Janelle Evans

Work, work, work, is my usual focus in life.  I like schedules, checklists, and the feeling of accomplishment that comes when goals are complete.  Yet, I have to say, it is also good to rest sometimes.  And that’s what I did, rested, played, and relaxed for an entire week.  (Oh, how nice it was to sleep in.)

I did cool things with my children.  While camping, we touched the only glacier in Nevada and walked through Lehman’s cave—awesome memories I’ll cherish forever.

It’s a good reminder to a stickler like me, taking an occasional break does not equal laziness.  As Gordon B. Hinckley said, “This life is to be enjoyed, not just endured.”

I recently spent the weekend out on my in-law’s farm.  And normally when that happens, I come home with some funny event or interesting farm fact.  However, this weekend, while I painted the huge cylindrical tanks where fuel is stored, a powerful epiphany struck me that had nothing to do with farm life.

Raised up off the ground by a metal framework, these metal gas tanks are protected from erosion from the minerals in the soil, but are still open to the elements from above.  Years of rain exposure had left splotches of rust marring the once perfectly white tanks.

As I brushed over those marks with a new coat of white paint, loving the way the blustery wind splattered me as well, I joked to myself, “What rust?  When I’m finished, these are going to look like band new.  Now if only it could be permanent.”  And that’s when it hit me, wouldn’t it be nice if we could do the same things with our life?

There are many instances, especially in my teenage years that I’m not particularly proud of.  Though I’m not the same person anymore, and have truly grown from the smart-mouthed meany I once was, those marks resurface every time someone from my past bumps into me.  It doesn’t matter how many coats of the “better me” I’ve added, all they can see is the splotches of my past underneath.

I don’t know what the answer is.  I can’t erase their memories since the MIB “Neuralizer” doesn’t exists.  And “sorry” loses it potency when it’s said a thousand times.  For me, I’ve chosen to move on and leave my past behind.  I’ll keep adding those coats of the “better me” and who knows, maybe one day the layers will be so thick it really will be permanent, no matter who I bump into.

Many months ago, I was told a very disappointing story about an elementary student who brought a water gun to school.  Another student had soaked this child with a water bottle the day before, and he brought the gun with the intent to retaliate in kind.  Of course, the school with its “zero tolerance” for all weapons took the gun away once it was revealed and exacted a punishment.  However, since it was a water gun and not a real one the principal decided not expel the child, but suspended him for ten days.

The parents of this child were furious.  They cried, “Foul,” played the race card, contacting the NAACP, The Today Show, bending everyone and anyone’s ear with power to have this punishment removed.  Eventually the school board capitulated, overturning the punishment within only a few short days.

The saddest part is these parents probably think they won a great victory, but all they did was teach their child the rules do not apply to them.  Yes, it was just a water gun, but remember the admitted intent.  The child brought the gun to retaliate against another student.  Do you really think the child will fear the rules the next time someone offends them?  They got away with it once, why not twice.  And the next time, the gun might be real.

As a parent, I understand the underlying desire to protect and save our children.  Yet, sometimes the best protection we can offer is allowing our children to feel the results of their choices.  How else will they learn for themselves the boundaries of right and wrong?

This past weekend my family and I took part in a city-wide sponsored cleanup, which left me with cracks in my fingers and a twinge in my lower back, but hey, I got a t-shirt out of it.  A very nice, bright orange t-shirt—now if only I was hunter.  Okay, all joking aside, I thought this event was a fantastic idea.  What better way to teach my children to appreciate the city they live in.  Once you’ve spent hours of tedious work sifting through acres of brush for bits of paper, cans, and other trash you’ll never leave another wrapper on the ground, I can promise you that.

In my excitement for this upcoming event, I came across a long time resident who surprisingly, refused to take part the in the annual cleanup.  “Why bother?” The woman said.  “It’s a waste of energy.  In two weeks, the trash will be back.” 

As a mother, if I had this attitude, I would stop bothering to wash dishes, do laundry, and the countless other never-ending household chores.  Most things in life are never done, and ignoring them doesn’t make them go away.  Have you ever walked into an uber-filthy house—the kind where narrow paths are the only way you can wade from room-to-room through the three-foot-high-sea of junk, and wondered, “How did it ever get this way?”  It starts, as I am constantly telling my daughter, with that toy you didn’t put away, or that wrapper you left on the floor, then the dirty bowl left by the couch, compounding with each item piling on top of the other.  It doesn’t happen overnight, but if you never picked up, your place would look just like the uber-filthy one I described.

Take pride, and take care of those things with which you’ve been blessed.  And I mean everything, even the city where you live.  You might find yourself working alone, that often happens when manual labor is required, but don’t give up.  No bystander will ever improve this world.  It takes effort, sweat, and sometimes, bloody fingers to make a difference—even if it is for only “two weeks.”