Chelsea Dyreng

July 6, 2015 · 2:40 am

When I Grow Up

I just got back from vacation out West where I met with a lot of very, very old people.

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My father’s siblings and their spouses

First I met the mule man. His name is Lew. My mom wanted me and my kids to meet him since he had mules, and she thought my kids would like to come and feed them. Not my first idea of a good time, but I always do what my mother says.

We found Lew out back by the barn. I am pretty sure he was close to 800 years old. He had three mules tied up to a fence by the corral. He taught my kids how to hold their hands flat as they fed alfalfa pellets to the mules. Once they had mastered that skill he said, “I’ll teach you anther way to feed the mule, and if you can feed him like this I’ll go into the house and give you a dollar.” Then he took an alfalfa pellet, put it in his mouth, bent over, and to the horror of my children, he let the mule take the pellet from his lips.

After wiping a smile (and mule spit) from his mouth, the ancient man slung a saddle up on the mule, slung up Naomi, and then slung up Dan as easily as if they were all made of paper mache. He led the mule around in a few circles. Then Danny wanted to be in front, so Lew taught them how to switch places. He told Naomi to stand up on top of the saddle–yes, on top–and had Danny to crawl through her legs as she slid behind Danny’s back and viola! Like magic Danny was in the front. I wish you could have seen the pride shining in my children’s eyes at acquiring this novel, new skill. I could read Naomi’s mind: Now THIS is a TALENT!

After that he lifted Danny off the mule but told Naomi she could slide off the back of the mule’s rump, “but don’t ever do it on any other horse or mule unless you want to get your head kicked off.” As he was putting the saddle way he said to me, “Did you know that I have five daughters and each of them can ride a bucking horse and shoot, skin and clean their own elk. But my greatest regret is that not one of them can play the piano.” Before Naomi could say, Hey, that is not so bad! My mom piped up and said, “These girls can play piano! And they can sing for you. RIGHT NOW!”

So, since I always do what my mom tells me, we did. In Lew’s tack shed. Surrounded by saddles and ropes he made himself, while he sat misty-eyed on an old pick up truck seat. To our delight, he reciprocated by reciting a cowboy poem from memory. When it was time to go back to my Mom’s, Lew looked at my two-year-old and said, “Since you didn’t get to ride the mule I’ll take you on the four wheeler.” And then he drove my Levi back to the house, making sure they crossed under every single sprinkler a long the way. I may have had my doubts about the mule man when we arrived, but by the time we left I was his biggest fan.

Next I went to a family reunion, where I saw my Uncle John whom I have not seen for years. He engaged me in conversation in which he asked me all about my life. Then he called my children to him, looked them steadily in the eye and said, “Your grandfather had a beautiful voice, just like you. Did you know that? I knew your grandfather very well. He was a wonderful man. I know because he was a good friend of mine. And it is important that you to know how wonderful he was.” I tell my kids every day how great my dad was, but like a lot of things, it doesn’t sink in until they can hear it from someone else. This was truly a great gift from my uncle, and one I will always be grateful for.

Finally, I attended the 90th birthday party of one of my favorite people in the world: my grandmother. Actually, she is not my grandmother. She is Scott’s grandmother, but I claim her whole heartedly. She is extremely intelligent, talented and has read almost every book ever written. When she talks to you she makes you feel like you are her absolute favorite grandchild, and that you possess talents that no one else has, and that your talents can make a difference in people’s lives and will change the world. And because she is who she is, you believe her. If you met her you would claim her as your grandmother, too.

All of these encounters make me wonder if I am cut out to be a good old person.

What kind of old lady will I be? Will I be the old lady that complains about everything and tells the younger generation to take their shoes off and get out of my flowers or don’t touch my breakable things and eat your vegetables? Or will I have something wiser to say like “I remember your grandfather and he was a good singer and a good friend” or “you, my dear, have talents that will change the world” or “let me show you how to switch places on a mule.”

On the Forth of July I entered a 5K race. So did my husband, many of my in-laws and most of my kids and nieces and nephews. My athletic in-laws and competitive husband took off, leaving me behind with the smell their burned rubber, and I was on my own to pad my way amongst strangers down the streets of Manti. Before long footsteps came from behind and I looked to see my nephew, Max.

There was no way I was going to be beaten by an 8-year-old. Especially one who is related to me. I broke away from him for a while, but a half mile later I heard those shoes coming up behind me again. So I let him keep pace with me, and we talked about the weather, the pros of stretching before a race, and how often he practiced running. Throughout all this I always made sure I was slightly ahead of him at all times. When there was a mile left he was still on my tail. (Inconceivable!) I debated what I should do. Should I pick up my pace and leave him behind? After all, I do have a 28-minute personal best that I needed either meet or surpass. Besides that, if I came in too late I knew I would have to prepare a good verbal comeback for my husband when he asks if I stopped to pick flowers.

