Mother's Memoir

Mother’s Memoir

I suspect many of you will relate when I share with you my astonishment at the power attending me as I write my mother’s story. I feel as though I’m in a whirlwind of miracles which are reshaping me. My motives are transforming. My heart is softening. A new tenderness and compassion for my mother has possession of my heart.

I am confident God is pleased and supportive when we undertake to strengthen family ties, even if by accident. I never intended to write my mother’s story. It was my story I wanted to write. But upon learning that a million words need to flow from our pens before our writing is worthy of publication, I put my memoir on hold and took up a ‘less meaningful’ endeavor, one which might contribute to the backstory of my own.

It was then the winds began to swirl. Photos, family films, and journals my family thought were lost to decades of Air Force travel and neglect mysteriously found their way to my doorstep.

Just last week, my husband was doing a book signing in Hawaii and a woman approached him, “Remember me? I was in your class in Colorado over two decades ago. I’m on a mission here in Hawaii. Your wife’s parents got married in France and were stationed there with my parents. Here, I copied a film my dad took of your wife’s parents picnicking.”

Dozens of insights, impressions, and spiritual encounters have sprinkled my journey. There isn’t the space to articulate the whole of my experience over the last several months so I attempted encapsulation in a poem.

FAIR WARNING: I avow no knowledge of technical poetic construction. I admit only to honest emotional expression.

She Gave It All Up for Me 

I wanted to write my memoir

An outlet for grief and pain

But learned, ‘a million words be penned

Before it could get gain'

“My story won’t be writing junk,

Another one I’ll find”

And so I began my mother’s tale

Naive of the treasures entwined

The Lord began His mighty work

Enlisting family there

To open minds and soften hearts

A grander view to share

Phone calls, interviews, memories combed

Trust grew and hearts were won

Truth emerged, the shock sublime,

“I’m not the cheated one”

My pain but draught before her own

How could I have been so blind?

The person I accused for years

Indeed was the one most kind

My softened heart allowed the thought

That perhaps before we came

We previewed the conditions here

And she chose all the blame

She mended the fence that others broke

That we could all be free

To have the joys she went without

She gave it all up for me

Politics of Fear and a Culture of Heroes

 (As a side note, this is a post from my personal blog,  originally published this summer.)

Imagine my hesitation when I realized I was gearing up to write a political post. Me. A thirty-year-old woman in a tiny rental house with no credentials to my name. My job is stay-at-home-mom. I write books as a hobby. I teach 3 and 4-year-old kids every other Sunday and walk the same trail most mornings in a never ending loop.
I've never traveled outside of the US.
I've only been on a plane once.
I haven't even finished my degree yet. There's no reason to listen to me.
But.
None of that invalidates me. I may be small in the way of worldly sizing, but maybe, just maybe, that's what this post is going to be about. Size.

The heroes in our culture all started out small.
Luke Skywalker fought against the entire Empire with nothing on his side but a few rebels, an old spaceship, a smuggler, and a wookie.
Frodo set out to save Middle Earth with a group of nine that slowly dwindled down to two.
Harry Potter ultimately walked out to meet Lord Voldemort all alone.

We revere the courage of our heroes, admire their faith in the idea that good will prevail, and cheer them when they get back up after falling and keep going.
Is this only a thing of stories?

Maybe.

But the founding fathers were small in numbers when they wrote The Declaration of Independence.
Rosa Parks was just one woman on a bus.
And Miep Gies along with a few others who hid Anne Franks and her family weren't safe from the German government when they decided to do it anyway.

Every time I look, in stories everywhere, God is saving people, healing nations and making change in small ways with small numbers and small people. What a wonderful thing to be small!

When Israel was freed from Egypt, God sent one man with a staff.
When Haman conspired to have all the Jews killed, God sent a single woman before the king.
When our Heavenly Father wanted to save all His children, He sent a baby in a manger.

Do you believe in God's power? Do you believe in good? Do you really, really believe?
Do I?

One thing our heroes often have in common is courage in the face of fear. They do the right thing despite being afraid. If this is the common thread among our heroes, isn't it strange that I'm seeing the opposite preached in so many places?  There are voices telling me that being small and out numbered are a good enough reasons to abandon truth, honesty, kindness, humanity, and my own integrity.

Since when did the founding fathers add to the constitution "The President of the United States is first and foremost to serve their party and all who vote are really voting for a party not the man or woman?" My loyalty isn't to the party. Why can't my loyalty be to America? And the principles of compromise, logical discussion, and courage that our forefathers exemplified?

