. I couldn't believe the pain I felt, the questions why, the emptiness of abandonment. Why, I asked, would God take the one thing away from me that I had asked him never to take? What would it have hurt if he had let me keep my kitten? For years, I had a small pessimistic feeling that good things were not meant to be mine, that anything I truly loved could easily be taken from me. It frightened me how painful it was, and I worried, if it was that hard to take my cat dying, how on earth will I handle it if I lose a child? I understood that experiencing loss is part of life, something we have to learn in order to truly appreciate the day when we will no longer be separated from those we love. It also helps us to better console each other by making us more sympathetic. I hoped these were the only reasons I was passing through that trial, but I think a part of me remained fearful that it was just a primer, a trial run of something far more heart wrenching, and something inside me has been bracing itself all these years.

So here I am, facing the first real tragic loss of my life. My mother is only turning 62 in 4 weeks. Until this disease seized her brain, she was active and healthy and in complete command of her mental faculties. I had normal conversations with her just 2 months ago, even though they were fraught with worry over the mysterious symptoms she was beginning to have. At least there's one advantage to being on this side of knowing the prognosis: I'm not worried about what might happen. I'm here, living in a kind of bad dream, and all I can do now is decide, like Gandalf said so wisely, what to do with the time that has been given me.

My feelings change frequently. Some days I think I'm okay. After we found out mom was going to die, I got to spend the week with her. There was a special spirit in her home, I presume because all the focus of everyone there was just making mom feel safe, loved, comfortable and happy. I felt like I was in a cloud of peace and comfort, and blessed with an amazing strength to handle this with grace and dignity.  I trusted I would be a far better person for passing through this fire.

Then I had to go home, drive kids and husbands to school, shop for groceries, do the daily load of laundry and try to fold and put it away before losing steam, cook meals, clean house, break up fights, do taxes, and always keep my cool. I think my peace cloud lasted less than 24 hours.

Thankfully I wrote down some of the things I felt would help me through, and even though sometimes it's hard to still feel strongly about all these things, I know they are still good advice. My mom gave her whole life to raise us and instill in us every bit of wisdom and truth we would need to live successful lives. I feel the greatest honor I can do her now is to carry on and make her proud. It hurts like heck going through this. My life is a minefield of cry-fest inducing memories. I can't walk through this house without seeing something mom bought me or made for my kids. Even my fridge isn't safe to dig through because it has things like the chocolate soy milk she got me hooked on, or the Jarlsberg cheese I got her hooked on. I could totally let myself drown in all the misery of missing her, or, I have counseled myself, I can give purpose to the pain, and let those reminders keep me on track to being a better person. Here are some of the things I'm trying to remember:

1. This experience gives me clearer perspective. Relationships matter. Families matter. The condition of my heart matters. Owning that cute necklace I saw at the mall does not matter. Being up to date on the most popular TV shows does not matter. Having a perfectly decorated Pinterest worthy home does not matter.

2. This experience reminds me that I don't have time to be idle. Life is short. Recreation is good, but idleness squanders one of God's most precious gifts to us. For years I have struggled off and on with a small video game addiction. I kept it like a naughty little pet, assuring myself that I had it under control, that I was still getting the important things done, and I just needed some time to unwind. One hour of gaming was a harmless way to do that. But one hour turned into 3 hours past my bedtime, and the resulting cold-cereal-for-breakfast, grumpy-tired-mom sort of day that happened far too often. I also started kicking myself thinking of the creative energy I could have been spending on art projects or home projects, with something to show for it in the real world when I was done, but all I ever seemed to crave was another jaunt in that artificial cyber-world. I knew something was wrong with this picture, but it took my mom dying to give me the wakeup call. I don't have a problem with video games in general, but I can see I did not have control of my habit, it was controlling me, and I am happy to take an extended break from it. Maybe I will never go back at all.

