Four reasons why change is the best, crappiest thing that can happen to you.

July 20, 2016July 20, 2016trishmercer 4 Comments

I hate and love change.

Sometimes change is most welcome: when you finally get a new job; when you finally move into that better place, and when that baby finally decides to be born. There are times when change is desired, sought after, even prayed and begged for.
The change that cancer is in remission.
The change that you are no longer in debt.
The change that you get to throw away your “fat” clothes.

But change is also a nasty beast. When life is floating merrily along, change is the white water rapids which you didn’t expect to throw everyone out of the boat.
Chronic illness.
Loss of job and/or house.
Death.

It’s when God whispers, “Plot Twist” in your ear, and you know nothing will ever, ever be quite the same again. And often, it’s a huge battle in our minds to decide if this latest plot twist is a good one or not.

But change has to happen, for these terrible, marvelous reasons:

1. It’d be horrible for things to stay the same. Don’t believe me? Think about this: What if your baby really did stay little forever? Never learning to speak, or walk, or play? After a while, you’d grow annoyed, even dissatisfied with this creature who does nothing but leaches off of you, year after year, whining and crying and demanding you carry it around. While it’s sad to see our little one outgrow those newborn clothes, it’s also thrilling to hear their first laughs, see them figure out how to toddle, and watch their personalities grow.

We don’t really want things to stay the same. We’re excited when that baby is old enough to catch a ball, when we can take him camping, or to the movies. While one stage quietly fades away, a new, even better stage takes its place. Progress is exciting.

2. We’re not mean to be stable. It’s the one thing in life most of us crave—stability. Maybe we crave it because it’s so elusive. I cringe whenever I read articles about money management and budgeting, because our income is rarely the same each month. And our family life is always changing; kids never have the same schedules year to year, and someone is always doing something new, somewhere else, with someone else. They go to different schools, go to college or the army, and find significant others, once again changing the dynamics of our family.

And thank goodness. Because, honestly, I find I get bored with predictability. While we crave stability, I think a lot of us also crave adventure. That’s why we go on vacations, take up new hobbies, write books, take classes, take on new challenges. We need to be shaken up every now and then. Snow globes aren’t interesting until after they’ve been tumbled around.

life as a snow globe

3. What would we miss if we didn’t change? Years ago we built our dream house, with a huge yard, and plans that we’d stay there forever. It’d be where our grandkids came to visit us.

Four short years later, we lost that home and had to move two thousand miles away. I was bitter that we lost our dream.

After two more moves, we settled in rural Virginia, and our kids had adventures we never could have had otherwise. We traveled and learned and had a great time.

Not long ago we had the opportunity to drive by our old “dream house.” I was startled to hear myself say out loud, “I’m so glad we didn’t stay here.”

Because staying would have been terrible . . . for me. I realized then, as I looked at our old house, who I would have been had we never left. I would have been narrow-minded, fearful, and quite prideful, I’m ashamed to admit, had I stayed in my small town, with my small ideas, and with my small ambitions. I needed to change, in order to help my nine children who have so many different challenges. Our change changed everything, and I liked who I had become because I was forced to change.

4. The only way to grow is through change. And I’m not just talking about our children. I’m talking about us—adults. We’re not done improving simply because we hit a certain age, although some may think we are.

I once met a woman who lived in the same house she was born in. She never traveled out of her little town, except occasionally down to the “big city” ninety miles away, which she found a terrifying place. She married and raised her family and lived to be quite aged, all staying in the same neighborhood, and only occasionally crossing the state line to visit a grandson in another rural community.

At first, I envied her. She had a place that was home. At the time, we were moving around a lot, and all I wanted was a place to consider a permanent home.

But I was struck by a strange sense of stagnancy. Of dullness. Of fear. Of entrapment as I chatted with her. She’d never seen the ocean. The “distant” states of Colorado and California were evil and horrible places. When she heard of all the states we’d lived in, she literally pulled back, almost as if she feared I was contagious. She promptly turned to the person next to her—a long-time neighbor—and started up a new, safer, more predictable conversation.

I didn’t feel as nearly as contaminated as my acquaintance thought I was. Moving to new states, starting new jobs, beginning new projects are—initially—terrifying, but eventually invigorating. I think about how much I’ve changed over the years, and I like what I’ve picked up along the way.

This poor, dear woman, however, never felt she could leave. Her great-grandparents settled the area as pioneers, and she felt duty-bound to stay where they had landed.

I always wondered if it ever occurred to her that her ancestors once started somewhere else, and made a lot of changes in their lives to get where they finally ended? That perhaps they appreciated the changes they experienced, and maybe were sad that she never encountered any?

The purpose of life is growth through change, and that thought is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

Last month I was harvesting berries in our yard which, after eight years of work, is nearly exactly the way we want it. Our neighborhood is wonderful, the valley picturesque. We’re conveniently situated to all our children and the colleges they want to attend, and we love where we live . . .
Then God whispered into my ear those two words which terrify and thrill me: “PLOT TWIST.“

“No!” I nearly cried out. We’ve finally got some stability! Predictability! . . . Wait.

Have I become complacent? Narrow-minded? Or, even worse, stagnant?

Within a handful of short days, my husband was recruited, interviewed, and invited to take his dream job . . . thousands of miles away.

Change, coming again. I handled it in the most mature manner possible: I wept every day for three weeks.

Then God started trickling into my mind the reminders I listed above, knowing that while I’d “kick against the pricks” for a while, eventually I’d become intrigued. He patiently ignored my protestations, just like I do when I pat my children on the head as they whine about something they don’t want to do, but later will realize they really wanted all the time.

God’s smirking at me right now—yes, He does smirk. Because He also knows just how much I love a good plot twist.

But usually not while I’m in the very long middle of it, where I can’t see the outcome. While we’re trying to figure out if this change is temporary or permanent, who will join Dad and when, do we rent our old house, keep it, or sell it, then what will we move into, once we finally join Dad in several months . . .

Change.
I hate it.
I love it.
Right now, however, I just hate it. Mostly. (I have to confess, the coast of Maine is intriguing . . .)

Stay tuned. Plots change every day.

Crud and hallelujah.

Eventually Mahrree whispered, “I never wanted to leave this house . . . Every good memory is in this house.”

The woman answered just as softly. “And you take every good memory with you. Your life isn’t the house. Your life is your family. Things don’t matter. People do.”
Book 4, The Falcon in the Barn

(And thanks to eBookDaily, who today just featured me! )

If you don’t like “their game,” then for everyone’s sake, just leave it!

July 13, 2016trishmercer 3 Comments

Today I’m going to tell you the secret to everlasting happiness: you don’t have to respond to everything that flashes your way, especially if it’s “not your game.”

Do you remember this rule from your childhood: “If you don’t like our rules, then you don’t have to play”?

Now, that may sound harsh—and it was usually uttered in a nasty tone whenever I heard it in elementary school—but nevertheless, the principle has some merit.

We tend to think that all ideas, actions, and behaviors should reflect everything we believe, and if someone is contrary in any way, we call foul, or are “shocked,” or “offended”.

But here’s something to consider: the world wasn’t made for you. Or for me. Or for any specific individual. It was made for all of us, and at times, we’re going to step on each other’s toes.

When that happens, don’t throw a fit, don’t get angry, don’t criticize—just move your toes.

For example, I follow a lot of Facebook groups, a few which I probably shouldn’t. One is a group of southern women who are romance writers. I don’t write romance, and I don’t live in the south. I know I’m not fully “one of them,” and I can’t play by all of their rules.

