A few weeks ago I was shopping with my friend Cindy.  She is the mother of Eli’s best buddy Kayden, and she and her husband are both first generation Londoners.  By that I mean, her parents and her husband’s parents are all Vietnam-born Chinese.  They came to the UK during the Vietnam war and Cindy and Mike and their siblings were all born here. 

Cindy and I were chatting about Christmas, and she mentioned that she likes to work on Christmas Day for the financial perks it offers.  I expressed pity that she would have to work on Christmas and she pointed out that they aren’t Christians.  I asked her if the claimed a religion and she said not really, but if they did it would be Buddhism and ancestor worship.  (Both things I feel I can personally appreciate and relate to.)   She said they celebrate Christmas for its secular traditions and fun.  They get a Christmas tree and gifts and Christmas jumpers and Christmas crackers.  Then she made an off-hand comment about how funny it is that Christmas has become so much about receiving gifts, and how did that relate to the birth of the Savior exactly?  She wasn’t being snarky, just asking. 

Cindy and Mike are fantastic friends.  They are all the things we strive to be- generous, friendly and kind.  I’m so grateful for them.  And I’m so grateful that my own parents taught me about the value of other individuals and their varying beliefs.  My dad gave me a quote a few years ago that says  

“We find comfort among those who agree with us and growth among those who don’t.” (Frank Clark.) 

I grew up in Idaho, surrounded by members of my own faith, and then Christians beyond that.  Living here in London, in the particular part of the city we live, Christianity is significantly less popular.  There are Hindus, Buddhists, Atheists, and Muslims at my children’s school.  This has really caused a lot of reflection on my part about what it means for me to believe in Christ.  As I’ve thought about it and I’ve thought about what the life of Christ has meant to my life, I have realized that being a Christian is as much a part of me as my Hall skin tone and my DeSavigny laugh.  I can’t imagine a world without Jesus Christ.  

I am so grateful for my testimony of the Savior of the world.  I am grateful for His example, His Atonement and His grace.  

“Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift.” – 2 Corinthians 9:15

Thanksgiving day here in London was just another day.  Richard went to work, I took the kids to school.  I was feeling pretty glum about it, wishing I was in a home full of people with delicious foods baking and taunting, football watched and played, and between dinner preparations periods of pure laziness.  My house was quiet, there was nothing baking, and it didn’t feel like Thanksgiving at all.  It was definitely my most homesick day up to this point.  It made me think a lot about missionaries, and how hard it must be to be away from family. I at least still had the company of Richard and the kids, and they say misery loves company. 

The day went from bad to worse when I got a flat tire on the way home from picking up Simon from school.  Getting a flat tire here was a highly stressful experience in and of itself.  When I realized it, there was no place to pull over, there aren’t many parking lots and the streets are so narrow and busy that there just isn’t space to stop moving.  Finally I got away from the busy road and a man helped me park out of the traffic.  Then he wished me luck and went on his merry way.  There was no spare tire in the car (they try to make them as small as possible, essentials only) and I couldn’t leave the car there because it was illegally parked.  The car is also a rental, so anything we do has to be done through KPMG and the rental agency. Fortunately Richard came to the rescue and I came home and felt sorry for myself the rest of the day.  

Fortunately we planned our big Thanksgiving feast for Saturday, and invited the two missionary couples/companionships from our ward over to enjoy it with us.  I was so nervous about cooking a turkey and making gravy that I did a practice turkey and a practice gravy.  (Ironically, the practice turkey turned out better than the real turkey.) It was really hard to make a proper Thanksgiving feast with the resources and ingredients I have here.  I couldn’t make a graham cracker crust, so I improvised with Belvita biscuits.  I didn’t have my pie tins, or a roasting pan, or a few other kitchen utensils.  I couldn’t get jello for rainbow jello, and there were a few other things that I’ve already forgotten were missing  But all in all it turned out really delicious and we had good company.  

To kick off Christmas festivities I took the kids to the Greenwich lantern parade and tree lighting.  Greenwich is easy to get to from the kid’s school so we left straight from there.  It gets dark so early that the lantern parade was at 4:30 in the afternoon.  We had trouble figuring out where exactly we needed to go to see the parade but once we did it was fun to watch them go by.  The lanterns were all made by local school children, but I couldn’t get very good photos.  

After the parade passed by us, we worked our way to Greenwich Market, where the parade would finish and they would light the tree.  The kids got a little impatient because they couldn’t see what was going on at the front, but as soon as someone started a countdown they got really excited and everything lit up.  

We bought some treats at the market, and a balloon maker made Mim and Simon an Elsa balloon and a Rudolph balloon. Simon’s balloon popped before the day was through, but Mim’s Elsa balloon is still hanging around the house, albeit a little deflated, and it’s been a few weeks.  