3. This experience will make me more compassionate. One of my favorite quotes from the writings of Joseph Smith Jr. came from a letter penned just after he was released from a miserable winter spent in Liberty Jail. He had been unjustly incarcerated and rendered helpless to assist his friends and family who were being persecuted and murdered and forcibly driven from their homes. After all this, Joseph wrote to a friend, "It seems to me that my heart will always be more tender after this than ever it was before...For my part I think I never could have felt as I now do if I had not suffered the wrongs that I have suffered. All things shall work together for good to them that love God." I want to come out of this with that kind of faith and sensitivity.

4. This experience is teaching me how to keep it real. I am an emotional creature. I wear my feelings on my sleeve, and although I have matured a lot over the past years, there is still a lot of the melodramatic in my nature. I had a tendency to "put on the emotion" just a little bit, perhaps in a slightly manipulative way at times. It was usually subconscious, but on the very rare occasion it snuck its way into my conscious and intentional actions. (Do you hear how desperately I am trying to downplay this flaw?) Now that I have something in my life that seems genuinely tragic, I feel really stupid about everything I acted so upset about before, and I'm kind of tired of it. Grief can be exhausting. I don't know how Archie Craven or Mary Crowley could keep it up for months or years. I'm just tired of being sad. I mean, when you gotta cry, fine, have your cry, but there comes a point when you've got to go have a laugh at something or change the subject or you might just collapse. I think I have a better idea now of how much emotion is truly appropriate, and I don't ever want to go beyond that, especially intentionally. I feel much better equipped to handle hard things, simply because I no longer feel like I will be overwhelmed by the pure emotional burden of it. You can't carry those kind of burdens around. You have to put them down.

Which leads to #5. This experience is teaching me not to worry so much! I am a worry wort. So was my mom. She worried about planning and arranging big events. She worried about aluminum in anti-perspirants being a possible cause of Alzheimer's. She worried about offending people. I worry about raising my kids. I worry about getting things done. I worried about tragedy striking and how I would handle it. Now here I am, and I am finding it is a lot easier to handle tragedy when it actually happens than when you are waiting around for it to happen. Because honestly, there's very little you can do beforehand. We prepare for what we can, but then we leave it in God's hands. And if something happens that we weren't prepared for, we deal with it. Why waste time wondering what we would do, if we don't even have all the details? You can't solve a problem if you don't even know what the problem is, so why waste time trying to?

6. This experience proves that laughter is medicine. While mom doesn't say much, I think we all take great delight in still being able to make her laugh. Before I arrived when the family gathered 2 weeks ago, those that were with mom entertained her with a rollicking round of an improv game called "What are you doing?" One of our favorite teachers had taught it to us in elementary school. Word is, they had mom in stitches. While I was there, we also enjoyed watching some funny movies and shows, and some upbeat music videos with her. It tickled us all to see our mostly immobile mom tapping her feet, almost involuntarily, to the infectious "Smiles For Life." Despite his somber reputation, all us kids know better about our dad, that he is a big tease, and he still takes pride in being able to make mom smile at his jokes. Laughter and cheerfulness has made this whole process so much more bearable.

7. Because of this experience, I no longer want to waste any time being angry. This is perhaps the hardest lesson for me. Being a mom is incredibly challenging. Sometimes I feel like my kids are 10 times harder than me and my siblings must have been. I certainly don't remember quite so much yelling going on, and I could be certain we did our homework independently most of the time and never talked back disrespectfully to our parents. My room wasn't perfect, but I remember cleaning it of my own volition now and again, and chores were something we knew was just expected of us. We played on the computer, but that was only a small fraction of the creative things we did for fun. We were always coming up with new adventures in creativity. So where did these kids come from? Why do they challenge every thing I say? Where are all these messes coming from? Where is the fighting coming from? Why do they get bored with anything not shining out from a screen? Anyway, I'm drifting. My point is about anger. I don't want to go there. Sure this is hard, and lots of things frustrate me. But I can't spend my energy that way. It's counterproductive. People aren't perfect. I'm not perfect. We are all working on it, and we all deserve and owe all the patience that can be afforded. We all need to breathe more deeply and let things go a lot more, and lighten up.