Not long ago they had a discussion about “What’s your favorite coffee for editing?”

I don’t drink coffee.

But I didn’t go on and comment about that. I didn’t say anything. I followed the thread for all of five seconds before realizing that everything I know about coffee comes from watching “Frasier” on Netflix.

Instead of announcing I couldn’t play because they were breaking my “personal rules,” or announcing haughtily that I felt left out, I did something astonishing:

I just moved on.

No judgment, no statements of “I don’t think this is appropriate,” no nothing. Just moved on. (Same thing when they had a discussion about wine, and I realized, once again, that all I know about wine comes from “Frasier.” This Mormon girl can say “chardonnay,” but I haven’t the slightest idea as to what it refers.)

I followed that group later again, when they had a discussion about drafting timelines. That was a game I could play and learn from.

I do the same thing with blogs I follow. Not all of them conform to my “personal rules” of what’s appropriate and what isn’t.

For instance, one collective blog filled with excellent insights on character and plot development references a lot of shows and movies I know nothing about, nor would ever watch. (Everything I know about “Game of Thrones” I’ve learned from these bloggers.) Quite often their language becomes coarse, even vulgar. Sometimes their descriptions are rougher than my tender eyes want to witness.

But I’ve never commented about those so-called offenses. I’ve never complained.

Because this is their game. Their rules. If I want to play, I’ll play. Otherwise I sit on the sidelines and wait for the moment when I feel it’s safe to jump in.

It would be highly inappropriate of me to comment that I occasionally find them going too far, or citing too many R-rated works, because this game isn’t for me. It’s theirs. I asked to join, because when these guys nail it, they really nail it, and I appreciate their candor and insights.

They let me be part of their game on the assumption that I’d let them play their game their way. So I do.

I could always leave them, if I find their game no longer fit my needs. I’ve quit following many blogs and Facebook groups for that reason.

And when I do leave, I do so quietly. I make no fuss. I don’t proclaim in a loud and angry post why I’m leaving the group. I don’t lambaste the blog owner, or the members of the group, or say anything at all . . . because it’s not my game. It’s theirs.

I simply tap the “unfollow” button, or the “unsubscribe” button, and go find something else that works for me.

(Yes, I’m boasting here about my elevated attitudes, because guess what? This my blog, and I get to set my rules. If you don’t want to play this game today, you may move on as well.)

I’ve walked out of performances, I’ve left gatherings early, I’ve even quit a job once because “their game” just wasn’t working for me. I never drew attention to myself, just slipped quietly out the door in search of a game whose rules fit my attitudes better.

And, unsurprisingly, I’ve found myself far happier as a result. It’s exhausting to pretend you’re one thing when you’re another, or to try to force yourself into a group where you really don’t belong.

There comes a time to be honest with yourself and those around you, to recognize that you’re playing their game wrong, and that you should go in search of a game more fitting to your needs.

How did I learn this? From a very brave woman. She grew up with my husband, married a very nice man, had several children, then everything fell apart. Her husband developed a mental illness for which he refused treatment, and after several years of anguish and violence, she divorced him. I know this only from personal conversations, because she didn’t deride or complain or advertise her pain online.

She simply, quietly, changed her status and last name when the divorce occurred, and moved on to begin her own game.

A few months later, she decided that there were too many hard memories for her in the LDS/Mormon church, and she and her children left it. Again, she did so quietly, without any fuss or public exclamations about doing so, nor did she deride those who choose to stay with it. The only way I knew they had found a new church was that she began posting sermon snippets from her new preacher, and advertising for their retreats and youth groups. She found a game that was more suited to how she wants to play this life.

There is no railing about her past, no criticisms of the groups and extended family that she left–she and her children just moved on.

So here’s my challenge: if you don’t feel comfortable with a situation—be it on Facebook or Twitter or any other social media platform, walk away from it. Don’t waste your time complaining, or antagonizing, or even dispensing what you perceive may be your very righteous judgment.

Just walk away.

This goes for larger issues, too. I’m astonished with many people who are angry at a political organization, or a religious group, or a long-time set of friends, or a difficult job, or painful family, and want to leave . . . yet never do.

Instead, they sit and harp and make everyone else around them miserable, intent on dragging everyone down with them, when they could instead get up and leave and find a group more in line with their philosophies.

To those who won’t make that clean break, but insist on venting like a self-centered teenager that the world’s not exactly as they want it, here’s my plea: Don’t waste everyone’s time getting mad at those playing the game you no longer like.

Go find your own game! Make it, if you must!

There are MILLIONS out there–go get one!

Create your own group, or blog, or even your own political/religious/grassroots movement!
Do something constructive, instead of going back to the same old stuff you don’t like, and being destructive there.

Who knows—maybe you’ll change the world with your new game.

At least you’ll no longer be unfairly burdening those whose games you no longer care for.

Why would normally sane people take teenagers out into the wilderness of Wyoming to walk for 18 miles?

July 6, 2016July 7, 2016trishmercer Leave a comment

My husband and I just returned from rough camping for three days and two nights with a bunch of teenagers, and it’s called “Trek.”

We weren’t the only ones, either, to take on this insanity.

While Dave and I were responsible for eight teenagers, 13-17 years old, three other married couples from our ward (or congregation) accompanied us with their groups of eight kids (our two teenagers among them), along with nine other groups from our stake (about the size of a diocese). We were “Pa” and “Ma” and they are our trek “kids.” All total, there were nearly 500 of us on this adventure.

The Hyrum 12th Ward Trekkers

Dave and my trek “kids,” before our “family” got too dusty and dirty.

At 6 am on Thursday, nearly 400 of us piled into ancient school buses with dubious safety features (about 100 followed in chase vehicles with our gear and food), drove for 6 hours on uncomfortable seats with no A/C, and spent the weekend pretending to be 19^th century pioneers.

Yes, that means wearing dresses, aprons, and bonnets for girls. Because not all of our participants can sew, I made eight skirts, seven bonnets, seven aprons, and one relatively authentic pioneer shirt for my cute husband. The boys wore suspenders, long-sleeve shirts, long pants, no jeans, and bandannas. (But modern shoes, thank goodness.)

Dave and I and two of our “real” kids. (The males in our family do know how to smile. Just not for cameras.)

Why would we go to so much effort, and drive for so long, just to walk around in the wilds of Wyoming?

Because our teenagers deserved it.

Not to suffer—which they did, but only mildly. But to discover incredible, amazing things about themselves.

Now I know I recently wrote about why the most dangerous words are “I deserve,” but here’s one thing all people everywhere deserve: perspective.

We all also deserve to discover a few things about ourselves. For instance . . .

Our teenagers deserve to discover their strength. Our kids are typical: they love their electronics, their games, their music, their cars . . . and they had none of those on trek. No, not even cell phones. (There really isn’t coverage out there, anyway.)

See any cell phone towers?

All of this means that our teenagers were, overall, soft. (So were most of us adults, to be fair.) While we’ve been trying to prepare these kids since March for this adventure—encouraging them to go walking, and even taking them out ourselves—I think only a handful were fully prepared for the experience.

The second day of trek required 10 miles of hiking (later, we learned it was actually 12, but the senior citizen missionaries leading us initially said only 10, so that they kids didn’t lose heart). The terrain was varied and beautiful, but dusty and difficult, especially pulling and pushing a 19^th century handcart through the sand.

(Knowing how much I love epic-looking clouds, God generously provided some for our photos.)

