Could It be Any More Different than the First Time, Really?

Stefani was 18 months old, Cory was 11 years old, with three other children in between the two of them. (In case you lost count that makes a total of five.) There were about 15 or so deacons and teachers running around my house. Literally. You see, scout camp started the next morning at 4:30 AM and John, who had been serving as the young men’s president, decided it would be better to wake up one household rather than 15. There wasn’t a quiet corner to be found, let alone room. So much so, that when President Pickering stopped by to speak with the newly called bishop (my husband) they had to go out to his car to discuss some much needed church business. I remember after a noisy goodbye, which probably woke up every surrounding neighbor (so much for the 'only wake up one household theory’. After all, have you ever been around a bunch of deacons getting ready to leave for scout camp? Well, if not I can tell you they are as giddy as girls, they just do it louder.) But I digress… After every door had been slammed (each about 20 times)and every enthusiastic scout had been strapped in, I dragged my ever so tired feet to the bedroom. It had been a long end to a very emotional day. As I finally laid my head down the clock read 4:45 AM. That was almost exactly 20 years ago and now, the comparison is shouting at me in silent realms. John has once again been called to be bishop (he is hoping the third time is the charm). I have been home from church, about an hour it almost 8:00 PM. The newly called bishop (my husband) is at a stake youth fireside. It is dark outside and the only sound to be heard in my home is that of my keyboard as I type. To add to the ambiance of my solitude, it is raining outside. Instead of a baby Stefani in my arms, a grown Stefani is in Hawaii on her honeymoon, in her husbands arms. My once then deacons are now 29 and thirty years old, in addition, a sister who is 27 and a brother 25. All are married, all live far away from us and now I look at the walls and dare them to talk, shout, say anything but they look at me in mocking silence and dare me to complain. Mind you, complaining I am not, just trying to decide which is better. Actually, there is no deciding. The household full of deacons and unattended children because I am busy trying to save the lamp or the flower vase that just got knocked over by the deacon who is running from the teacher, is the kind of silence that is golden. It is the kind of "silence" I prefer.

But alas, memories only speak so loud and for so long. It is still quiet…and I am still alone. Really, could it be any more different…Note to self: get on Skype, turn the volume up on the computer as loud as it will go and enjoy the sound of grandchildren. Life just keeps on giving doesn't it? Could it be any more better, really?