If I can internalize all this, then my mom will not die in vain. She will have in fact given her life for my sake, sacrificing those 2 or more additional decades we could have had with her in order for us all to become more mature, more compassionate, more grateful, more productive. And the pain will all have a purpose.

Beautiful at the Core

My mom's condition has given us all a unique and priviledged view of her beautiful soul. She can't remember much of what is said to her five minutes after it is said, but she remembers every name of every friend and family member we have asked her about, and remembers them with a smile. Her loved ones are indelibly printed on her heart. She hasn't the awareness or the mental control to put up any kind of a front. She is never "on her guard," and yet she says nothing unkind or impatient or even unpleasant. She submits cheerfully to all instruction, even though it takes extreme effort just telling her limbs to move. She remembers to be grateful and says "thank you" for even the simplest of things. Without fail, she reciprocates the words, "I love you," even if there is a moment's delay while her mind registers and responds. What all this says to me is that she is beautiful at the core.

There are seemingly limitless misconceptions in this world about beauty. Most of what people celebrate as the epitome of beauty will fade with time, age, shifts in fashion, or embarassing publicity. True beauty goes so much deeper. It has to eminate from the center, because a polished exterior can't hide something ugly inside idefinitely. It's going to be revealed one way or another.

The kind of heart my mom has cultivated is the result of a lifetime of good choices. Sure, she wasn't perfect, but she was striving to be. It was her greatest desire. I know for myself, I don't want to waste any more time with petty things, idleness, negativity, selfishness, or anger. Life is too short. Even if we live to be 100, why waste those years? Certainly, it's easier said than done, but I hope with the new pespective this experince is giving me, I will have greater capacity to live by what I know, and spend more time refining my heart and less time worrying about what people see on my outside.

A Tribute to My Beloved Mother

Grandma sharing an Easter devotional with some of her grandchildren.

Just less than a year ago, when it seemed my grandma would soon pass away, I decided to take all of my children down to LA to see her one last time. My husband couldn't come with me because of work, and I didn't want to drive alone, so I invited my mom to join us. She had been spending a lot of time down there herself just helping out, but was happy to come on up to Utah to make the trek.

It was a sweet experience: I got to visit with my mom all the way down and back, then enjoyed a few quiet days letting the kids play nearby as I sat and held grandma's hand, or mom would take them to the park while I stayed and listened to grandpa's memories, and murmured loving thank-yous to the woman I had known and loved my whole life as grandma. What a beautiful title, "Grand Mother." It seems so fitting. She did such a beautiful job fulfilling that role, and all her grandchildren and great grandchildren adored her. 

Grandma slipped quietly away last September, just a few weeks after my angel mother accompanied me on yet another long road trip, this time moving our family from Utah to Boston. Grandma was followed in death a couple months later by her bereaved husband, and suddenly I found myself only one generation away from the senior most in my family. I envisioned myself 30 years down the road perhaps experiencing the same with my parents, and I thought I would have plenty of time to enjoy them before I had to bid them farewell.

Around the time grandma passed on, mom started having trouble with her balance. It became more pronounced at the passing of her father. Doctors told her it was probably stress and trauma related, and to get counseling, but new symptoms arose, including short term memory loss. After more tests were done, the doctors finally concluded last week that she most likely has Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD), a very rare and little understood degenerative brain disease which will rapidly destroy her brain. We don't expect her to live more than a few months more.