I grew up on heroes.
My teachers, my parents, my friends, maybe even you, fed me stories of one hero pitted against thousands.
But when the time comes to stand up.
When it's time to be that hero.
I'm told by some to fall in line.
Comply with the best chance numbers.
Act on fear.

No.
I won't do it.
I don't care if who I do vote for ends up losing. I don't care if the dreaded "other" party takes over as a result. I'm not going to fail prey to fear.

Why?

Because I want to look in my children's eyes and tell them I didn't back down when things got murky, confusing and hard. I want them to know I stood for kindness, compassion, honesty, and accountability.

I never want them ask me why I voted for someone I didn't believe in or feel good about and have to say it was because I was afraid, outnumbered, or that I simply gave up and joined the crowd.

I'm raising my children on heroes.
And I'm not going to be the person that lets them down.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

Do you remember singing this song?

"We will not retreat, though our numbers may be few 

when compared with the opposite host in view; 

But an unseen pow'r will aid me and you 

in the glorious cause of truth. 

Fear not though the enemy deride; 

courage, for the Lord is on our side. 

We will heed not what the wicked may say, 

but the Lord alone we will obey." 

(Let Us All Press On, Hymns, 243)

Do you believe that? I do!

No matter who you or I vote for, I hope you don't pick out of fear. Pick because you felt in your heart that it was the best choice. Do it with hope in a better tomorrow. Do it with gratitude for the founding fathers and for America.

And then. No matter who wins, no matter how dark things get, keep being the sort of hero that you want your children to admire. Still be kind. Still seek for truth before believing a rumor. Think and wait before passing judgment. Still stand for love, kindness, and humanity.

Think of this as our time to rise, our time to be heroes, to face our own incredible odds. Think of God and refuse to be guided by fear. To Him, numbers don't matter. Ever. Ask any bible hero; Daniel, Deborah, David. Ask the Nephites form the Book of Mormon. Ask Alma, Ammon, and Moroni.

And then go and be the your own sort of Luke, Frodo, or Harry. Because it's the right thing to do. Not because you'll always win, but because you are the sort of hero that believes in good and reaching for something better. Do it because you know that God will prevail in the end and that is the side you must know in your heart that you are on. Always.

My Soapbox Journey

The cover of my memoir. Cover design by Steven Novak.
Click on the image to find out what it's about.

Tonight, I uploaded a PDF of my political memoir, Soapbox, onto Createspace so I could order a proof, in time for a book launch at the end of October.

Wow, it feels great to be able to type those words.

I know there’s more work involved, like proofing the book, then ordering copies, and actually selling the books. But for now, I’m going to bask in a glow of gladness and share with you a little bit of a back story as to how this book came about.

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At the start of 2014, I was a chubby middle-aged woman who was coasting through life fairly contentedly. I had a great family (still do), we'd just finished building a house on our dream horse property in Grantsville, Utah, and I was enjoying some local success as a columnist and a memoir ghostwriter. Neighbors button-holed me at the grocery store to compliment me on my latest column. Happy clients referred me to their friends.

But I wanted more.

For one, I wanted more energy. Writing all day at a desk made me tired, as ironic as that sounds. It made sense -- a sedentary lifestyle is actually harder on the body, which can atrophy if not used.

I also felt an increased moral obligation to do more for our community. In my biweekly columns, I identified problems and suggested solutions, but didn't do the actual work. In the end, a column was just an opinion. I hid behind journalism because it was easier. As an intellectual exercise, I weighed the pros and cons of an issue.

Four things happened that shook me out of my complacency. First, I started a Facebook page to scrutinize the relocation of a medical waste incineration company with known violations from another county to ours. Second, because of that Facebook page, I was asked to take a leave of absence from my column and feature writing (I have since resigned). Third, I started working out at a Crossfit gym. Fourth, I joined a monthly Mastermind group, where we share goals and encourage each other.

I will talk about the first two in my book but rarely mention the last two. Thing is, they are still inextricably linked to the success that I would later experience (to know the details, read the book). As I grew tougher physically (shedding fifteen pounds and taking up running), I felt like I could take on anything. As I grew tougher mentally, setting and achieving goals became second nature.

Fortunately, since I am a writer (and obsessive Facebook poster), I chronicled that roller-coaster saga of the past two years of my life, nearly daily. I never really planned to turn the experience into a book, not until close to election day last year. My thought was, a book like this could have helped me, and hopefully could help other aspiring citizen activists and candidates.  It is also my contribution to Utah's political history -- an intimate look at a rough and tumble prison relocation process that still plays on to this day.