“How you doing, Max?”

“Okay.”

“Are you feeling good?”

“Yes.”

He looked good. His pace was good. He wasn’t limping, he wasn’t complaining. I measured up the situation, calculated the risks.

Then I asked,”You want to sprint the last part with me?”

“Yah.”

“Are you sure you can do it?”

“I’m sure.”

So as we rounded the corner to the finish line, we sprinted. I still could have left him and crossed first, but we ran side by side until right before the finish line when I pulled back and let him cross first.

Now he can say he can beat his aunt.

It is a start, I guess. Luckily, I am only 37. I have a lot of years still to learn how those 80 and 90 year olds do it. But hopefully, when I grow up and become an old lady, I will be a good one.

By the way, my enchanting niece who also happens to be Idaho’s Miss Outstanding Teen, is doing a project called Bridging Generations. You should check it out. #BridgingGenerations

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Filed under Family Fun, Family History, generations, old folks

June 18, 2015 · 8:00 am

Back When I Was Queen

Long ago, in a land far away, I was once a queen.

I come from a long line of queens, actually. My mother was a rodeo queen and Miss Malibu (don’t you just love the sound of that? Miss Malibuuuuu) and my aunt was BYU’s Homecoming Queen. My other aunts and sisters were all royalty of one sort or another, and my nieces are carrying on the tradition. My claim to fame was that I was Miss Ricks College.

Wait. You’ve never heard of Ricks College?

That is because they changed their name. Now it is BYU-Idaho. It is a lot bigger, and more glorious. And they don’t do pageants.

But that is okay, because I was also Idaho’s Jr. Miss.

Oh . . . you’ve never heard of that either?

That is because they don’t call it Jr. Miss anymore. It is “Distinguished Young Woman.”

Yes, it is sad to say, but although I was royal for two moments in my life it doesn’t even matter since both titles are now obsolete. Not even my kids are impressed. In fact, they know very little about how amazing I used to be. Here is a recent example.

Me: (Singing Maria from West Side Story in the kitchen) Maria, I just met a girl named Maria…

Dan: Mom, please stop singing.

Me: Why not? Don’t you like this song?

Dan: I don’t like your voice.

Me: Oh. Am I a bad singer?

Dan: Yes.

Me: Danny, did you know that I am actually a very good singer? And that I used to sing in front of thousands of people? And when I was finished they would clap?

Dan: (with doubtful expression) Really?

Me: And people gave me awards!

Dan: (even more doubtful expression) Are you sure?

Me: Yes! Okay. What if I sang something else?

Dan: Please. No more Maria music.

Me: What would you like me to sing?

Dan: Radioactive.

Me: I’m wakin’ up to ash and dust, wipe my brow and sweat my rust . . .

Dan: (plugging his ears in agony)

Me: Am I embarrassing you?

Dan: Yes. Maybe you should whistle instead.

Me: Okay. (whistling) Is that better?

Dan: MUCH.

So since my talents go unappreciated and my crown is in a box, I’ve decided to auction off my crown at my upcoming family reunion (it is a family auction to raise money for future family reunions).

Still, when I take it out of the box, I remember those big, shining moments on stage, singing into the hot lights, making my parents proud. Especially my dad. When I became Homecoming Queen my dad bought a new suit just so he could walk me out on to the football field.

It drove my mom crazy when she and my father would watch me perform because my dad did not watch me, instead he turned around in his seat with a big smile on his face, preferring to watch the people behind him, while they watched me.

But times have changed. I found this illustration in a magazine when my girls were babies and it has hung in my kitchen ever since.

I love it because my children are my crown now.

And now, as my children get older and more proficient in their own talents, it is me that is turning around in my seat, watching the audience watch my kids.

When I was a teenager my heart would beat like a hammer before performances. But now, as I watch my children perform my heart doesn’t just beat. It leaps out of my chest. It swells. It is painful and glorious at the same time.

I much prefer watching now.

I guess I could wear my crown when I do dishes or vacuum. Maybe I should wear it when I drive The Great Van of Happiness. I could wave at other drivers. Howdy, folks.

They say that every girl is a princess, so it stands to reason that every woman must be a queen. So how come no one ever says that?

Well I’m saying it. We are all queens. Queens of our homes. Queens to our husbands. Queens of our families. Queens of our lives.

So maybe at the auction I might just buy my crown back.