As I write this, I am on my way to be with my family and make one last memory with our beloved matriarch. The last time I saw her was at Christmas when my husband and children and I traveled down to spend the week at my parent's house. It was just a regular Christmas. Mom was continuously apologetic that she could not do more to make it special, and I kept assuring her that it was fine, that we were just happy to be there, and could enjoy the holiday without all the extra trappings. Mom spent a lot of her days sleeping, but I did take time to go into her room and visit with her on occasion. Although cheerful, she was baffled by her symptoms, and kept trying to understand what was happening. We hoped it was psychological, and that with help, she would snap out of it and be back to normal. We talked a lot about things that troubled her that might be contributing to her symptoms. Through those conversations, I received a unique insight into the soul of this tender, sensitive, sometimes timid woman, who was nevertheless strong, courageous, and absolutely steadfast in her faith against all odds. She laid bare her heart and her longing to be whole again, whole for the sake of her family, for her husband, children and the grandchildren she adored. It was only a few weeks later that her memory began to fade, and mom truly began to slip away.

Now I'm starting to see the pieces that we are going to have to pick up when she's gone, and although I always knew I have been blessed to have such a woman for my mother, I have never been so struck by the magnitude of her contribution, nor felt so keenly the impossibility of filling in the gap she will leave behind. Mom loved to plan family trips, and since all her children have spread out over the country with our various families, she now takes great delight in planning family reunions. We just had one last summer, but she has already booked the spot for our next one in two years. It will be in Hawaii, her and dad's favorite vacation spot. We haven't had the whole family there since the disastrous rained-out camping trip of '91, a trip we still laugh about and loved anyway. She had just begun planning out all the fun things we would fill our time with, and I'm sure her plans were big. We will each have ideas about what she would have wanted to include, but only she could add that spark of anticipation and excitement. On alternate summers to our reunions, Mom held a summer school for all her elementary school aged grandchildren. This was a continuation of the summer schools she used to organize for us when we were kids to give some structure to the long summer months. She loved education, and taught us all to value it as well. That was to be this coming summer, and I know my kids were looking forward to it. We may try to put something together to take its place, but no one can be "Teacher" like grandma could be. Every grandchild got a handmade quilt when they got baptized. My oldest 2 have their quilts, but I have 3 more that will probably never be wrapped in the love-stitched warmth of a grandma quilt. They have at least 5 other cousins who would also miss that gift. I know how to sew, but I have never quilted, and if I ever learned, I wish it could have been from Mom.

All those things are just peripheral to the wisdom and love and counsel and joie de vivre she filled our lives with. She will leave a very, very big gap. There's no way we can ever replace her or make up for her passing. But she filled our lives in ways that will continue to influence our own families, and many others for good. She never stopped being our mother, and she has given it her all, every moment, her whole life. I can't imagine the Lord being any more pleased than he is with the life she has lived. I can't believe this is happening, but somehow, at the core of it all, I see the hand of God, and his peaceful voice whispering to us all that this was and always has been his plan for his daughter, Kathy. She may leave us feeling incomplete without her, but her life will be perfect in its completion. There is still hope for a miracle healing, and we are putting our trust in God, but should she be called home, she will do so leaving nothing undone that she was meant to do, and for that we can rejoice. 

Windy Afternoons

Anyone who knows my sister, Rebecca, and knows her well, would know that she loves kites.  This started way back when we were children and on windy days would scout out open parks in the midst of our flat Texan suburbia just to sail our sunburst-faced kite with the crinkly red cellophane tail that seemed to go on forever.  We called him "Firecracker," and I well remember the time his string broke and he soared away unfettered.  Our parents drove us all over until we found him tangled across the dry-grass furrows of a lonely, undeveloped field.  It was like looking for a lost pet, accompanied by the same sinking fear, the same elation.

So it shouldn't have surprised me when, several years later, I saw her look longingly out the window at the Spring-bright leaves thrashed by wind.  We were both sitting in a quiet dorm room kitchen, both now college students, both studying furiously for final exams.  April is a cruel month to schedule final exams in, with the world awaking from winter and the warm sweet smells of outside calling you incessantly.  Rebecca liked to unwind by going up the hill to a large field perfect for kite-flying, and wile away a few hours under the shadow of her kite.  But today, it couldn't be done, and I knew she regretted that.

