It Takes The Village to Praise the Wild

When Sir Spencer was growing up he had a lot of friends. They came from every walk of life and every variety imaginable. I loved it. At the grocery store awhile back I ran into one of his old friends. I had two carts full of food and he asked if I was buying afternoon snacks for the Village.

Very funny........but absolutely true.

That's when I realized that Spencer's friends all referred to our family as 'The Village'.

 I had to think about that for a minute.


I have been trying to eek out a camping trip all summer. We finally have Nichole back and I wanted to spend a weekend away from the world with just my family. All plans fell through as one after another Crosgrove came forward with commitments that would prevent them from participating in wilderness bliss.

It became very clear to me that the perfect family get away wasn't going to happen.

Time to face facts. I just have to take what I can get and find gratitude in the making.

I decided to pack up whomever and whatever and head out. I planned on leaving early in the afternoon but had a reality check. It's not easy to move a village. Poor Moby was filled to the gills carrying everything including the kitchen sink. There were so many sleeping bags I thought for a minute that BIG 5 was having a parking lot sale.

I've learned over the years that some one of the Little People will inevitably get bored on these trips. It's best to plan ahead. So in went dump trucks, shovels, card games, balls, ropes, paper, Legos (can't even camp without those), and a large bag of Mr. Potato Head parts that were hiding on a shelf in the garage.

I had to use my imagination to find room for the actual children.

It was worth it!

My play pen was so worn out that we threw it away a month ago. This left me with two babies and no place to put them down for play time or naps. I set up a little pup tent and gave them toys. The Potato Parts came in especially handy. At one point they were way too quiet so I decided to observe. Sir Harley had joined them. He and Miss Lula were using Miss Bella as the Potato Head. She was patiently holding several noses and ears in her little mouth. They were about to add a pair of eyeballs to her tiny nose. Why didn't I think of that?

Sir Sean sneaked his goggles into his backpack. He takes his goggles everywhere. I wondered what in the world he would do with them at a camp site with only a creek. I shouldn't have worried. The Little People built a pool and spent hours sticking their heads under water. When I say hours I mean most of the day. They spied fish, snakes, bugs, and really cool rocks. Lots of really cool rocks. I LOVE those goggles.

Miss Sarah found a waterfall upstream and decided that she could use the goggles to discover the other side of it. They all took turns wearing them and sticking their little thinkers through the waterfall.

I'm a bit jealous.

I've always wondered what was beyond the waterfall and now they know.

There was one night when everyone (except Elder Spencer) was able to be together.  I'm going to pull the memory of that night out in my old age and smile. So much laughter. So much food. Silly songs and funny stories. Smoke in my greasy hair and chocolate melted on their dirty hands.

 Absolute perfect imperfection.

Returned with Honor

SHE'S HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was really planning on this being a pictures only post. I had envisioned tons of super fun photos of everyone hugging and crying and laughing and hugging again. But true to Crisis Center protocol, there just had to be a story involved.

When a missionary comes home it's a big deal. We Mormons love to make it even a bigger deal. I wanted to be an uber cool mom and make sure Hermana Crosgrove had no doubts what-so-ever that we were excited to have her back.

When I take the Little People into public (try not to do that more than I have to) I like to put all red shirts on them. They are easier to keep track of that way. That backfired the last time. At the yearly town celebration I gathered up some children for lunch that weren't mine....they were wearing red shirts.

The Man and I decided we should have family shirts made just for such occasions and they should be really bright orange or some other color that would mark for certain a Crosgrove as a Crosgrove. We also decided that Nichole's homecoming and the trip to the very public airport would be the perfect place to try out these shirts of awesomeness.

And then there were the signs that must be made. A giant banner, twenty feet long at least, stating "WELCOME HOME NICHOLE" that could be held up for her as she walked down the airport corridor. And another sign to be displayed on the highway for the whole community to know that she was back and we were ecstatic about it.

Things didn't quite work out as planned.

First the shirts. Because of all that went on last week (Miracle, Still) I didn't get them ordered. When I went to the shop on Monday they were back logged and assured me that shirts could not be made in time. I decided to just make the signs extra cool and maybe add some balloons.

Then life happened. Our basement flooded. For three days we were able to nothing but rip out sheetrock, carpet, and insulation. Instead of putting things in order and arriving calm cool and collected we were back to flying by the seat of our pants and just hoping to get to the airport in time.

We didn't.

Her flight was half an hour early.

No banner. No shirts. No balloons. No cameras. Not even her family. Just a set of Grandparents to greet her (thankfully).

The Man dropped me and the children at the entrance and then drove away to park the van. The banner drove away with him, still rolled up and stowed away.

As we came down the escalator at the airport there was a crowd. Over a hundred people all holding "Welcome Home" signs. There were balloons, posters, flowers. These were the cool families that have it all together. I spied my father-in-law and I could tell something was wrong. Nichole had already come through and she had made a bee-line for the bathroom.

Guess where Mama Crosgrove and her entourage of Little Peoples went? Right into the bathroom after her. I couldn't help it. I wasn't waiting another second. We caught up to her as she was washing her hands. The bathroom is now filled with screaming, crying, hugging, oh my goodness let me hold you some more Crisis Center inmates.

And a couple of really confused women just trying to use the restroom.

I would have loved to have had those first moments captured on film. I would have loved to have done everything like normal people for a change. I was more than a bit disappointed in myself.

And then I heard Nichole's side of the story.