You’ll know if you drive up next to me and see me waving at you from my van.

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June 12, 2015 · 7:23 am

The Great Van of Happiness

Do your kids fight? Yeah, I know. Mine don’t either. Especially in the car.

I calculated how much time I’ve spent in the van this last year just picking the kids up from two different schools (an hour wait time between schools) and taking them to their lessons. I’m not good with numbers, but I think the total was in the millions.

We spend a lot of time in that box.

My kids are good kids. They love each other. They help each other. They do secret acts of kindness for each other. But when it is time to get in the van they turn into flesh-eating piranhas. It is as if some seats in the van are made of solid gold and other seats are barbed wire. The back seat, especially. You would think by listening to the cries of distress and agony as they make their way to the back that they are on their way to the electric chair. And my children, none of them being shrinking violets, will defend their right to sit in their desired seat with volcanic passion.

So yes, I admit it. We are car fighters. Thank you in advance for all the advice you are going to give me in response to this post. I welcome it with open arms. But I want to assure you that trying to stop the fighting is a short road to insanity.

Imagine being strapped into a box for an unknown amount of time with nothing to do and no power to escape. Meanwhile the person next to you is poking you in the eye or yelling in your ear or trying to steal your food. I think in the adult world we would call this “a hostage situation.” It should be no surprise that children don’t like it, either.

We have moments of happiness. We do. I think there was a time a couple weeks ago that we laughed.

Seriously, though, most of the time the kids find plenty to do. We listen to books on cd, we sing with granola bar microphones, and we play quiz games. I bring snacks, they draw, they write stories, and there is always a lot of reading going on (for those who can).

But the fighting escalates whenever they get in or get out of the van. And who can blame them? Because of the baby’s car seat they are left with one door to squeeze through. (Except for the Golden Child who gets to avoid all the commotion by nabbing the front seat.)

After weeks of the same, predictable fighting, I desperately wanted to turn our van time into something more positive. So I did what any mother who has problems would do: I made a chart. The idea was that the children would rotate seats every week. The chart was beautiful and simple, and in a burst of optimism I decided to call the chart “The Great Van of Happiness.”

We’ve used The Great Van of Happiness for about a year now with mixed results. Here is my brief report.

It doesn’t matter if the chart says this: Or this:

The children always feel like this:

But we still use it because it is the best thing we’ve got.

It is flawed, because everyone has to rotate to the back seat but not everyone gets to rotate to the very front “favorite child” seat because some are too young.

Fireworks also come out when people forget to check the Great Van of Happiness chart before they sit in their seats and then there is a great bottleneck of kids in the doorway of the van, some sitting, some half-standing and all of them snapping at each other.

“Well what does the Great Van of Happiness say?”

“I don’t know. You check it!”

“No, you check it!”

“I’ll check it,” says Danny who is holding my iphone. “Siri, what does the Great Van of Happiness say?”

Siri answered back with what she found on the web for “What does the Gravy Van of Happy Nests say.”

But there is hope.

Once a week we pick up a little neighbor friend from middle school and bring her home. I try to reserve shotgun for her, not only because she is our guest, but also to give her some distance from the rest of the wolves, that her life might be spared. (She is an only child.) Sometimes, when she is sitting next to me and the battle is raging behind us she asks me in a very grown-up tone if I am going to do anything about it. Being that she is an outsider, I am always interested in any input.

“Well, do you have any good ideas?” I ask her, very sincerely.

She didn’t at first. Every now and then she would glance in the back as if she were observing from the other side of a mirror in an insane asylum and giving me the play-by-play. “Did you know that ____ is undoing his seat belt? Did you know that _____ is biting ______? Did you know that _____ just threw ______’s ______ out the window?”

Towards the end of the year our little friend had had enough. Driving home, amid the normal and terrible sounds of choking, whining and attempted strangulation she asked, “Miss Chelsea (because that is how we address people here in the South), do you mind if I read?”

“Of course not. You don’t need to ask.” After all, when they are not torturing each other that is what Dyrengs do best. (Those over five years old, anyway.) I was assuming she was just going to read to herself. But she had no intention of doing that. She opened up a book and cleared her throat.

“Chapter One,” she announced loudly.

Everyone went quiet. You could have heard a Cheerio drop. It was as if someone had suddenly stuffed peanut butter in everyone’s mouth. And miraculously everyone stayed quiet the entire way home. Peace. Tranquility. Hope for the future. Once we arrived home I tried to refrain from kissing her little red head.