And then she said something that was more profound to me than I think she knew, something that has stuck with me over the years.  "Life is long, and there will be many windy afternoons."

We recently celebrated my husband's birthday.  I have always enjoyed my birthdays, so it is hard for me to relate to his displeasure as he marks progress in this journey we call "getting older."  He sometimes complains that he hasn't done enough with his life, that he expected to achieve more by this point, and compares himself to others his age or even younger in his profession who have far greater credits and accolades.  I sagely try to remind him that his path has just been different from theirs, that we have tried every step of the way to chose what was right, not necessarily what was "coolest" or "most impressive."  And we have felt clearly guided in all our decisions.  So how can we complain?  If he was feeling any sense of yearning for something more than the opportunities and experiences we have been blessed with, then he needed to rethink his priorities.

And then it happened to me.

For my husband's birthday, we spent the day with our 5 young children, exploring the historic and sentimental spots downtown in the city we would soon be moving away from.  One of the places we visited had a gallery of beautiful inspirational artwork.  There was a small display of paintings by an artist I greatly admire, and as I pointed these out to my husband he looked past me and said, "Well, she's right there!"

Right there.  Doing a demonstration.  Her easel set up, her palate perfect, a skillful portrait starting to take shape on her canvas.  She was casually bantering back and forth with her model, a bevy of young art students arrayed before her on the edges of their seats, sketchbooks on laps, being inquisitive and subtly showing off at the same time.  My first reaction was delight!  I sidled up to the group, listened briefly to the discussion, nodded intelligently, tried to be a part of the moment.  But suddenly something else touched me and made me feel a gaping emptiness, some chasm of separation.  My baby, my newest little girl, was strapped onto my front in her baby sling.  I grasped her soft hanging feet and felt the tears come on unexpectedly.  I looked at this remarkably beautiful young woman with all her accomplishment, and felt a tinge of jealousy.  I don't know if she is a mother, and if she is, I don't know how she manages motherhood on top of her blossoming career.  Some women can do it.  I have tried and find that I can not.  And in the grand scheme of things, I know that between my art and my motherhood, the most important achievement by far will be raising my children the very best I can.  But still, there is something that stings a little, something that aches when I think of what I might have been able to do if I had thrown more of my time into developing my art.

As soon as I realized the emotion that was seizing me, I decided it was time to go.  Even though I tried to smile, my husband saw my tears, and very quietly, graciously, put his arm around me and walked me out, all my little brood milling about us as we made our way though the doors and down the city sidewalk.  He didn't say, "Now you know how I feel," or "See what I mean?"  He probably wasn't even thinking that.  But suddenly, I did know, and I did see.

Sometimes we look through a window and see the wind beckoning, and we can't go out to play.  Duty or pressing responsibilities hold us back.  But there are seasons for everything.  This is a season that requires so much of my time and attention to be focused on just the daily grind of meal-times, cleaning the same messes over and over, doing hair on 5 different heads, endless laundry and dishes, homework, mentoring, and loving.  Some of those things will lessen or go away in time, and they will be replaced with other things.  Maybe I will find time to do art again.  Maybe I won't want to by then.  My desire has certainly decreased over the years.  But if it is meant to be, for whatever reason, I'm sure I will find the time.  Life is long, and there will be many windy afternoons, many chances to play again, many seasons for other things.

I Am a Morning Person

"They're so beautiful when they're asleep.  I mean REALLY, REALLY beautiful.  Exquisitely, divinely, transcendently beautiful."

I believe God crafted children to require a couple more hours of sleep per day than their grown-up parents for a very specific reason: sanity.  I love that extra hour (two if I'm very, very lucky) of peace and quiet at the end of the day.  Some nights it's productive time, on others it is my much-needed kick-back time with book or game or movie.  Early morning hours are even better, more of a sacrifice to get them, but so, so worth it.  I thought once that sunrises are a daily love-letter from God, and I never wanted to miss another one.  I've missed a lot since thinking that, but it still makes me smile and say "I love you, too" on the mornings I make it up in time.