If you were to ask me who was having the hardest time adjusting to our move here, my initial response would probably be Cameron.  He is the most vocal about it and he is old enough to recognise and express his feelings.  But Miriam seems to be having her own difficulties here.  It’s hard to say if her challenges are just a phase, a part of being Mim that we would face wherever we were living, or if they are the result of a drastic change in her world.  

When Miriam goes to school, it’s like a switch flips, and she is ON.  Active ingredients as my family likes to call it.  She is loved by everyone, from the moment we get to the bus stop she is Miss Social. She chats with kids of all ages, and their grown-ups.  On the playground in the morning she is surrounded by friends, not just from her class but from all over the school.  She seems happy and care-free and confident.  She is fun and playful and cheery.  

She is in school all day, five days a week.  We leave the house at 8:30 and don’t get home until 4:00.  And when we get home, the switch flips and she is OFF.  She is cranky and picks fights with her brothers.  She cries and complains about all the things that went badly at school.  She is tired and overstimulated and she just crashes in front of cartoons. Occasionally when she is particularly ornery I’ll send her to her room, and find her fast asleep when I go to get her for dinner.  

I’ll skip over all the ways Richard and I have analyzed this, and things we’ve observed about her and solutions we’ve discussed and just say that one of the things we thought she might need was just some one-on-one time.  I decided to take her out, just the two of us, on a Friday night. 

First we took the train to Covent Garden and ate dinner.  Then we walked around and looked at the Christmas lights and decorations, and finally made our way to Hamley’s so she could choose a birthday present.  She was so delightful.  The people in the restaurant at the table next to ours, and our server and other servers, all made small talk with her, and she politely obliged.  She was a trooper about walking, we walked and walked, rather I walked and she skipped.  She is just so full of life.   

We spent over an hour at Hamley’s.  She saw a few things she really liked, but she spent most of her time just playing with the numerous toys they have out on display.  She chose a Playmobil set for her birthday gift and we made our way back home.  On the train home someone asked about her Hamley’s bag and she told them all about how much fun she had in the store.  

I’ll write more about Mim on her birthday post, but I’m so grateful to have her.  

A couple weeks ago I realized that London is jam packed with fantastic museums and I’d only been to a few.   Just off the top of my head I could think of several major museums, The National Gallery, The Tate Modern, The British Museum, The Victoria and Albert Museum, The Science Museum, The Museum of London…  Anyway, I thought- it’s time! I better get started! 

I let Simon play hooky from school and we made a day of it. I knew that we would only get a small taste of the museum, due to our window of time being small and Simon’s attention span even smaller.  But we saw a German history exhibit and poked our heads into a few other exhibits.  

The exhibit consisted of objects and their context and relevance in German history. There was artwork, elaborate clocks, coins, clothing, fashion and war artifacts.  It was interesting, although a bit depressing.  Poor Germany.  It’s impossible to talk about the history of Germany without talking about the two World Wars, and the Holocaust.  Which is ultimately a serious downer.  

We had to see the Rosetta Stone, because it’s practically obligatory.  To be totally honest, before I saw it I had no idea what it was or why it was famous. In case you’re like me- it is an ancient Egyptian stone, from 196 BC that has a royal decree written on it in three different languages.  (Ancient Greek, Demotic and Egyptian hieroglyphs.) Because the content of the inscription is the same, it was key to historians for translating Egyptian hieroglyphs.  

While we were in the Egyptian wing, we checked out a few sarcophagi.  Eli has been learning all things Egyptian, so I’m sure we’ll go back and see more, but Simon was all about the mummies.  

And while I’m confessing, I also had no idea what a sarcophagus was until Eli told me.   A few weeks ago he checked out a book of Egyptian themed art projects from the library.  He kept asking me if he could make a paper mache sarcophagus and I kept putting him off.  Eventually he just took matters into his own hands, and did it almost entirely by himself.  He was so proud of it, and I was so proud of him for his diligent efforts. 

After entertaining myself for a couple hours we went back on the Paddington Trail to entertain Simon for a bit.  

We ended up in Soho, where we ate some lunch at Paul.  

(I don’t always eat at French cafe’s, but when I do I order something with cheese.)  

Then we walked down Carnaby Street.  Possibly my favorite street in London so far.  I’ve been there a couple times when we have visitors and it’s always decorated and festive.  There are unique shops and restaurants and it’s clean and well-kept. 

Then we went to the over-stimulating and colorful exhibition that is Hamley’s Toy Store, to see one more Paddington.  At this point we were short on time before we had to pick up the siblings so we cruised to the top floor to use the loo and then made our way back down all five floors, with Simon ooo-ing and ahhh-ing all over the place. 