The kids grew tired, despite the water and Powerade and Jolly Ranchers and hoagie sandwiches and bags of Milano cookies. (No, we didn’t eat like pioneers—that’s for sure.)

But they persevered. We “Trek Parents” were always by their sides to encourage and help, but we didn’t need to do much because the kids helped each other. They told stories. They made up song lyrics. They cheered when boys tried to sneak off subtly into the bushes to relieve themselves, and returned victorious from watering the shrubs despite threats to sensitive body parts from mosquitoes.

When one of our trek sons developed the most epic nosebleed ever, and the EMT and nurse who accompanied our group of one hundred finally got the bleeding stopped, they recommended that he ride for a time, seeing how pale he was.

Our kids hastily made room in the handcart, helped in their “brother” get in, then, without any complaint about the added weight, cheerfully pulled him to the river where we crossed, pioneer-like, three times in the rushing water, pulling their brother.

Our teens deserve to discover their strength, and their compassion, and their fortitude.

Trek isn’t some exercise in futility—walking in enormous circles without running water or bathrooms. (And the porta-potties were few and far between. At one point, I took matters into my own hands by holding up a tarp and letting girls hide in front of me to relieve themselves on the Oregon trail. Quite literally on the trail. That’s why we brought lots of flushable wipes with us.)

The disparity of porty potties. We taught the men they were allowed to water the bushes. Leave the potties to those of us wrestling with skirts, aprons, and bloomers.

Trek is an exercise in perspective, which our teenagers deserve to understand.

It think few people realize this, but over half a million people used the Oregon/California/Mormon Trail over a span of 25 years—from 1843 to 1869. The trail was so well-used that the original wagon ruts are still quite visible, nearly 150 years after the last wagons used them.

These are the actual wagon ruts, from 150 years ago, caused by 500,000 pioneers. The distance, astonishing. The vista, immense. The trees and water, non-existent.

Among the 500,000 who trekked west were 60,000 Mormons, fleeing the persecution and mobs of Missouri and Illinois. In fact, they frequently trekked on the other side of the rivers, away from other pioneers who still saw them as targets for persecution and theft. The Mormons figured no one would bother them in the wild west (part of which eventually became Utah), so they took to wagons, and later handcarts, to get there. Most traveled safely, with their mortality rates similar to that of the rest of the country.

Except for two groups of poor immigrants from England, Sweden, and Denmark. They arrived in America with very little money, had to build handcarts, and got a late start from Iowa City (now Omaha, Nebraska). The Martin handcart company had 665 immigrants, the Willie company around 500. They didn’t leave until August, when they should have been arriving in Salt Lake City, 930 miles away. (You can read more in detail about these companies here.)

Wyoming weather is unpredictable, and 1856 was brutal. In early October, snowstorms hit the beleaguered handcart companies, covering the poorly-dressed and running-out-of-food immigrants with over a foot of snow. It was impossible for them to progress, and they’d been crossing rivers with chunks of ice floating in it. Freezing, without proper clothing or shoes, and surviving on only half a cup of flour a day, the handcart companies were doomed. One group, the Martin Company, eventually took shelter in a cove which protected them from the Wyoming winds, but not the snows.

Martin’s Cove, Wyoming

It was here that we first took our teenagers, and explained to them that it was sacred and hallowed ground, for not only did the handcart pioneers take shelter there, over 50 died and were buried in unmarked graves. President Gordon B. Hinckley also stated some years ago that the Savior walked there, making it akin to a temple.

Here the Martin Company waited for rescue parties, which Brigham Young had sent from Salt Lake City, over 350 miles away. Sixteen supply wagons and many healthy men headed out immediately, but traveling by wagon on unimproved roads with snows flying meant their progress would also be hampered. (Eventually 250 wagon teams were dispatched.) Many of these rescuers also suffered from hunger, illness, and exposure because they went to help.

When they found the Martin Handcart company, the immigrants were beyond frail, many of them dying, and couldn’t cross another freezing river to get to the cove for shelter. About 15 men, most of them young men and older teens—like those we had brought with us last week—carried the several hundred people across the waist-high river, over and over again, all day long in the bitter cold and snow. Miraculously, all of the young men rescuers survived, although they suffered from the effects of their heroic deeds for the rest of their lives.

One of three statues commemorating the rescuers who carried pioneers through the icy rivers to the shelter of Martin’s Cove.

This was what our teenagers deserve to see and learn; to recognize their own strength, to see what others had done. Some of our kids had ancestors who were among the immigrants or the rescuers. As they walked the three miles of the cove, they did so in silence. Imagine that—over a hundred teenagers, hiking quietly recognizing the strength and faith of those who had gone before, and the willingness of other teenagers to sacrifice to save others. They deserve to learn reverence.

Our teens also deserve to discover they can do hard things. That evening we drove on our buses an hour west to where the Willie handcart company was discovered by the rescuers. What took us only an hour to drive took the rescuers several days to accomplish in snow and wagons. Here we camped, ate far better than the pioneers did (taco salad and pudding cups, anyone?) and spent the next day hiking that 12 miles I mentioned earlier.

At one point in our trek, all of the men and boys were sent on ahead, recreating the fact that many of the pioneers were women who traveled alone with their children. The men were gone because many had been recruited to join the Mormon Battalion; other men had died along the way, giving their last rations to their wives and children. Still other men went on ahead to prepare the way for their families to follow.

Preparing for the “Women’s Pull” and watching our men and boys walk away.

On the other side of the valley, the boys were taught for a few minutes about their responsibilities to their families, God, and community, while on our side the girls were taught about their strength and ability to do hard things.

Then the girls and Mas pushed the handcarts, by ourselves, ¾ of a mile to where the Pas and boys were waiting and watching. They weren’t allowed to come help, but just observe as we struggled through the sand to get the carts up the hill.

One of my older (real) sons, who did trek four years ago, said that was the hardest moment—seeing the girls struggle and knowing that he couldn’t help.

However, another recreation we did was that of a Danish wife whose husband became too ill to continue. He told her to go on without him, but she dragged him into the cart and hauled him herself for two weeks until he improved.

On our trek, we had a Ma and Pa act that out, with us at the top of a hill watching as the small wife half a mile away struggled to heave her very tall husband into the cart, then start pulling it all by herself. Even though it wasn’t “real,” still I couldn’t take any more pictures because I was too teary-eyed, watching my friend try to get her husband up that sandy hill.

After a minute, one of our leaders said, “Any of the young men here want to go help?”

They did, four of them, eagerly jogging down the hillside to rush to her aid and help her push and pull her husband to the top of the hill. I have no pictures of it, because it was a sacred moment. None of us need photos to remember that.

Our teens deserve to discover that there’s nothing more important than family. Ten miles into that hike, our group paused at Willie’s Meadow, where the handcart company of 500 finally had to stop, out of food and facing too deep of snows. The rescuers found them, too, and got them over Rocky Ridge, 16 miles away to where the supply wagons had stopped, unable to go farther. After that ridge, another 13 people died, and after they were buried, two of the men who buried them also died.

It was in the meadow, where the kids were told about the Willie company, that we handed each teenager a letter, written some weeks ago by their parents. One hundred teens then went off on their own to sit in silence and read their letters, and spend a few minutes writing in their journals.

All of Dave’s and my trek “kids.”

Again, complete silence. Dave and I quietly took pictures, and felt that even our whispering was too loud as we watched our trek kids, our own two teenagers, and about 90 more read, contemplate, and even meditate in an area of complete peace and tranquility.

That evening our ward group—about 50 of us—sat around a campfire and talked about our impressions of the two days, of what we learned.