I think I like mornings better because I never waste them.  I never get up and think, I've had it with this day already, I'm just going to relax!  No, in the morning that extra time is both golden and well-spent.  I'm fresh, enthusiastic, optimistic, and I just had a love-letter from my all-powerful creator Father.  How could I then squander that all-too-precious gift of time?  I am a morning person.  Definitely.

Dear Listener: A Disclaimer

I don't know why particularly I was struck this morning by a feeling of severe anxiety and insecurity over this, but I was.  I even feel embarrassed.  Maybe it's just a doppelgänger of post-partum blues.  Whatever it is, I feel like I can't get over it until I say something:

I know I'm not an amazing performer.

There I said it.

Somewhere along the way I picked up the notion that a good performer never makes excuses for themselves.  If you hit a sour note, forget your lyrics, or squeak on your high notes, you don't say a word about it, you just move on and pretend it didn't happen.  But what if you're not a great performer?  What if it's painfully obvious that you're not?  I am so afraid that ignoring my obvious failings will be perceived as blind conceit, that it will appear as though I think I'm all that when it's clear I'm not.

Now, the only reason I find myself in this awkward situation is due in large part to the fact that I'm married to someone who is without question firmly planted in the category of "amazing performer."  Those of you who know him, or have heard and seen him know what I'm talking about.  His voice is out of this world.  He's dashing, tall, handsome, poised, regal, with an endearing dash of little boy in him--just enough to keep us all from feeling entirely inferior.  He has performed in the best-known musicals of our day, in some of the best-known roles, and wowed the socks off audiences across the country.  Of all the women out there who swoon at his melt-your-heart voice, I am the lucky girl he calls "sweetheart."

I have also somehow managed to elbow my way into his limelight.  I've had the opportunity to share the stage with him and some of his amazingly talented friends.  It has been a real treat for me in many ways.  I do love to sing, and I love to talk about the things I hold dear to my heart.  I love to try and uplift people through music and speaking, sharing some of the life lessons my husband and I have learned through our unique experiences.  It is delightful to have those opportunities.

However, there has also been this growing fear that I don't quite belong here.  To my dear, lovely friends who have invested time and money, blood sweat and tears into becoming the talented incredible performers that you are and then patiently shared the stage with me, the amateur, I thank you so much for your graciousness, your love, and your generosity.  It's you I have felt most embarrassed to impose upon, and I especially want you to know, I know I am not your equal.  It was my deepest honor to stand with you.  It was absolutely more privilege than I deserved.  To those who were in the audience, whether at concerts or listening to recordings or broadcasts, thank you also for your patience.  My greatest fear has always been that I would disappoint people with my singing, after hearing how wonderful my husband's is.  So many times after a concert we shared, people would line up to meet him, and I totally understood.  He was amazing.  And since I was standing right there next to him, there was the occasional obligatory, "You were good, too."  I just wanted to disappear.  I didn't want anyone to feel like they had to think of something nice to say about me, like I would feel left out if they didn't.  Really, I didn't care.  I didn't need validation.  I was just happy to hear them gushing on about my husband.  And furthermore, don't anyone dare post anything to try and validate me now, because I will delete it.  That's not what I'm asking for.  I simply want the world to know I do NOT consider myself on par with my husband or his professional caliber friends and associates.  I know I am severely lacking.  Whatever I have tried to contribute came not out of vast training or experience, but a great desire to inspire people the same way they do.  I hope that desire makes up in part for my flat notes or failing breath support.  I will never be my husband's artistic equal.  There's just no way I can invest in the kind of training he has had, let alone conjure up the same pure, natural talent he was blessed with.  But there is one thing he has taught me that I hope I can apply in a way that people can recognize.  When it comes to performing, giving the gift is paramount.  The gift I give may not be as pretty, but I can give it with just as much love, and hopefully that is enough.

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