When we picked her up the next week she again read to everyone, plunging the van into another deep, meditative silence. The book was not particularly interesting (in fact it was a book on how to play video games, something that seems very odd to me) but there was something about the loud, constant cadence of her voice that mesmerized everyone. I had to keep checking everyone in my rear view mirror to make sure they weren’t in comas.

Who knew that adding a sixth child to the mix would calm things down? Unfortunately school is now finished, and the Great Van of Happiness will have to do with out our neighbor until next year. Or perhaps her mother will let us adopt her for the summer. Or I could pay her.

In the meantime there is not much I can do except keep reminding my kids that they are all important no matter what seat they have to sit in, and that no one in the Great Van of Happiness is mouse droppings. Sometimes we just have to bloom where we are planted. Even if it is in the very back seat.

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Tagged as fighting, fighting in the car, parenting

June 7, 2015 · 7:06 pm

Holding to the Blog

This post is for all of you that love to read LDS blogs, or that are fascinated by LDS blogs, or that are secretly disturbed by LDS blogs.

When I was in college I took a Spanish intensive course. Part of this involved living in the Foreign Language House, an apartment complex devoted to helping students get a taste of language immersion. While in the apartment we would eat, socialize and interact completely in Spanish. When we left the apartment, say, to go grocery shopping or to work, we could speak English, but as soon as we entered our apartment we were back to Spanish.

A native Spanish speaker lived with us, to help us keep the rules. As long as she was around we ate, talked, sang, read and prayed in Spanish. It was intense. Every day I could literally feel my brain expanding, and it hurt.

Our native speaker was kind and encouraging. And when she wasn’t at home we did our best to always speak Spanish. But sometimes, in her absence, we would slip back into our Spanglish, or, even worse, we would start creating a whole new language altogether.

“Por favor, pass-a-me el salto. Gracias.”

It was faster to speak that way, especially when we became better friends and had more we wanted to say to each other. Often we tolerated each other’s mistakes without correcting each other because we knew what our roommate meant to say. Plus, it was hilarious, and our feeble attempts at fluency would often leave us rolling on the carpeta (real word: alfombra).

But then the native speaker would return home, and we dutifully went back to speaking proper,

painful,

pure,

cien-por-cien

español.

Now, back to LDS blogs (and blogs in general).

There are a lot of great blogs out there. They are interesting, colorful, easy-to-absorb, witty and intimidating. And they are written by people. People who have opinions and flaws and who are still in the process of building their testimonies (a process which lasts forever).

So sometimes they post or write things that make us feel uncomfortable and we think, “This person is a Mormon. Why are they writing/posting/sharing this or that? Oh my heck. The church must not be true.”

And then we lay awake at night, thinking about it.

Okay, well maybe you don’t. But sometimes I do.*

And that is when I have to remind myself about this prophet who had a dream. He dreamed about a misty land with an iron rod running along the landscape towards a magnificent tree that bore fruit that, when eaten, brought unspeakable joy. He knew that if he held on to that rod as he walked everything was going to be okay and it would lead him to the tree, and that it would bring great happiness to him and his family.

In the interpretation, the tree is the love of God, or more specifically, Christ. The fruit is the atonement. The rod that helps us get there is the word of God, or, in other words, the scriptures and the prophets. The rod is like the native Spanish speaker. All of the other stuff we read–facebook posts, videos, blog articles–these are people who are trying to learn Spanish. They are working through it. Sometimes they get it right. Sometimes they get it wrong. Sometimes they are just speaking craziness and are making up their own languages and calling it Spanish.

I just wanted to remind myself (and anyone else who might be listening) that it is easy to get confused, and that when we want to know the real truth the best place to look is in the scriptures. It is not as easy, it doesn’t have as many pictures and it is not as witty, and sometimes studying it makes your brain hurt. But that is just because it is expanding.

Some things are True. Everything else is just someone’s opinion.

Learn of me, and listen to my words; walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me. D&C 19:23

* Let me clarify. I do not doubt my testimony, the truthfulness of the gospel or the church, but it troubles me deeply when I read things written by members who seem to be actively spreading doubt rather than building faith.

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Tagged as bloggernacle, LDS, lds blogs, Mormon, truth

May 17, 2015 · 3:37 am

An Unintended Consequence

Long ago, in a land far away, Scott and I were the owners of a pest control business. The name of the company, if you must know, was Aardvark Aeration & Pest Control.

One freezing cold Saturday morning Scott woke me up early. He wanted me to help him test the brake lights on the trailer. He needed to make sure everything was running smoothly before spring began, and I was his lucky helper.