In sifting through my posts from the past two years, I relived eye-opening, aggravating, exhilarating and inspiring experiences. At the end of it all, I am all the more convinced that citizens can and must effect change, and that a community can accomplish great things.

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Soapbox only took me roughly two years from start to published. I wish I could say that of my other published book. My young adult paranormal novel, Ghost Moon Night, took me at least a decade to write. I have other novels that have taken as long, and are still in various stages of completion.

I think the biggest difference is, I am a memoirist at heart. Though I love novels, because I can write about romance and danger in exotic lands, I love writing personal essays even more. I can start out with an image, a scene, an emotion, and follow it through to a surprising end. I say surprising because I honestly never know where a sentence will lead me. Oftentimes, only when I write an essay can I make sense of an experience.

It also helped that I Facebooked my way through nearly all of my experience in the book. Which meant that everything was not only written already, in a breezy attempt to be interesting (who wants to be boring on Facebook, right?), I could only write episodes in short doses at the end of a busy day, and I had a public filter to begin with (if someone had a beef with something I said, I already got drubbed once and either edited out the offending text or not). I still had to rewrite portions, and start some from scratch, but it was easier than writing a novel.

The other reason I’ve written this book faster is shelf life. I wanted to write the book while events are still somewhat fresh in people’s minds. That is the beauty of self-publishing. I can get it out now.

A few days ago, as I finished up edits on my memoir, I was suddenly seized with a paralyzing attack of self-doubt. I wanted to walk back everything I’d done to this point. How dare I think that I had written something others would want to read?

Then a fellow nonfiction author on Facebook, Desirae Ogden, encouraged me by saying, “Keep going. Trust in God. Everyone has a story to share and everyone has specific people that God needs them to help. Your story will help people. I have no doubt about that and I don’t even know what it’s about.”

That last sentence made me chuckle. Her wonderful advice pulled me out of that fearful paralysis.

I’ve had a few people read the manuscript, yet many of the key players in the story haven’t. I’ve tried to be fair and kind, but you never know how people will take your version of the truth. So here I am, about ready to put it out into the world. And I’ll be honest, I’m scared. For the most part, it’s a good kind of scared.

It’s the kind of scared where you push back the curtain and look out and you can’t see the audience for the klieg lights in your eyes. You go to the middle of the stage anyway and, heart pumping, you perform like you’d been billed on the program. Pouring all your heart and soul in the only honest way you know. When you’re done, you open your eyes and applause comes.

Maybe it’s just polite, maybe it’s thunderous, but it doesn’t matter, you did what you set out to do, and you’re so happy you cry.

Jewel Allen is an award-winning journalist, author and ghostwriter. Her political memoir, Soapbox, will go on sale at the end of October 2016. Visit her at www.JewelAllen.com.

You Had to Be There...As Me

One of my favorite things to do is to share family or friend memories for comparison.  Part of this has to do with filling in missing gaps and part is to see how differently we interpret things.

When taking a course in college that dealt with Personal Non-fiction, my professor encouraged us to talk about what we didn't know about an experience.  This could be something as simple as "Mom picked me up forty-five minutes late and never told me why."  I once used it for the month between when I left my marriage and when I saw my now-ex-husband again by accident; I knew that in that time, he moved us to a new apartment and worked part-time as a substitute teacher, but had little else to go on.

This is especially fun when done with families.  For example, I can tell you vividly about the time that I broke my arm.  We had a summer lemonade stand and brought all supplies up in a stroller that my younger brother used.  When bored, I rolled back and forth in that (I was eight and much smaller than I currently am).  I lost control of the stroller and fell into a ditch, breaking my right arm very close to the growth plate.  I got a cast that couldn't be graffittied and came home with instructions to not get it wet, which meant I was going to miss some of the fun on our upcoming vacation.  When I got to my bedroom, I found that my sisters/co-vendors had found a birds' nest in the grounds and placed it on my nightstand.  I still have that nest, 27 years later.  I would love to know the story behind where they found it and whose idea it was to go looking for a present for me.

Based on other experiences, I'm guessing it was my younger sister.  I once got my head stuck in the neck of her sweatshirt and cracked my head on the edge of her dresser while pulling it off.  When Mom had made me lie down, my sister put every single one of her stuffed animals on the bed in case I needed to hug one.  I later brought her a rubber ball when she was stung by hornets.