Teenager after teenager stood up and expressed their thoughts, talked about their love for their families, their ancestors, and those who were there that day helping them to learn.

That night the sky was astonishing—no moon, no light pollution, and no clouds meant that our kids could stare up into a sky crowded with stars and the Milky Way, and feel the universe come down and touch them. Even after such an exhausting and long day, no one wanted to go to their tents just yet. And so Dave and I stood with our eight adopted trek kids, after our “family” prayer and a group hug (which was more of a scrum), and gazed at the heavens which gazed back at us.

Finally, at midnight, we sent them off to bed, reminding them we had camp to take down in the morning, and visit Rock Creek to see where the rescue wagons had been, before the long drive home.

At Rock Creek, where the 15 of the Willie Company had died, we saw their burial area, and sat down on wooden planks for a devotional. That’s when the storm came, an isolated thunder shower, dumping cold rain and even hail upon us as our stake president tried to talk to us about the sacrifices and faith of the pioneers.

We see the storm coming, and realized that we packed in another vehicle all of our jackets and ponchos. There was nothing we could do but wait to be hit.

We shivered. We froze. And, because it was before our lunch of more sandwiches, grapes, and even soda and more Milano cookies (there’s a Pepperidge Farm factory in our valley–lucky us), we were hungry.

For ten minutes we experienced a tiny fraction what the pioneers did, and it was utterly miserable. One of our leaders said that he had prayed we would have the weather we needed. Apparently, we needed to feel a little bit of discomfort in our very comfortable lives.

After the storm passed, we were able to take shelter in those buses which seemed to be as luxurious as a hotel. (Ok, not quite, but you see where I’m going with this.)

Even though the school buses were miserable, they were far better and much faster than wagons, or handcarts.

Exhausted fellow Mas and Pas, trying to sleep.

(Wait–this means I’m the only responsible adult awake on the bus?!)

It’s now been a few days since we’ve returned, and I’ve finally got all the laundry washed and put away, the tents swept out, the Dutch ovens reseasoned, and the many supplies we gathered and purchased stowed away. The mosquito bites are healing, and last night I saw all of my trek daughters again, along with several of their mothers.

Would they say that trek was “fun”? Parts of it definitely were, especially for my 17-year-old daughter who was the only one who took a bath for three days, because the swift current of the Sweetwater River pulled her under briefly.

But “fun” wasn’t the point. Over and over the parents of my kids said, “She said it was the best experience of her life,” and “He even broke down as he said how great it was,” and “She said it was a lot harder than she expected, which meant it was even better than we hoped for,” and “It changed him.”

So why did we drag these kids in pioneer gear out to the wilderness and walk them near to death (or so some claimed)?

Because they deserved it. Everyone did.

(Pa Mercer wore the right boots, but not the right socks, which left him with many blisters. However, riding on the handcart proved more uncomfortable than walking, so his ride lasted about 50 yards. He bailed out when he saw the first major dip in the trail coming, to the relief of our kids.)

(And I deserve to see my #6 child smile.)

The most dangerous words are “I deserve.”

June 24, 2016trishmercer 1 Comment

The worst decisions I’ve ever made can be traced back to my believing that I “deserved” something.

No good action follows the declaration that we “deserve” something. I know the internet is awash in memes that declare we all deserve better, and should bend all efforts to attaining what we so desperately want and feel we should have, but such focus on the self leads to very dangerous, wholly self-interested thinking.

Whoa–let me get out of the way first before I’m mowed over . . .

We use the words “I deserve” to prove why we should have a benefit, and why possibly someone else shouldn’t. Why we should be given an endowment, an entitlement, first dibs, or even that perfect parking space.

We justify indulging ourselves in a multitude of ways—from spending too much and eating too much and pampering too often—all on the basis of our “deserving” it.

We say “I deserve” to prove that we shouldn’t be inconvenienced, or mistreated, or insulted, or hurt.

But other people can be. They’re not as worthy as us. They don’t deserve what we get.

“Well, that’s a little different . . .”

We claim “I deserve” when we aim to promote ourselves, even at the risk of demoting someone else. When we demand preferential treatment, ahead of everyone else. The inconsequential, the tender, the innocent, even the guilty and the important “deserve” to be trampled in our rush to get what we “deserve.”

“I deserve” means no one better get in my way, or tell me anything other than I’m the most special creature ever created, even though seven billion people also inhabit this earth, along with a trillion other living organisms. We think, for some inexplicable reason, that the world owes us something.

We tell ourselves “I deserve” to justify our greed, our selfishness, our childishness, and our often vain ambitions.

‘Ms. Clinton, some have suggested that you aren’t healthy enough or are too old to pursue the presidency. Do you have a comment on that?’. I knew I had crossed a line for her right away. She snapped back, ‘It’s my turn. I’ve done my time, and I deserve it.’

Think about what happens when people think “I deserve”: They believe they can justify any behavior, tweak any law, get away with any indiscretion, or rationalize any sin because they “deserve” to.

The word itself suggests the opposite of serve: de-serve.

But no one deserves anything, especially not pain, especially not anger, especially not suffering.

I do, however, tell my children that everyone deserves kindness; but that’s because I expect them to give kindness, not demand it from anyone else.

Does anyone else hear a toddler in their head, screaming, “Gimme gimme gimme!”

Be very, very wary anytime someone says, “I deserve.” Nothing unselfish follows such a declaration.

And be even more wary when you begin to think this way for yourself.

I deserve

“Tonight,” Perrin said, “I decided the most harmful sentences begin with, ‘I deserve.’” Book 4, The Falcon in the Barn

I hate guns, but there’s something I hate even more (A pacifist’s confession)

June 22, 2016June 22, 2016trishmercer 3 Comments

I hate guns.

They terrify me. They kill, indiscriminately, even in the hands of the most skilled and trained users.

I hate their shape, their noise, and the smell of the cleaning agents.

My neighborhood is filled with gun-lovers. Hunters, cops, concealed-weapon holders—I’m surrounded by them. I wish I knew who stored loaded handguns in their houses, because I wouldn’t let my kids play there. All of that frightens me, to no end.

Many of my extended family are gun-nuts. They own arsenals. They’re gunsmiths. Bullets are stockpiled as plentifully as toilet paper is stock piled in my house.

Even my husband owns guns. I require that they remain dismantled, and stored in various parts of the house, because I hate them.

There are far too many accidental shootings and deaths. I don’t want anyone to come running to my aid, wielding a firearm, because I fear they’d shoot an innocent bystander in my behalf.

I’ve never shot a gun, but all of my kids have. My son is in the military, and two of his brothers intend to follow him. I’ve handled our family guns a couple of times, only by wrapping an old towel around them. I distrust weapons of all kinds.

You may choose to be offended by this, but I also tend to distrust gun enthusiasts. Some strike me as insecure bullies, hiding behind their weapons in a childish display of bravado and strength. Look at me! Look at the size of my caliber! There’s definitely something Freudian, and something cowardly, about those who feel their many guns give them power.

I’m a bit of a pacifist, if you hadn’t noticed. I crave peace.

I’m struck by the calm countenances I see in those who eschew violence: Ghandi, the Dalai Lama, and many others who would rather take a hit rather than deliver one. My father, who taught me to hate guns, was the most peaceful man I ever knew.

**Yet, there’s something that terrifies me even more than guns: those who want to disarm my family and neighbors, while still remaining armed themselves.**

I prefer “The Office’s” version of a Mexican standoff: no guns.

