Taming the green

I'm linking to a Times and Seasons post for the second time this week. Just brace yourselves.

Margaret Young (whom I feel I almost know because I took a class from her husband at BYU and have seen her speak and play piano in Genesis meetings) is writing about her son not going on a mission and wrestling with parental guilt and jealousy. She seems to be doing it very well and of course writes about it beautifully. I started responding in a comment there, but it kind of veered off on its own thing and got long, so I thought I'd put it here, instead.

I'll confess. I'm a green-eyed girl, and maybe that will never go away. I do get jealous, on my parents' behalf but also on my own, of those families who can all sit together in the celestial room, who don't even wonder whether or not they will all go to church when on vacation together, who can teach their children very simply about things like homosexuality, who find it easy to respect each other's beliefs because their beliefs are all the same. Who don't have to have heartwrenching conversations until 2 in the morning just trying to understand each other. I don't get why some people have that and my family does not.

And I think it's natural to wonder. Is it because the Rolling Stones sat on the same record shelf as the Tabernacle Choir and Dialogue sat on the same coffee table as the Ensign in our home? Is it because our dad was gone many, many hours a week serving in a bishopric in an East Coast ward, getting a Ph.D. and working full time all at once? Because our overwhelmed mom sometimes yelled and offered spankings as discipline? I know my parents have asked these questions and made their peace with them, one way or another. I ask the same questions myself sometimes, thinking to myself that maybe I can avoid whatever mistakes my parents have made. (I answered the survey for that book, by the way, but I haven't read the book. I'm newly leery of the premise.) On some level I suppose I hope that maybe I can create the family I want, the family that my family of origin has morphed away from.

But I also know that's neither logical nor possible. First, it discounts all the wonderful things my parents did -- the boundless, affectionate and unquestionable love, the consistent family home evening and scripture study, the unshakeable commitment to the Church, the support for our interests and activities, the respect for us as human beings. It's not right to assume that none of those things counted.

Besides that, I can't avoid every mistake. I can't be perfect. And perfect or not, I will always be me. I will always want to read divergent viewpoints and listen to interesting music and, you know, maybe drink a Diet Pepsi every once in a while.

Most of all I know I can't control the choices my kids will make. That would go against what I believe about God's plan and free agency. Which makes me remember that my experiences now are supposed to be preparing me for a bigger role. And one of the simplest ways (there's that simplicity I was longing for) to act like I should act for that role is to love my family -- the original part and the emerging part -- no matter what.