She had been reluctant to even get off the plane. She wasn't ready. She knew there would be a massive family and lots of fanfare waiting for her and she didn't want it. She had just spent the past year and a half of her life completely forgetting about herself and focused on bringing souls to Christ. Her stomach was roiling at the thought of having all of the attention just on her.

She was praying that somehow all of the hoopla and commotion would go away and she could just have time to slowly adjust to this new life of hers. As she came down the corridor and saw all of those signs and balloons and eager faces she prayed again. "Please don't let any of these people be my family."

God answers prayers.

My name is Hermana, but you can call me Sister!

For the past couple of months there has been a count down on the dining room chalkboard. (Doesn't everyone have a ten foot chalkboard in their dining room?)

It drives me nuts.

I'm not real big on countdowns. Prefer to live in the moment. Actually, I prefer to not be constantly reminded that something major is coming down the pike and I should probably be preparing for it whether I have the ability to do so or not.

In this case the impending something is definitely of the major event sort.

My little girl is coming home.

Tomorrow.

I just started shaking a bit.


A month ago I had the privilege of meeting a new friend. (Hi Greg!) He is not of my faith but he knows a bit about the people referred to as Mormons. He lives close to where my son is serving his mission and told my husband to call if ever Elder Crosgrove needed anything. I can't tell you how much that means to a mother of a missionary. I was excited to meet this very generous person and was very happy that the Man and I were able to spend an afternoon touring Sheboygan with him.

The first thing Mr. Greg has to say to me throws me off a bit. He asks me why a religion that is all about family would excommunicate their children from the family for a year so they could serve a mission. I had to correct that. We don't send our children off for a year.

We send them off for two years.

His comment does make me think. Why do we do that? Why would anyone send their teenaged children away for two years, eighteen months for the girls, and know that the only way to communicate with them would be through snail mail and e-mail? (And Skype on Christmas and Mother's Day if someone is generous enough to share some technology without being asked to do so.)

Well....I guess because I get it. I get that the happiness that comes from knowing Christ shouldn't be hoarded. I get that not everyone has had the opportunity to know that there is a difference between the happy times that the world brings and the pure joy that knowing my Savior infuses into my life.

And I get that when a teenager learns to think only of other people, the entire universe opens up to them. Life is no longer about making money and impressing friends. Having the latest and greatest fashions and hanging out on the weekend becomes irrelevant. A certain clarity is developed and major life decisions are easier to make. And I want that for my children.


In an odd series of events, my first two teenagers left the same day. The exact same day.

There are quite a few hoops that have to be jumped through to serve a mission. Medical exams, shots, dental appointments and usually wisdom teeth removed. Personal study and worthiness to attend to as well as buying a wardrobe for two years. Lots of white shirts for Elder Spencer and lots of skirts for Hermana Nichole. And when all is finished they turn in their papers and someone else decides where they will be serving.

Their mission calls came on the same day. They were both called to serve in the Spanish language, Spencer to Los Angeles and Nichole to Dallas. I thought at the time this would be a great excuse for me to learn a new language, too. The time has flown and about all I can say is mui bueno when I'm asked how my enchilada tastes.

So here we are. Hermana Nichole Crosgrove will be under my roof again tomorrow night at this time. To be honest, I am nervous. I feel like I know from her letters that she has spent the past eighteen months loving people that she's just met. But I'm worried about how she'll feel about being home again, with the Crisis Center in full swing.

Quietness is something you can get used to.

Our home is anything but quiet.

I feel like an expectant mother again. I've even been nesting. We painted her room, washed her clothes and made sure her bed is just the way she used to like it. And I'm emotional. Hairy Mooses I'm emotional. Just anyone bring it up and out spring the tears.

But mostly I just can't wait to hug her. I just want to hold her for like forever. I might not even let her out of the house for a few weeks and throw all of the young men that come around off of the porch. (I know there will be young men!)


To answer a few more of the questions: I did not make Nichole go. She has been looking forward to serving since she was old enough to decide which clothes to wear. Yes, I have missed her. Yes, there have been times when I wanted to just scoop her up and have her with me.

And even though you didn't ask, yes, I will be crying tears of joy when she sees her littlest sister for the first time!

The Name

There aren't too many words that go with Crosgrove. I think my limited choices are "Crazy" or "Crisis". I decided not to state the obvious and went with "Crisis". We've been referring to ourselves as such for years now. I think it started the summer we spent four weekends in a row at the E.R. with Spencer. And since there is usually something that resembles a crisis unfolding at our home, it stayed.
Occasionally I wish we could be normal for a minute. Perhaps we could be like our friends, the "Harris Happy Household" or something. We're just asking for trouble, aren't we? But recently I had an epiphany.
A big one. Life changing big.
I received a phone call from the Hope Crisis Center in Texas. My daughter Nichole was doing service work there and one Miss Patsy found out that my little girl can sing. Miss Patsy was calling me to ask for sheet music. Nichole's voice had been an instrument to brighten their lives and start their days off on a happy note. That's when I started thinking about the purpose of a crisis center. People that have been battered by all that life throws at them go there for shelter, for a respite from the storms. They go there for love and support, to find help and friendship without judgement. I would think that in most crisis centers, those that find themselves there eventually want to give back, to be a part of something bigger than themselves.  They want opportunities to learn and grow and better themselves.
And then it hit. Isn't that what I want my home to be?
I think I'll keep the name.