It’s the clichéd Mexican standoff: no one dares to drop their weapon, because it’ll leave them vulnerable. I have to confess, those are the scenes in movies I hate the most. I can’t see any peaceful resolution, and you just know someone’s gonna get hit, probably when they’re walking away.

It’s that hypocrisy that makes me nervous.

It’s the same hypocrisy that I see in the elite of America: those with the money and the power and the influence. Those who make laws and entertainment and products we don’t think we can live without.

Those who are trying, at all costs, to take away from us so that they can have more.

You know who I’m talking about, so I won’t name names, but here’s a brief rundown of what they do:

They push for Common Core in the public schools, while sending their children to private schools which don’t follow those standards.
They insist on sharing the wealth, but just not theirs, because they still maintain mansions, expensive cars, and designer clothing.
They cry about climate change, yet pick up their conservation awards via private jets and gas-guzzling SUVs.
They won’t carry guns, but their bodyguards do.
They want to disarm America, but not those in their circles of influence.

A hypocrite is the kind of politician who would cut down a redwood tree, then mount the stump and make a speech for conservation. ~Adelai E. Stevensen

It’s the same pattern we’ve seen in history, time and time again. America may not have an aristocracy like there was in the French Revolution, but . . . No, wait. We do. They’re based in Hollywood and Washington, D.C.

How difficult it is to avoid having a special standard for oneself. ~C. S. Lewis

These are very dangerous, very powerful people. For many years I’ve tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. So often I’ve defended those who want more gun restriction and laws, not because I agree with their politics (I don’t, at all) but because I sincerely believe that peace can’t happen when so many options for violence surround us.

I thought the elite of America felt that way as well.

But they duped me.

A hypocrite despises those whom he deceives, but has no respect for himself. He would make a dupe of himself too, if he could. ~William Hazlitt

They’re not interested in peace, for everyone. They’re interested only in control, for themselves. You can’t achieve that control if those below you are afforded any power.

My very peaceful father grew up during WWII, in very violent Nazi Germany. His father, a civilian, went nowhere without his sidearm (contrary to popular memes, Hitler did not disarm all of Germany; only the Jews). My parents, both later citizens of America, frequently commented how naive Americans were, how overly trusting we are of those in power, and how little we understand of the horrors of a totalitarian regime.

“This is what politics is about, right? We help the people discover the threat to their security, then we provide them with a solution. Granted, we create the threat that sends them scurrying to us for help . . .” ~Book 4: The Falcon in the Barn

This is why, no matter how much I personally hate guns, I reluctantly, begrudgingly, miserably agree that taking away all of the guns out of the hands of the public will be more disastrous than the bouts of violence we have now.

“Politicians care only about two kinds of people: those who bring them wealth and power, and those who threaten to take it away.” ~Book 3: The Mansions of Idumea

politicians and power

To the elite of America, I promise that this lowly, inconsequential, middle-aged mother of nine who will never willingly touch a firearm will, once again, support your calls for increased gun legislation and even disarmament, on one condition:

Put down your guns first.

But we all know that’s not going to happen.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll do what I usually do during a scene of a Mexican standoff: run to my bedroom and hide in the closet until it’s all over.

I’ll likely be there for a very long time.

(~Book 5, Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti, is now available at Amazon and Smashwords and here. )

Are you going to let the latest tragedy make you harder, or softer?

June 16, 2016June 16, 2016trishmercer 2 Comments

It’s happened yet again. Another horrific event/accident/terrorism incident, and in the comments of the articles and in social media we see blaming of the victim: If only they’d watched their child better, or If only they hadn’t been at that place at that time, or If only they’d been more careful, less stupid.

If only they’d been better. Like me.

I’ll admit these thoughts have occasionally hurtled through my brain when I’ve read about the latest tragedies, trying to think frantically how I would have avoided it, how I wouldn’t have let such a horrific thing happen to those I love, or to myself.

As if my placing blame on the victim will somehow ensure I’m never such a victim.

But that’s not how it works.

Everyone—even, and especially, the most innocent—can be a victim.

It’s high time we stop piling inappropriate guilt on to those who desperately need our empathy and help.

Admit it—we’ve all done things that we’ve been eternally relieved had no lasting consequences. Perhaps it’s involved our children. I’ll admit that I’ve accidentally left a child at a store/gas station, had a non-swimming child fall into a pool, and also into a lake. (In my case, this was all the same child, and I know the angels have been running full speed to ensure she’s made it to age 17.)

We’ve all had moments of distraction when driving, and nearly caused—or perhaps did cause—an accident. (I’ve been the victim of that.)

We’ve all had moments of pain and distress or anger where we’ve said something inappropriate, or set off a series of events we regret, perhaps for the rest of our lives. (I won’t go into details of when I did that. Let’s just say there’s a list.)

It’s because we’re human, and while the Savior’s statement of “He that is without sin, let him first cast a stone” was meant to humble the Pharisees who wanted to condemn an adulterous woman, I also see this phrase as a comforting reminder: We all screw up. None of us are without sin.

However, that’s not what scares us the most about tragedies. What scares us to our core is that even those utterly innocent of any wrong-doing can suffer in horrific ways.

What shocks us is that we can be very good people, and still have very bad things happen to us. No matter how much we try to blame and shame that, it doesn’t change the truth: all of us can become a victim.

For example, it’s easy to blame lung cancer patients for their misery. “Smoking causes cancer,” is something we all know. But did you know that 10-15% of all lung cancer occurs in people who have never smoked?

Sometimes, bad things just happen.

Or take the story of Michelle Williams, a pregnant mom riding in a car with her family, who was struck and killed, along with two of her children and her unborn baby, by a teenaged drunk driver. What did she do wrong to deserve that tragedy? Nothing.

That’s what really terrifies us: becoming an innocent victim.

And that’s where the real test begins: How do we react when we are innocent victims, or when we see others become victims?

This entire life is one long test: of our attitudes, our criticism, our compassion, our hearts. Every day, every moment, every event large or small, is designed to see what kind of person we’re becoming.

Sometimes, the tragedy strikes us personally. That’s the most heart-ripping moments of our lives. How we respond is the real test.

Michelle Williams, the expecting mom who died, left behind a husband and additional children. How Chris Williams responded to the deaths is nothing less than astonishing: He forgave, that very night, the teenager who killed his family. Interestingly, when Chris Williams was a teenager, a boy darted out in front of his car, and was killed by Chris. He knew what it felt like to be on the other side of the tragedy, helping to cause it. He forgave, because he needed and received forgiveness himself.

But more frequently, we’re bystanders to the tragedy, and with the internet, we’re afforded a gory front-row view to everything that happens in the world.

Perhaps here is the bigger challenge: how do we regard the suffering of others, especially when we’re presented with it every day?

It’s easy to grow cynical. “Oh, another shooting. Well, nothing good happens in a bar at 2 am anyway. Big surprise.”

It’s also easy to say, “They deserved that. What did that family think would happen to them, living in Syria?”

And it’s supremely easy to proclaim, “I’d never let my kids wander off, or be snatched out of my firm grip by a measly old alligator.”

Because it’s so much harder to accept that such a fate could hit us too. We like to cling to the idea that we’re special, we’re above pain. Nothing awful should–or would dare–happen to us.

But hardening ourselves to the suffering of others isn’t the answer. Becoming callous and finger-pointers, especially when we point at the victims, doesn’t save us; it condemns us.

I love these words from an ancient king named Benjamin, in 124 BC:

“Succor those that stand in need of your succor . . . Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself this misery; therefore I will stay my hand . . . for his punishments are just—

“But I say unto you, O man, whosoever doeth this the same hath great cause to repent . . For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God . . .?”