I was exceedingly unenthusiastic about this venture, especially when it meant sacrificing sleep and a nice warm bed. But I was a dutiful wife so I obliged. We put on our heavy coats, left our cozy apartment, and walked out into the frigid early morning air. The frosted grass crunched under our feet as we headed to the Datsun. Icicles hung from under the truck and entering the vehicle (which had no heating) was like shutting yourself in a freezer. I shrank into my coat as I bounced along in the passenger seat trying to muster up a good attitude.

There was not a soul on the streets. All intelligent beings were still at home.

When we got to the storage units, Scott had to punch a code into a key pad so the mechanical arm would raise up and let us into the facility. Once we reached the unit where the trailer was stored, Scott hooked the trailer to the Datsun.

While Scott pushed the breaks and fiddled with the wiring inside the truck, I stood at my post behind the trailer on the frost-covered gravel.

Scott: Are they on?

Chelsea: No.

It was cold, standing there in my pajamas and coat, with my hands shoved in my pockets.

Scott: Are they on now?

Chelsea: No.

I started jumping up and down to create body heat.

Scott: How about now?

Chelsea: Nope.

By now my nostrils were starting to freeze together. I’m pretty sure that is final stage of hypothermia.

Scott: Are they on now?

Chelsea: No.

Finally the wires were connected and the lights came on. Hallelujah. We got in, slammed the doors and headed toward the exit of the storage unit facility. As we neared the exit, I noticed some words printed in cursive along the mechanical arm. Absent-mindedly I read them out loud:

“Thank you for the privilege of serving you.”

A smile broke out on my husband’s face. “Well, Chelsea,” Scott said, “I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks for being willing to come out with me even though it is so early and cold. I really appreciate it.”

He reached for my hand.

It took my mind a couple seconds to realize what just happened. By some incredible accident I had unknowingly expressed appreciation for doing something I didn’t want to do, and it produced the most unexpected and pleasant response! His reaction was filled with gratitude, even though I hadn’t meant a word of what I said. It warmed up the whole morning and I felt that yes, indeed, it is a privilege to serve.

I still think of this experience all the time.

Small sacrifices.

Kind words.

The joy of being needed.

And the great privilege it is to serve the one you love.

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Tagged as kindness, love

May 8, 2015 · 10:16 am

My Mother: A Study in Great Fashion, Part 2

My dad often told people, “You owe it to your children to marry a beautiful wife.”

He was a man who always practiced what he preached.

Some of you may remember the post I made last Mother’s Day. I wanted to make a part 2 of that post for this year’s celebration of Mom, but there were just too many wonderful photos. As I looked for a common theme, I discovered something about my parents I never knew: my dad loved to take photos of my mom in cool places in front of cool cars.

The Fiat. My parents drove this before they were married. My mom said she didn’t like this car because it rattled too much and she had to hold the door closed as they drove.

After they were married they drove this Karmann Ghia. Mom loved this car.

This was a borrowed convertible that they took on a little joy ride to the other side of Utah Lake. This is where Saratoga Springs is now.

I love this photo so much I made it my screen saver on my laptop:

Their first of many Ford pick-ups, at Mammoth Hot Springs

The karmann ghia again at an old mission in San Luis Obisbo, CA

This is my dad’s very first fireworks stand/filling station in Jackson Hole. He and my mom ran everything since nothing was self-serve back then. This is her pumping gas for a customer.

Then kids started coming along. Here is the first of seven.

Karmann ghia

As the family got bigger the cars did, too.

Lovely station wagon in the ghost town of South Pass City, Wyoming (I think).

By the time I came along (#6), we drove a massive blue van with no seat belts. I cannot find any photos of my mom posing in front of that, but I’m sure she still would have made it look great.

But then, my mom could make anything look good. 😉

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Tagged as family history, Jackson Wyoming

April 30, 2015 · 4:14 am

The Burning of the Parthenon

For a school project Sophie and a friend were required to make a scale model of the Parthenon.

There was some good father/daughter time involved, and a beautiful replica was created. This was at Christmastime.

It is now April.

And we still have the Parthenon.

It migrated around our house, going from the dining room to the living room until finally finding a temporary home under the coffee table.

“We have to do something with the Parthenon,” I finally told Scott.

“Let’s burn it,” he said. “With gasoline.”

“No,” I said.

“With starting fluid.”

“No,” I said.

“With lighters.”

“I can’t use a lighter,” chimed in my 5-year-old son, “Let’s use matches!”

“Who taught you to use matches?” I said.

“Uncle Seth.”

Thanks a lot, dear brother.

So for Family Home Evening (something we do every Monday night) we took a box of matches and commenced the destruction of the Parthenon.

Since we are responsible parents, we also used this as an opportunity to teach the kids how to use a fire extinguisher.