It was a really fun, London-ish day.  

Every morning the kids and I stand at the bus stop and wait for the “321-New Cross Gate” double-decker red machine to come pick us up and deliver us to “Lucas Street” where we alight for Lucas Vale Primary School.   The kids have the bus ride memorized so well already that even Simon can recognize which bus is ours and which stop we need to get off at.  All four of them do a pretty accurate impersonation of the female recorded bus voice that announces each stop.  

The pre-recorded female voice announces a lot of other things too. 

“Please move down inside the carriage”
“The next bus stop is closed” 
“The destination of this bus has changed” 

That last one always elicits an “Oh crap” from me.  Grrr.  And then there is this one- which is my segue into the following anecdote.

“No standing on upper deck or stairs please.” 

A few weeks ago one of the boys had an assembly at school so Richard was with us, and Richard’s mom Julie was visiting so she was with us as well.  The seven of us all piled on the bus and spread out to find seats.  I don’t like to go to the upper deck unless we are taking a long ride, because going up and down the stairs with four kids when the bus is moving is both laborious and treacherous.  I also hate the way we all get seperated on the bus when it’s crowded, but this is often unavoidable. On this particular occasion there were several other kids and their parent’s from the school and it was hot and crowded.  From where I was standing I couldn’t see the top of the stairs, but the bus driver could on his camera and played the recording.

 “No standing on upper deck or stairs please.”

I didn’t see anyone move, so again-

“No standing on upper deck or stairs please.”

No response. So he stops the bus, shuts off the engine and waits.  As soon as the rumble and vibration of the engine stopped and the recording played again 

“No standing on upper deck or stairs please.”

Audible and visible frustration was manifested on the faces of all the other passengers.  The culprit, a mother Richard and I recognized from the school, defiantly and reluctantly descended down the bus stairs, but stopped, on the second to last step and stubbornly remained, cursing all the while.  Seeing her movement, the driver started up the engine and resumed the route.  But then of course, he noticed that she hadn’t actually exited the staircase. 

“No standing on upper deck or stairs please.” 

She stalwartly remained.  From the upper deck came an angry passenger, calling her names and shouting at her, to which she shouted back other nasty names.  The bus driver shut down the engine again.  

“No standing on upper deck or stairs please.”   

The nice thing about the prerecorded female voice is that she never gets angry, no matter how many times she repeats the phrase.  But the woman was angry. 

“Stupid bus driver- just go! So stupid.” (Please read that with a British accent.) 

This went on for a block or two.  The bus driver would start up again, but she would refuse to move, so he would stop again.  The other passengers were so frustrated, and I said to Richard 

“It takes a lot of guts to make an entire bus full of people angry with you.” 

Eventually I was tired of the cussing and at the next stop insisted that we all get off the bus and walk home.  It ended up being just a quick, the bus kept our pace all the way down the hill.  

The bus.  The iconic, red symbol of London.  The place where your toes get stepped on and noisy kids get glared at.  But also the place where a stranger will grab my child’s hand if the bus lurches and my child stumbles.  If I am out of reach a fellow traveler will situate my kid safely in their seat. The place where I can see people smiling about my children, while refusing to actually look at them.  Also the place where there is an unspoken rule that you don’t make eye contact or start a conversation. But also the place where Miriam breaks all the rules and makes friends, starts conversations, and socializes with her schoolmates every morning.  For as much as British people keep to themselves, there is also a pleasant sense of community on the bus.  The bus is the place where you drive everyone crazy when you watch a YouTube video over and over and over without headphones.  (Okay that only happened one time.)  The bus is the place where I see the most adorable little babes of diverse nationality.  And it’s the place where I smell foul odoriferous chaps and perfume saturated ladies. 

It can be a moment of respite and relaxation or it can be intensely stressful.   It can be a warm escape from the bitter cold, a steamy sanctuary on a rainy day or a sweaty sauna during the humid summer.  

I love and hate the bus. I love that it exists, I love that it is cheap, I love that we live within 5 minutes of a dozen bus stops. But I hate chasing down buses. I hate that they can be so unreliable. I hate that they jerk and I awkwardly end up in the lap of an elderly man.  I love that they stop nearly at the doorstep of my destination.  I hate that I have to stop at nearly the doorstep of everyone else’s destinations.  I love that they run all hours of the day.  I hate that they can be painfully crowded.  I love that they come regularly. I hate that if you get distracted and forget to signal the driver, the bus will pass you by, leaving you on the curb shocked and annoyed. 

I love the insight it gives me into the culture and daily grind of Londoners. 

 I love that I’ve met wonderful people and made friends at the bus stop.