On the other hand, my older sister is an artist and an organizer.  I can absolutely see her spotting the nest and giving my younger sister a leg up to reach it for her.  She would have also been the one to make sure it didn't have anything gross stuck to it.

My other preferred memory-sharing is with friends.  This is why, when people ask me about my trips, I try to have a travel companion around for the conversation.

Example in the spirit of Halloween:  I went to Dublin in 2012.  A writer friend who is paranormally sensitive had just gotten a refund for a sizable amount of money and as soon as I said that, if I had a traveling companion, I'd buy these plane tickets to Ireland, she jumped on board.  Of course, because I'm obsessed with thrillers and ghost stories and read her books primarily because they're about a girl solving murders with the involvement of the dead, we went on a Ghost Bus Tour.

Now, we are both agreed that we were bratty Americans.  We're both snarky people who like a bit of mischief.  So we sat in the front of the bus and corrected the guide's Romanian when he said that Dracula is a word meaning "devil."  When he said that Dracula is the second-best-selling book and asked what the first was, I batted my eyelashes and squeaked, "TWILIGHT!"  

He took us to St. Kevin's churchyard in Dublin late at night.  The guide told us all about the fire in the monastery where people had been celebrating Mass against English law.  He talked about paranormal experiences around the altar and naturally, people flooded that area so they could get a shiver.  We took pictures and he claimed no one ever saw orbs in pictures of the area.  (My friend proved him wrong immediately.)

Well, after getting a good ramble in, we headed towards the bus for the next stop.  I personally had not felt anything near the altar, but was unnerved by the fact that I felt as though someone were watching me from the far corner of the graveyard.  On our way back, before I had shared anything about this, my friend stopped, pointed at the corner and said "He's right there."  I kept walking immediately.

I didn't know until later that she had taken a picture before following me.  I just left as soon as someone else corroborated the unnerving experience.  Recently, she showed me the picture she took before leaving the graveyard, which she had lightened to the point where I could see all of the shapes.  There are gravestones and trees and walls.  But just near the tree is a shadowed figure in a place where no one had been standing.

One final example on a less dark note:  One of my best traveling companions is my roommate.  So far, we've been to Italy, Turkey, Greece, Spain, Portugal and Morocco as well as a few of the United States.  One of my favorite examples of this memory-sharing is from our first day in Istanbul.  To give some context, she is someone who LOVES having a set schedule and to-do list.  I enjoy knowing where we're going and when and when we have to go back, but I love the space in-between.  One city earlier, she had hit all of the sites she wanted to see in Izmir and headed straight for the bus stop.  I pointed out that the bus wouldn't be there for another twenty minutes.  She shrugged and said if I wanted to explore, I should be back there in 15 minutes.  I headed off in an arbitrary direction and immediately found a shoe store.  This is very typical of me and I bought a pair of Turkish slippers.  I also came back in 15 minutes.  When I suggested that I go to the Kulturpark, she agreed to meet me back at our cruise ship.  I had fun at the museum of antiquities even if she wasn't there.

In Istanbul, she laughed at me for my hobby of taking pictures of the familiar in the middle of the unfamiliar.  In this case, it was a Starbucks next to a Turkish cell phone store near the port.  After going to two mosques, she said she was ready to go back to the ship for dinner.  I said our dinner reservations weren't for another two hours and she again gave me permission to wander off.

That afternoon, I had noticed a lot of alleyways and staircases that led to unknown areas of the city.  I decided to hobble up one of these cobbled alleyways and look for adventure.  Most of what I found was a shopping district where they charged normal prices instead of tripling it for tourists.  It also had Turkish delight shops with a great variety of flavors.

When I got back to level ground, I found a text had come in on my phone.  Apparently, we weren't allowed to go back into the port by the way we'd left.  After asking for directions, she had found the re-entry point...across the street from my Starbucks.

This is a perfect example of how not knowing the whole story doesn't necessarily mean that I missed out on anything.  I know that it was thanks to my hobby that she didn't get lost on her way back to the ship and it was because of that Starbucks that neither did I.

Share the Love Challenge

My “Share the Love” Challenge:

There are more songs and movies about love than any other topic. Remember Huey Lewis and the News? “The Power of Love?” How about the country song, “Love me?” Something newer? How about Flavor of Love with Flavor Flav? Too much Rap.  OK, I’ve got it….FROZEN.  The wonderful Disney cartoon, Frozen, where we learn that love chases away fear. Sleepless in Seattle, where love brings strangers together.