Why don’t we show a charitable heart and attitude to those who suffer? Perhaps we’re afraid of becoming soft, of feeling too much for them, or of being dragged into their misery.

But I think feeling empathy for those who suffer, and even stepping up to help when we can, does far more for us than remaining callous. When we grieve with the victims, we process our own fears, and become more attuned to those around us. We become more Godlike. The ancient prophet Enoch saw God weeping over the children of the world. “Wherefore should not the heavens weep, seeing these shall suffer?”

I remember when the Sandy Hook elementary shootings occurred in 2012, where 20 children were gunned down. When I went to drop off my daughter to school, I saw many parents giving their kids extra hugs as they left, because none of us know when the last time may be the very last time.

That’s the attitude we need to take in the wake of every tragedy: Rather than blaming the victims (and yes, even in the Sandy Hook shooting I saw plenty of fingers pointing at the innocent) we instead need to cherish who and what we still have.

There are many theories and beliefs as to why bad things happen, but perhaps this is the easiest to grasp: To remind us to never take anything or anyone for granted.

With every scene of horror and terror, we can be reminded, daily, of how precious life is. How everyone deserves our love and attention, every day. How we can’t afford to hold on to pettiness, to self-righteousness, to old anger and wounds, because the purpose of this life isn’t to make us harder.

The purpose of this life is to make us soft.

make us soft

“And you think being soft is a bad thing? Oh, no. Softness is vital. Softness is life. The Creator Himself is soft. No greater compliment could be given to you.”

~Book 5, Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti. Now available at Amazon and Smashwords and here.

Are you sure you’re happy? 12 Traits of Happy People

June 9, 2016trishmercer 2 Comments

Despite the world’s best efforts, it’s not impossible to be happy.

That was the premise I began with as I stared at another dismal news day. Instead of ranting here about what’s wrong in the world, as usual, I decided instead to spend a few days observing how people remain happy, especially when all around is misery. I’ve been surprised and intrigued by what I’ve noticed.
Here are the results of my very unscientific observations:

1) Happy people have not lived trouble-free lives. Contrary to what you may think, happy people frequently have waded through a great deal of grief. Illness, financial woes, death, homelessness, divorce: some of the happiest people have been handed some of the roughest ordeals. But they’ve learned to cope, to adapt, and to fiercely—insistently—find the joy in their trials. They choose to find joy. Probably because of this . . .

2) Happy people are generous. They will give their time, their love, their talents, even their money to ease the burdens of others. They’ve discovered that one of the many ways happiness comes is by giving it to someone else.

3) Happy people live for others. They’re not focused on themselves, which they’ve discovered is the surest way to become miserable. The happiest people are those who volunteer their time, who take care of those who can’t give anything back to them, and who rarely think of themselves.

4) Happy people are humble. They don’t boast about their accomplishments, or who they know, or what they own. In fact, you’d be surprised by just how much they’ve done with their lives, if ever you were to find out, because they don’t advertise it.

5) Happy people rarely talk about themselves. In conversations, they’ll focus all of their attention on you. When they ask about your day, they really want to know. When you leave their presence, you’ll feel like the most important person in the world, and only later will you realize you heard very little about them.

6) Happy people are respectful. They will not ridicule, mock, or deride you. They may gently tease, but are careful to never drag you down, like crabs in a bucket. They respect your decisions, even if you don’t respect theirs.

7) Happy people are content. They are satisfied with the choices they’ve made in their lives, so they have no issues with the choices you make in yours. They may make suggestions because they’re concerned about your happiness, but they’ll never force you to accept their way of doing things. They will let you live your life, your way.

8) Happy people smile. When you see happy people, you know it. By their eyes, which radiate joy, their smiles, which are genuine, and their body position, which is open and inviting. They have nothing to hide, nothing to guard, and everything to share.

9) Happy people are kind. To everyone and everything. They smile at children, give a weary parent a nod of approval, assist the elderly, and even pick up items that have fallen off of shelves at the store, because they want to make some employee’s day just that much easier. Happy people are those who gently shoo away bugs instead of squashing them, and who will politely ask the stray dog to not befoul their gardens.

10) Happy people are honest. About you, about themselves, about the world around them. They don’t deceive, and they don’t cover up the truth, especially about themselves. If they are at fault, or if they have caused harm, they will ask forgiveness and actively seek to make restitution. Happy people take full responsibility for their behavior and consequences, because they don’t want to cause unhappiness in others.

11) Happy people don’t take offense. Even if it’s intended. They just let the words roll off their backs, like water off a duck, and generously decide that the potential offender has merely had a bad day. Happy people think the best of people in all circumstances, not the worst. In fact, it may be hard to convince a happy person that someone is truly bad. They just don’t want to believe it.

12) Happy people are at peace. That doesn’t mean the world which they inhabit is peaceful. Indeed, some of the happiest people I’ve observed have been calm in the most chaotic of situations. But they are at peace with themselves, with their choices, with who they are becoming, and most importantly, they are at peace with God, whose peace surpasses all understanding.

A quote from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, “He created us to have joy,” on an orange watercolor background.

I see happy people everywhere, when I bother to look for them. Each of the items I’ve listed above I’ve noticed a happy person doing. (It was my dad who would politely ask dogs to leave our yard; he was the most peaceful man I’ve ever known. And yes, the dogs would leave, every time. He’d thank them, too.)

So how do we all become such happy people? I’m still working on that. It’s the old chicken-and-the-egg question, I suppose. But one thing I’ve noticed in myself is when I do my best to have these happy traits–if I “feel” it or not–my happiness level automatically increases.

This is what I’ve discovered:

happiness is a choice

Watch for them, the happy people. Tell me what other traits you observe in them, in yourself.

Notice when you feel joy. It may be more frequently than you realize.
Most importantly, share that joy with others. We all need more happy people in our world.

There’d always be pain, and always suffering, Perrin knew–

“And also always relief, and also always joy. That’s the trial of life, son, and it all works for our good. But it will always end in joy, Perrin.”
~Book 5,Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti

My kids are high school dropouts, and I couldn’t be happier about it

June 2, 2016trishmercer 2 Comments

My 17-year-old daughter has been awarded an academic scholarship to the university she’s attending this fall.

But she wasn’t mentioned in the assembly the high school held last week honoring scholarship recipients.

She’s leaving high school with a 3.9 GPA, but she won’t receive any honors.

She quietly walked away from school yesterday, and didn’t even attend graduation (she was working at Little Caesar’s to earn money for housing in September).

Why?

Because she’s not a senior in high school; she’s only a junior. And, like her two older sisters, she’s decided she’s done with the drama and tension of high school life. She’s skipping her senior year and heading straight for college.

Without a high school diploma, without even a GED.

And I love seeing the look of shock on the faces of our friends and neighbors when they hear that I now have five—FIVE—high school dropouts.

“But . . . but . . . they HAVE to have a diploma!”

No, they don’t.

“But . . . but . . . if they don’t graduate, they can’t get into college!”

Not a single university of the four that my kids have applied to has asked for a high school diploma. None of them.

“But . . . but . . . they need transcripts showing they completed four years of schooling! How do you get around that?”

Easily. Our kids are part home-schooled, part public-schooled. I make transcripts for my children based on what they’ve studied since 9^th grade, couple that with the grades they get from their high school courses, and send that to the universities. The admissions offices accept the documents, no questions.

“But . . . but . . . isn’t that illegal?”