It was pretty exciting for everyone involved, and filled with valuable teaching moments.

We wanted to let the flames consume as much of the Parthenon as possible before we let the kids use the extinguisher, so we let it burn.

There were photos taken, and some merry-making.

The flames rose higher.

And higher.

At one point the merry-making stopped and we all watched the fire with a growing sense of unease.

“Perhaps we should not have done this so close to our house,” I murmured.

“Nah, it will be fine,” said my husband.

When the flames started to melt the aluminum barricade that stood between the Parthenon and our deck I thought this was the perfect time to share a little family history.

“You know . . . ” I said. “The mountains around Malibu often catch on fire, and when my mom was a little girl her dad would sometimes stand on the roof with a hose to wet it down so their house didn’t burn.”

“I think I’ll go get a hose,” said Scott.

Once the side of the house and the deck were hosed down we felt better.

Then we decided it was time for the kids to do their own fire fighting.

Family Night didn’t last too long–maybe 20 minutes at most. By the end the Parthenon was an ashy pile of black ruins. Although it became a little dicey there for a moment, now we have four kids who can wield a fire extinguisher.

And our house is still standing.

All’s well that ends well.

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April 26, 2015 · 12:00 am

A Letter From an Apostle

It was the summer of 2003 and change was in the air.

First of all Scott and I discovered we were expecting our first babies. Yes, babiez. Then Scott got accepted to a PhD program that was 2,000 miles away (2,103 miles, to be exact). I would leave my full-time library job and all my friends and family in Utah and move to North Carolina where I didn’t know one person in the entire state, and become a full-time mom to twins.

Job change, place change, role change, life change! So exciting! We did not see it as something that would be hard, we saw it as an adventure!

But an unwelcome change was also on its way.

It was during this period of transition that Elder Neal A. Maxwell, one of the living twelve apostles, came to visit our ward (congregation).

Now, for those of you who are not LDS, this is a very significant event. Since we believe in modern-day apostles this is like having Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John walk into your church service. Usually the only time we get to see or hear the apostles is twice a year at a big mega-conference that is broadcast all around the world. Each apostle is loved and respected, and the sounds of their voices are as recognizable to us as the voices of our own family members. This particular apostle, Elder Maxwell, was coming because his granddaughter was in our ward and her son was being blessed, and by some miracle I was asked to give the closing prayer. I lumbered up to the stand with my big twin-belly, gave the prayer, and felt pretty exceptional that I was within winking distance of an apostle.

Soon after that my life took a most unexpected, untimely and unwelcome turn. My father passed away. Yes, you know him. My dad: the firework salesman. The builder of log homes. The creator of Him.

Now all those happy changes we were looking forward to suddenly darkened. My father would never see my babies–neither the two I was carrying or any more that would follow–and I was moving away from a mother who needed me about as much as I needed her.

The next week we travelled up to Idaho for the funeral. The day we got back to our apartment we checked our voice mail and heard a familiar voice:

“Hello? This is Neal Maxwell. I hope I have the right number. I’m trying to reach Chelsea Dyreng. I heard that her father passed away and that she is having twins soon and she moving across the country, and I thought I would call . . . “

Scott and I looked at each other, our eyes humongous. We checked the next message:

“Hello? This is Neal Maxwell . . . again. I’m still trying to get a hold of Chelsea Dyreng. It sounds like you have a lot on your plate right now. I’m sorry I missed you . . . “

Two messages–from an apostle–and I missed him!

I was totally disappointed that I had missed my one chance to speak with a living apostle, so I immediately sat down and wrote him a letter (this was back when people wrote letters), a letter that ended up being much longer than it probably needed to be. But I had to write and tell him all about my dad.

Then, a week or two later I received this in the mail:

(You can see how carefully I opened it . . . )

His letter was wonderful and sincere. How exceptionally kind it was for him to go out of his way–an elderly man, a cancer survivor, a man very busy with many other responsibilities–to take a moment to acknowledge my grief! What was I to him? I was just another church member, one of millions. He didn’t have to do anything for me, there was no benefit in it for him. But he persisted, not just calling me, but leaving multiple messages and then answering my long, circumlocutory letter with a compassionate letter of his own. Who does this?

In the Bible Jesus Christ designated twelve men to be his apostles. Their primary job was to be special witnesses of Christ. It means that they have a duty to tell people about Him. The word apostle means “one who was sent.” It means that they spread the good news and they act in the name of Jesus Christ, doing what he would do if he were here.

