"Posing" a Question
In my head resides the once-suggested motto for Sister Parkin's tenure as Relief Society General President. It is this: We Can Do Hard Things.
Not an eloquent statement, agreed, but none-the-less one that gives me courage. It seems that my life has a pattern: I choose the easiest route only to find myself on the hard road. When will I learn that not only can I do hard things, but I must do them to become an enlightened human being? And how hard is hard enough?
These thoughts are my single standard: What is hard for me? Pregnancy sickness? Insomnia? A slight case of social anxiety?
What will be hard for me? Labor pains, sleepless nights and having my heart melted to its core? Losing post-baby weight? Making choices that will be unpopular? Holding to virtues?
Can I do no-medication labor, or (someday) a home delivery, or have my children home-schooled if I feel that these things are important for my family?
Or can I let things go that aren't meant to be mine?
Can I do hard things? Like send my first born to kindergarten, or let my adolescent child be knowingly-awkward, or see my son be married to someone not equally matched?
Can I be happy in a nursing home?
And sometimes when I let these thoughts get the better of my brain, I like to imagine a whole village full of women, generations before, of differing cultures, and knowing friends (even Sister Parkin herself) with their thumbs up, enthusiastically exclaiming, "Yes, yes you can!"
But, first I'd like to know why it is so hard for me to get my hair as straight as my stylist does. Because that is by far the hardest thing of all.
Tell Me: What is hard for you? How are you doing it? Brag, if necessary.
(It's always necessary.)