Teaching my kids at home? Recording their scores? Nope. And there’s nothing illegal about dropping out of school.

“But . . . but . . . how do colleges accept them?”

Three little letters: ACT.

That test is designed to demonstrate how well a student may succeed in college. Four of my five kids scored in the high 20s and low 30s on their ACTs, and that was good enough for college. One child, who has struggled with some learning disabilities, didn’t score as well, but he’s been accepted to two state schools anyway.

Because college isn’t that hard to get into.

Seriously.

Every state has university systems with “open enrollment.” Essentially it means that if you have a heartbeat and a bank account, you can try a year of college. Having taught at these schools, I realized that this prevailing notion is a good one: maybe someone wasn’t top of his class in high school, but maturity, focus, and time works in favor for a lot of people. Just give them a shot at college. If they don’t succeed after a year, they’re put on probation, but most likely drop out on their own to pursue something else.

Several years ago, my oldest daughter scored the magic number on her ACT to be accepted into Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. She had taken the test early as a 15-year-old, only so that we could gauge where her homeschooling had taken her.

I stared in shock at her score, then was surprised even more when she said, “Can’t I just go to college now? What’s the point of doing more high school?”

I had no answer for her except, “I guess you could go early . . .” She started her freshman year of college when she should have been at her senior year of high school.

My second daughter, not to be outdone by her sister in anything ever, also took the ACT early, and to her delight scored one point higher. She was attending our local high school part-time, and when her guidance counselor brought her in to choose courses for the next year, she told her, “I’m not coming back; I’m heading to college instead.”

The guidance counselor called me that day. “I don’t think that’s a good idea for your daughter to skip her final year. Most kids aren’t mature enough to move away to college at 17. Most kids really struggle.”

I answered, “Most kids aren’t my kids. I evaluate each individually, and my daughter is ready to leave, just as her older sister, who has a 4.0 at BYU right now.”

Where are my two daughters now? My oldest is completing her master’s degree in archaeology. She’s been published a few times, was the head TA for anthropology for many years, directing 20+ TAs who taught freshman anthropology, and is completing her thesis, despite having a toddler at home and another baby on the way.

As my oldest daughter, Madison, received announcements of high school graduations, complete with dramatic photos, we decided to do our own photo shoot of her dropping out. (She’s holding a root beer bottle, by the way). Four years later she graduated as valedictorian of her class at BYU-Provo. Now she’s married, a mom, and finishing her master’s thesis. Not bad for a “dropout.”

My second daughter earned her associates’ degree with a 3.95, went on an LDS mission to Edmonton, Canada for eighteen months, and now is finishing her first year at BYU’s very competitive nursing program. She hopes to become a labor-and-delivery nurse, and eventually a certified midwife.

I think they were mature enough to leave high school, just as their little sister is.

Now, if you’ve done the math you’ll see I said FIVE high school dropouts, and I’ve mentioned only three so far.

I have two sons who also dropped out, but they went through their senior years. Almost.

My oldest son, who has learning disabilities and struggled like his dad to learn to read and write, took schooling slower and finished his high school courses with a 3.8 GPA. Seeing him earn As in English astonished me. Then he quit school, without a diploma.

Then he went to the oil fields of North Dakota.

Then he went on a LDS mission to Pittsburgh, PA for two years.

Then he went into the army reserves and trained in petroleum testing, where he was honored for earning the highest scores.

And now he’s going to college. He’s starting later than most freshmen, but with a wealth of maturity and experience behind him, and with eagerness that a lot of college freshmen, who are burned out from high school, don’t possess.

I’ve had a few acquaintances surprised by this, too.

“But . . . but . . . he’s getting kind of late start, isn’t he?”

No. He’s only 22. I used to teach evening courses at a community college where half of my students were older than me. It’s never too late to start.

“But . . . but . . . students will be younger than him.”

So what? We’ve been programmed by our many years of public schooling to think that everyone should be the same age in the same grade. But once you get to college, you realize that your classes–if you’re lucky–are populated by a microcosm of the world: people of all ages and backgrounds and even countries.

My son’s starting college in a very smart way: with no debt. He knows he’s not getting scholarships like his sisters, but the army’s helping him pay for school, and he’ll eventually leave with money in the bank, not debts to his name. He’s learned from his parents that student loan debt is a killer.

And what about my other son? He dropped out a little bit early. He left before his third trimester of school.

Yep, right in the middle of it all, he waved good-bye and walked away.

He figured, what more could he get out of high school in one more trimester? Nothing, really. He wanted to get to serving as a missionary for the LDS church.

While the LDS church wants its missionaries to complete high school and graduate (the minimum age to serve for boys is 18), I pointed out to our local leadership that none of my kids graduated because they are home-schooled, and my son had been 18 since the beginning of the school year.

Our congregational bishop, a teacher at the high school who had my sons in his classes, scratched his head at my argument. Then, knowing me and our family too well, said, “All right. I guess we can submit his papers and see that the church says.”

By April of his senior year, my son was already serving an LDS mission in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. He missed all the graduation parties, just like his sister has, but he doesn’t care. He’s already moved on to real life.

I have four more children who will also likely make me proud by being high school dropouts. I’m not proud that they “dropped out,” but that they made decisions for themselves as to what they wanted to do with their lives.

My husband and I haven’t told any of them what we expect of them. I have, however, told them I want them to try at least one year of college, just to see if it’s for them. I want them to have that experience of learning from various people—even the liberally-minded, to help challenge and strengthen our conservative beliefs. When they do that year of college, and where, and how, is entirely up to them.

Back to my latest high school dropout. When she came home from high school for the last time, I asked her, “Any regrets? I heard your friends saying how much they’ll miss you next year, how they wished you’d stay.”

All of my kids do things differently, like making a prom dress skirt out of storm trooper fabric.

Oh, if you could have seen her eyes rolling. Like planets falling out of orbit.

“No!” she declared. “I am done! Let’s get on to real life!” Then she pulled out her tablet, with yet another recipe on it, and headed to the kitchen where she’s been experimenting with meals she can make after a day of college classes.

She’s moving on when she’s ready to, not when some random bureaucrat declares her “mature enough.”

She, like my other children, is making choices for her life, based upon her needs.

I love having a house of rebels.

“Let’s hope there are still a few rebellious ‘teenaged’ souls out there,” Mahrree whispered to Perrin.

“Besides us, I mean.”

~Book 2, Soldier at the Door

(Book 5 is published and available! Get Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti at Amazon, Smashwords, or here on “Start reading the books!“)

Getting rid of things is not getting rid of people

May 26, 2016trishmercer 2 Comments

Anyone else get paralyzed by decluttering?

By staring at that old, ratty thing that you’ve had in a box for years, but can’t throw away or donate because of memories, guilt, or because you’d hauled it around for 28 years and it seems ludicrous to finally dump it now?

On the other hand, I look around my house and think, “If that were lost in a fire, would I try to replace it?” The only things I’d want to preserve, aside from my family, are our photos.

Everything else? Nah, they can go.

So why can’t I just chuck them now?

My kids will have to, in a few years. I should save them the hassle.

When my parents started to decline about six years ago, we began the first of many moves, putting them progressively into more intensive care, and also smaller rooms. The first time my siblings and I walked through our old house, which could have served as a backdrop for “That 70’s Show,” I was a little weepy.

Until I took a good look at the green shag carpet, which had been there since my parents bought the house in 1978.

(Not my parents’ old house, but could have been.)

Hideous.