It would be enough for the apostles to just speak every six months at conference. It would be enough for them to travel around the world, organizing congregations and training leaders. It would be enough for them to be at the helm of the church, teaching people to be like Christ, but to go out of his way and to actually do something that Christ might have done?

Elder Maxwell passed away a year later. He was 78 years old. I can picture him up in heaven, meeting my dad and telling him, “I already know everything about you, thanks to your very thorough daughter.”

By seeking to comfort an insignificant pregnant woman in mourning, Elder Maxwell gained nothing . . . except a true and loyal follower.

I know I am not the only one who has had an experience like this. If you are LDS I bet you have a story, too. The apostles are always saying good things about us . . . let’s return the favor. #imetanapostle

24 Comments

Filed under Strange Mormon Customs

Tagged as apostle, LDS, Mormon, Neal A. Maxwell

April 14, 2015 · 3:32 pm

Cover Reveal

I know. It looks beautiful.

And totally creepy.

Doesn’t that make you want to read it!?

Perhaps some of you who have been following my blog might not think this seems like the type of book I would write, but don’t worry. When you start reading it you’ll know it was written by me. Sure, it is about village set on the ruins of an ancient Mayan temple, and there is some strange sinister thing that is happening to all the men in the village, and yes, several characters suffer very inglorious and undignified deaths, but I can’t write much of anything without having it center around about kids and women and marriage and all that good stuff, too. Suspenseful, yes. A little creepy, yes. A page turner? For sure. And funny? Of course.

Here are some FAQs:

How do you pronounce the title?

The title is pronounced “say-no-tay”

What is a cenote?

It is a naturally forming limestone well that exposes the aquaphor. They are all over in the Yucatan. The ancient Mayans used them for drinking water and to sacrifice virgins. Now-a-days they are very fun to swim in.

Did you have any say in what the cover was going to look like?

Surprisingly, yes. I gave my publisher several ideas and they totally grabbed one and ran with it. I think they did a great job! It is totally better than anything I imagined.

Whose arm is that?

You’ll have to read the book.

No, really, whose arm is that?

I’m not sure . . . I’ll have to ask the cover designer. Maybe it is hers.

What is your book about?

It is about a marriage, a village, and a secret that waits at the bottom of a pool of water.

When is the release date?

Nov 10

Where will I be able to buy it?

Not sure yet, but so far it will definitely be in the Cedar Fort catalog, Amazon and hopefully Deseret Book.

Thanks for taking a peek! I’ll give you more info, including how to pre-order your own copy, in the months to come!

7 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as author, first book, mayan, published, speculative fiction, the cenote book, womens fiction, writing

April 12, 2015 · 9:58 pm

A Bulletproof Marriage

So I started dating this new guy.

We’d known each other for a couple of weeks. He was tall, blond, funny, and a little cocky. He told me he was good at tennis. So when he invited me one weekend to watch him play in the annual 4^th of July tennis tournament in his hometown I tagged along. I was curious if this guy was actually as good as he said he was.

Of course, I didn’t know anything about tennis. So I sat on bleachers outside the courts, next to his 14-year-old brother who was clearly amused by my vast ignorance. But he was nice and patiently answered my questions and kept me updated on the score. As the tournament progressed I began to see that my date really did seem to excel at this sport. I smiled. I sat up a little straighter. I flipped my hair. If anyone asked me who I was I didn’t bother with my name. I just pointed out to the court and said, “I’m his date.”

But the best was yet to come.

During one match my date jogged up to the chain link fence and said to his little brother in mysterious tennis language, “Watch this. I’m going to ace him on the next serve.”

“What is an ace?” I asked loudly, not wanting to be left out.

Whispering, (because that is what you are supposed to do when you watch tennis) the little brother smiled and said, “Just watch.”

I peered wide-eyed through the fence as my date prepared for his serve by bouncing the ball a few times and casting a piercing stare across the net. Then he tossed the ball up in the air, at the same time bending his knees and pulling back his racket. Time stopped for just a moment as he waited for the ball to make its decent. Then, when the ball was in the perfect spot, he whipped his racket out from behind him and pummeled the ball, hurling it across the court. Before his opponent had a chance to even wet his lips the ball crossed the net, hit the corner of the service box and shot passed him, rattling the fence. Without his opponent even touching the ball, my date had scored.

Then he turned, pointed his racket straight at me and said, “That is an ace.”

Six months later we were married.

Rising in Love

Falling in love was so exciting. Scott was by far the most fascinating person I had ever met. But soon the “falling” part of love quickly got . . . well . . . impractical. Life happens. How are we going to divvy up responsibilities? How do we pay for the things we need and still have something left for things we want? Should we go into debt or wait till we can pay in full? Should we move or should we stay? Then children come along and all of those fun, private “couple-moments” are the first thing to be thrown overboard as each of us is just trying to do our best to keep the ship afloat. When all this is going on, who has time for each other?

