After all these years of little boys I think we can be proud of our efficiency in getting them ready. The little girls are another story. Tights and bows and coordinating shoes put a whole new spin on getting a crowd out the door.
Last Sunday wasn't like every other Sunday, though. I have been wearing a little thin lately and quite frankly, I just wanted to send them all off and climb back in bed for a siesta.
But I didn't.
After sacrament meeting and Sunday school and then my class with the young women, I sat in the foyer of the church and visited with my friends as they walked by. Everyone was fine and I was fine and the whole world was fine and we all looked fine in our Sunday best with happy smiles.
And then Fern walked by.
Fern looked me directly in the eyes. Fern took my hand in hers. Fern didn't ask if I was fine. She didn't have to. She knows. Fern isn't the asking type, anyway. She just says it like it is.
"Life is hard, isn't it," states Fern. "You'll get through it."
Nothing more. Nothing less.
This probably doesn't sound like anything very profound, but you have to know some details about Fern, and about me. We go back.
On the outside, Fern is a little old lady. But that's just what she looks like. (And I personally think she pulls it off with a bit of a Grace Kelley air.) But Fern is an experienced, accomplished, and very capable woman who has seen the majority of it in her lifetime. And she means the world to me.
When I was seven I used to make up songs on the piano. My mother had taught me the abc's of an octave and how they repeated through the keyboard. I had no idea how that translated into notes but I would write my own music in my own strange code. When I turned eight I was still doing this so my parents decided to make some sacrifices and get me lessons.
They sent me to Fern.
She lived on the other side of town and I had to ride my banana seat bicycle all the way there, a distance I can't even fathom sending my children alone. But times were different then and our town was more or less the Idaho version of Mayberry.
Fern's house was different than the one I came from. Her children were all raised and everything was quiet and orderly. There was never a picture frame even slightly off kilter and there were chairs upholstered in hand tufted needle point. Just like her, her home was something that radiated exactness. I was completely astounded by it, still am. I recognized at even that young of an age, someone that I wanted to learn things from. And I did.
She didn't just teach me piano, either. She taught me posture and etiquette. She helped me learn to deal with my shyness. If I ever tried to fake sick because I hadn't practiced I was forced to call and tell her myself. I absolutely couldn't stand doing that. I don't think I missed very often.
She encouraged me to participate in competitions that I thought I had no business even thinking about. And when I found success it was just a smile and a simply stated, "Of course you did."
My parents went through some tough times and had to cut back on a few things. My lessons had to go. Fern wouldn't have it. She devised some plan so I could continue until I was old enough to pay for myself. So many of my successes in life can be linked back to the confidence I gained while learning to play the piano. And of course that can be linked back to her. I owe her a lot.
I hope that I am still learning from her, maybe in my own way, to say it like it is. I hope that I can learn to gaze more upon others' hearts and less upon appearances. I want to be the kind of person that can sit next to a sweaty little tomboy and look past the unkempt hair and down turned face and recognize eternal potential.
And I hope that when the rest of the world sees me as a little old lady, I will remember how much color I still have to offer.
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