The longer I looked at items my parents no longer needed in their new residence, the more I found myself wanting to chuck them. We preserved photos, journals, my dad’s paintings, and a few books. But everything else?

Within an hour we were tossing the majority into a dumpster. And we couldn’t do it fast enough. Who really needs Tupperware that’s forty years old?

We had to go through the process three more times, as they moved again, and finally as they passed. Each time we took home fewer items, until when my dad died all I wanted were his scriptures. My siblings took a few items, and the rest we donated. It filled the back seat of a car.

As I looked around his room, I realized that he lived quite well with very little.

The entire tiny house movement is based on this: the fewer items we own, the freer we are to live. The less house we own, the more money, time, resources, and peace we have.

I’m fascinated by minimalist movements, like Becoming Minimalist , full of advice to getting rid of all of the stuff we accumulate, thinking it will bring us joy.

(From the Becoming Minimalist Facebook page.)

Or Marie Kondo’s konmari approach to keeping only items that “spark joy” and releasing all those things that no longer do. She suggests giving them to find a new home, to bring joy to someone else.

I did that a few years ago with a china set my parents bought me before I was married. I used it exactly twice. Then I sold it, 25 years later, to a family in our neighborhood for $50. I felt simultaneously guilty and relieved; guilty because I thought it was so important that I never used it (and took it with us on a dozen moves), and relieved that someone else could enjoy it.

Probably 1/2 of all I own I wish I could “send on its way,” but guilt holds me back. My husband made this, or my deceased sister bought me that, or my mom used to wear this, or I read this once, thirty years ago.

I need to remember that the love and memories associated with that person or event don’t leave with the item.

They’re just things I’m throwing away, not the people.

High Polish Tatra mountains

Writing Book 5, and forcing characters to leave behind all that they own, made me wonder how I’d face the same situation. I admit, it’s left me mixed. I want to be able to toss it all, but irrationality holds me back.

A friend told me of her parents’ house—true hoarders—and their many packed sheds in their backyard. They’d asked their grandson to pull some weeds so they could open the door again (it’d been that long since they’d been in there), and as the brawny boy leaned against the shed for leverage, the entire thing crashed down. Everything was destroyed.

The boy’s father cheered.

The boy’s grandparents mourned.

Nothing was salvageable, nor could they remember what they had stored in there for many decades (mostly old paint, it turned out). But they resented having to throw it all away anyway.

(Don’t let this be your children’s fate.)

The rest of the family was thrilled when that shed came down. In fact, they had the grandson lean against all of the other sheds, hoping for a similar result. When my friend’s parents finally die, they’ll need at least three dumpsters, she estimates, to unload all of the stuff no one—not even her parents—can use.

There’s some strange pride in not letting things go, in holding on to something beyond its usefulness.

In not allowing anyone else to have it.

In not acknowledging that you never needed it in the first place.

Some psychiatrists suggest it’s a mental illness, or maybe conditioning from grandparents who endured The Depression nearly one hundred years ago. I remember well the “get more attitude” of the 1980s, where acquiring stuff was all the rage, where your value was based upon what you owned. I think a lot of us in my generation still suffer from this early programming.

But there’s simply no good reason to hoard stuff. No one needs 12 hammers, as one elderly man I know possessed (among a great many other things). He said someone might need to borrow one. In the thirty years I knew him, no one ever came looking to borrow a hammer. Or one of his 15 hand saws. Or 20 screwdrivers. He could have given them away long before they became rusty, to someone who truly would have appreciated them. But no.

I have a friend who has an entire bedroom stuffed with bins and boxes, all for Christmas. It takes her a full week to decorate her house, inside and out, and three Christmas trees. She admits it stresses out her family, especially since every surface is covered in something breakable, but every item is wrapped up in memories, she insists.

The memories of her children, however, of their anxious Christmases, may not be so favorable.

Why do we keep old furniture that’s damaged or even moldy, clothes that don’t fit, knick-knacks that went out of fashion years ago, paintings that no longer interest us, and books we’ll never read again?

Stuff our kids will throw out in another generation with alacrity?

For reasons I don’t yet understand, we often choose to remain burdened and laden by all that we own. I want to empty out my bedroom closet, but that means tossing a stack of yearbooks. All I need to do is scan in the handful of photos I appear in, then throw away the books I have never, ever looked at since I graduated in the 1980s.

I also have several paintings I did in high school, which I’ll never display because they’re pretty poor, but which I can’t bear to give away. I’ve needlessly hauled them around for decades.

Sometimes I wish we could have a random fire, hitting particular items so that I’ll be forced to get rid of them. Moving many times has helped; each time I had to throw away boxes of destroyed stuff I thought I couldn’t live without I was relieved that I had a reason to get rid of them.

I have to admit, I’ve purposely dropped one or two items during a move just so that I didn’t have to find a shelf for them later.

I’m slowly sliding closer to minimalism. Each shelf that gets emptier, each old box that vanishes, each bag I bring to charity lightens my heart and eases my conscience.

By the time our youngest leaves the house in 15 years, we anticipate we’ll be moving into a tiny home, and that should force me to get rid of the last of the crud. I hope that by the time my husband and I die, our kids will need only an hour to clean up what we left behind.

Doesn’t this just feel so clean, so simple, so serene?

Until then, I’ll try each week to toss out 10 items I don’t need. That’s my goal for the summer, and we’ll see how it goes.

If you happen to be good at separating things from those who gave them to you, tell me how you did it. I’m gonna need some motivation by August!

Why in the world am I giving away my books for free?

May 23, 2016trishmercer 2 Comments

As I’ve done with my other books, I’m offering Book 5, Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti for free as a .pdf file on my website.

Click on the image above to access the .pdf file. Yeah, for free. Seriously. No strings attached. (I’m not that kind of a girl.)

No, this makes absolutely no financial sense whatsoever. It’s the second place I’m offering it for free (Smashwords has the download for free) and when Amazon notices, it too will make it for free (maybe in a week or so; I have no control over that).

So why in the world am I doing this?

Because it’s not about money. Nothing, really, should ever be about money.

It’s because in many ways I feel I was given this book, like a rough blueprint, along with a pile of supplies, and told to “Go for it.”

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a clumsy builder, but for the past few years I’ve been constructing a book series I’ve absolutely loved! Writing and rewriting has brought such immense joy, and I want to share it, with as many people as possible. I don’t want a few bucks to come in the way of someone accessing it, and while the paperbacks cost a bit, I literally do not make anything from them. The prices are set to the barest minimum I’m allowed to set them to. (Even I have to pay to get them!)

You see, years ago the phrase, “Freely given, freely shared,” came to me, and while I’ll average about 30-40 hours a week writing and editing and working on this series and website, I don’t feel right about profiting from them. The reasons why are explained in detail in Book 5, as you’ll see.

But because this blueprint and supplies were “Freely given” to me by our Creator, I feel He wants me to “freely share” them with you. Yes, I’ve put in a ton of labor, but I’ve been compensated in other ways, if not monetarily.

No, I’m not independently wealthy. Our income qualifies us for a variety of social services which we choose not to accept, because we can get by just fine since we’ve learned to temper our desires and we don’t chase after the trends of the world.

I feel deeply, earnestly, about the messages of these books, and Book 5 in particular, which I spent a year studying and researching before I attempted to start writing.

So share freely, enjoy, and get the word out: “There’s this slightly mad woman giving away her books. Snatch them up, quick, before she comes to her senses!” (No worry there; I’ve never come to my senses. I have no idea where they are, and they aren’t too worried about looking for me, either.)