In addition to that, those wonderful things that attracted you to each other in the first place can become unbelievably annoying. (“You are going to go play tennis again?”)

That is when you stop falling in love . . . and you start rising.

Falling in love is spontaneous, unexpected, surprising, a little reckless, and oh so easy.

Rising in love is deliberate, thought-out, scheduled, and sometimes very, very hard.

I don’t know why some marriages work and some don’t. I am only an expert on my own marriage (although Scott probably thinks he’s the expert). I don’t think anyone gets married with the expectation that the marriage will fail. At the beginning every bride and groom intends for their marriage to last forever. After all, we are soul mates. Nothing will ever extinguish the love we have for each other. We are bulletproof. Right?

But before you know it there are a zillion bullets zinging toward your marriage every day. Bullets from the outside, bullets from the inside . . . and you realize your marriage is anything but bulletproof. Often it is the small, “every-day” bullets that can do the most damage.

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My husband travels a lot. (Leaving me with lots of time to write blog posts.) On this particular trip he was going to be gone over Valentines Day. We had been having some internet issues with the way our phone and internet were set up. Sometimes the internet and phone would both crash and in order to get things working again Scott would unplug a bunch of cords and push some buttons and plug cords back in, blow three times, say the magic words, watch little green lights come on, do the hokey pokey and turn himself around and then the internet would start working again. For some reason I could never get it work, and my greatest concern was that the internet and phone would go out at the very moment one of my kids started choking (or some other catastrophe). I voiced this to him several times. Just before he left Scott handed me a paper of detailed instructions on how to restart the internet should it fail. Then he picked up his suitcase and said as he rushed out the door, “Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry I didn’t get you flowers.”

I held the instructions to my heart. “This is better than flowers,” I said.

We dodged a bullet.

I remember one week when Scott had back-to-back sports activities. One night was church basketball, the next night was doubles tennis (mixed!) then he got up early and rode his bike with friends, then that night there was another tennis match. Meanwhile, I was languishing at home with three girls under three, gulping for some respite like a dying goldfish stranded on a counter gulps for air. Then came the last straw. He came home from school, went to put on a new type of sports outfit, grabbed a new type of sports paraphernalia, turned to me and said, “Do you have any cash, Mom?”

Ah . . . Mom?

Well, that was the end of his sporting events for the week. He felt so bad that Saturday he surprised me with a light box he made himself that I could use for my art projects.

We dodged another bullet.

Then there was the time I was a week overdue with my fifth child and I found out I had contracted lice. Yes, you read that right: LICE. In my HAIR. “The world is ending!” I told Scott. But he helped me wash everything in the house and then he sat on the bench behind me and pulled every nit out of my very long hair. It was not romantic. But it was true love.

Another bullet dodged . . . which was a good thing, since that night we had a baby.

There are other “rising in love” stories, most of which will only ever be known to Scott and me. And I know there will be many, many more in the future . . . since we have a lot more rising to do.

Connected at the Core

After we had been married for a while one of the teenagers in our church youth program asked her mother a perplexing question, “Why did Brother and Sister Dyreng get married? They have nothing in common.”

What an observant child. Scott likes sports, Chelsea likes to read. Scott likes dogs, Chelsea likes cats. Scott likes to go to bed early, Chelsea likes to go to bed late. Scott thinks math is interesting.

But we do agree on some things.

When it comes to the important things, Scott and I are connected at the core. As for the things we don’t have in common–the things that make us opposites–well, that just keeps life refreshing.

SONY DSC

Despite what you may read or hear otherwise, marriage is still the best place to find happiness, the best place to give children the best odds for success, and the best place to develop selflessness. It is hard to rise by yourself.

(Click here for a short video that shows a heart-stopping example of what I mean.)

More and more I am discovering that the key to success in marriage can be summed up in one word: generosity.

Giving what is expected, and then giving more. And when that happens, marriage isn’t something that you are working hard to hold together . . . the marriage is what holds everything else together.

So there is no such thing as a bulletproof marriage. And that is good, since it keeps us on our toes.

11 Comments

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as falling in love, good marriages, marriage

Chelsea Dyreng

When I Grow Up

Back When I Was Queen

The Great Van of Happiness

Holding to the Blog

An Unintended Consequence

My Mother: A Study in Great Fashion, Part 2

The Burning of the Parthenon

A Letter From an Apostle

Cover Reveal

A Bulletproof Marriage

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