The Beatles really had a few things figured out, surprisingly. With the image of John Lennon in bed with Yoko stuck in my head, I always thought crazies. BUT the more I consider the implications, the more I understand that, “All you need is love” and “Make Love not War” might be more than trite phrases.

Have you ever felt loved? Feeling unconditional love really is something special, when you know someone loves you no matter what, just because you are you–That is empowering.  “On the Wings of Love,” we do soar. We can do anything. We can be more than we thought we could be–just because someone loves us.  Empowerment. True. Think about it. Test it out.

I met my dear friend Marcos Prieto when he served as my Mission President. Which means he was a chaperone of sorts for around 300 missionaries serving in his native country of Brazil.  (difficult job) In our first interview, after we got to know each other in my broken Portuguese, he told me he loved me.  I looked into his older, kind eyes and saw that it was true.  This man loved me. And I knew he always would. And then he told me to be obedient.  And I was. Because he loved me.  Because in that moment, I was reminded that God loves me too.  And over the years, I have received moment after moment of comfort knowing that someone on the earth loved me like that.  Just loved me, because I’m me.  Love empowers. Love changes.

I’ve come across more people who can love me like dear President Prieto. But they are rare.  Maybe I am difficult to love? Or we all just have a difficult time loving.  How many people do I love like that?

This principle of love has potential to change the world, every person in it. Am I oversimplifying a solution to all the world's problems? No, I'm not. It really is that simple.

Children need all sorts of things, but mostly, they need love.  Criminals need love, probably more than most. The elderly need love. Middle schoolers need LOVE. High schoolers need love. Really, everyone on this blessed planet of ours needs love and more of it. In these days while it seems that the hearts of some have gone cold, when we get honked at, shouted at, cheated and robbed by perfect strangers; the solution is love.

This morning, I got a loud, abusive phone call from a lady at a rental car agency, accusing me of stealing their car. ( I already have a car, thank you) But I was left shaken and vulnerable and attacked.  And then I got a phone call from a friend, who loves me, who has a gift of showing love. That balm of her love sealed off all the hurt, and I was just left with the joy of friendship. Love empowers. Love changes. Love heals.

When Corrie Ten Boom was approached by the Nazi jailor who killed her sister and abused them cruelly in the concentration camp, how was she able to forgive him? God sent love to her heart, and when she took the reformed jailor's hand, she saw him and loved him with the love that God feels for each of us. Love did that. Love heals.

When we share and feel more love, we are changed, empowered and healed.  I can think of lots of problems in our world today. Besides global warming or the polar vortex, I think love can fix just about all of them. Feeling love and experiencing the lack of love has made more of a difference to the human race than any other thing. Is that statement too sweeping? Too bold? Consider any problem in the world and determine how love or lack of love played a part.

And it starts with you and me, right now.  Because it has to be shared one by one, person by person; whether stranger or friend, expressions of love are individual.  And if we all start today, and make feeling and sharing more love a priority, that ripple effect will begin to work its magic. Love shared today can eventually go from person to person across the globe. The world seems small when you think of reaching out one by one. We can create a culture of love, an expectation of love, an immediate response of love.“We are the World”

The scriptures teach us that Charity is the pure love of Christ and that it never faileth.  I say we give it a try.  Consider this beautiful challenge,

“This year, mend a quarrel. Seek out a forgotten friend. Dismiss suspicion and replace it with trust. Write a letter. Give a soft answer. Encourage youth. Manifest your loyalty in word and deed. Keep a promise. Forgo a grudge. Forgive an enemy. Apologize. Try to understand. Examine your demands on others. Think first of someone else. Be kind. Be gentle. Laugh a little more. Express your gratitude. Welcome a stranger. Gladden the heart of a child. Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the earth. Speak your love and the speak it again.”
Howard W. Hunter

And if you are having a bit of trouble feeling the love, having a difficult time making your heart feel what your head wants it to, remember this important truth.

“Our Heavenly Father loves you–each of you.  That love never changes…it is simply always there.”  Thomas S. Monson

Love is the new Yoga, the next self-help solution, the greatest trend of all time.  Go for it. Work for more love. Fill your bucket lists and resolutions with goals for love. It is the single most important, life-changing goal. I’ll join you and start here at home, with my neighbors, with my town, even someone difficult to love; You start with yours, and some day maybe our shared love will  travel from person to person and meet somewhere across the globe in the heart of a perfect stranger.