Oh the bus.  

Simon is a big fan of Paddington.  We bought him a Paddington bear and a few Paddington books for Christmas last year.  When I heard about the Paddington Trail I was so excited.  I try at least once a week to take Simon into the city, but the things I want to do/see aren’t always things that would interest a three year old.  The Paddington Trail is the perfect way to entertain Simon while I get to see more of the city.  

The “trail” is actually a collection of 50 Paddington statues placed around the city to celebrate the release of the Paddington Movie.  The trail is also a fundraiser for the NSPCC, a children’s charity, and the statues will be auctioned off at the end of the year.  From the website: “Each of the statues [was] created by artists, designers and celebrities with the trail following the travelling bear’s favourite places in London.”

So Simon and started where it all began, at Paddington Station.  (The station existed before the bear, he was named after the station when he was found there by the Brown family.)  

All the bears we saw on this day were in the Paddington part of town, which has gone massive regeneration in recent years.  It was really pleasant and a nice combination of historic London charm (Paddington Green), along with new, modern and chic business development (Paddington Basin).  Most of the bears were sponsored by companies involved in the regeneration of the area. 

We actually started at Paddington Station, walked to Norfolk Square Gardens, walked along the Paddington Basin, the canals of Little Venice and then finished at Rembrandt Gardens before catching a bus back to the station. As soon as I spotted the next bear I would tell Simon and he would start running until he saw it, and then he would squeal with delight and shout “Paddington!”

 Here are some of the places we saw.  I loved it all!  

Fireworks in the winter is a really great idea, because it gets dark so much earlier.  

Except it’s cold.  And in November in London, rain is statistically likely.  

The first couple weeks of November are full of fun activities in London to celebrate Guy Fawke’s Day.  I’ve never heard of a holiday that celebrates someone’s failure, but that is exactly what Guy Fawke’s Day is.   He was arrested and brutally tortured and executed because of his failed Gunpowder Plot to assassinate James I of England.   God save the King.  So now on November 5th, and the days surrounding it, there are fireworks displays and massive bonfires.  

Richard got tickets to the Battersea Park Firework Show on Saturday night, because he knows I love this sort of thing. And in London, apparently tickets are required to fireworks shows in popular parks.  It turned out to be one of those things that will be a great memory, but in the moment was less than ideal. 

It rained the entire night.  And nothing gets cancelled in London for rain, because well, it’s London.  Fortunately we were mostly prepared and all wore layers, wellies, and toted brollies.  We also forgot cash, so Richard had to march down the lane of food vendors until he found one, (the very last one of course) that took a card.  There was a massive bonfire, that was so warm we could feel the heat from several yards away.  There were flame-throwers, and then of course the fireworks show which was synced to music.  The fireworks were good, but not phenomenal. 

I didn’t get any pictures of the fireworks because my camera battery died right after this picture. 

Fortunately Richard snapped a couple pictures with his phone.  

By the time the fireworks were over the park was seriously a muddy swamp. Richard was the only one who didn’t have wellies and his feet were soaked through, and his shoes were ruined.  If I had to advertise wellies I would talk about this night.  You know how when it’s raining or wet outside the water gradually creeps up your pants until you are wet up to your knees?  Wellies are a safeguard against that.  Of course in the picture above you can see that Mim and Simon’s pants are wet, but that was just because they are wild and reckless children and even in the rain they play tag and fall down and kneel on we grass.  MY pants were completely dry, and my feet were totally warm and cozy.  Wellies for the win. Even Richard was convinced by the end of the night that he needed a pair.  

We totally did the lame thing and watched the firework finale as we tried to make our way out of the park ahead of the crowds, it kind of backfired because we didn’t get to enjoy the finale and we still got stuck in the masses.  I seriously couldn’t believe how muddy it was.  

We made our way back to the train station and of course the trains were delayed and the platform was so crowded I was going to have a panic attack from fear that one of the kids would get nudged over the edge, so I insisted we take a different train home, which made for a longer journey.  

I think the kids had fun, despite the inclement weather, and Richard and I can look back on it and laugh it off as one of those memories.  

“I do not know all the reasons why the circumstances of birth, health, education, and economic opportunities vary so widely here in mortality, but when I see the want among so many, I do know that ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ I also know that although I may not be my brother’s keeper, I am my brother’s brother.” 
– Jeffrey R. Holland

I often joke with friends and family that we live in the ghetto.  It is the kind of self-mocking that comes from insecurity.  We don’t live in a posh neighborhood, we live in an area with council housing and subsidised apartments.   We chose it because of its proximity to Richard’s work, we fell in love with the house, and it just felt right.  And yet I hate telling people where I live, in fact I sometimes exaggerate our closeness to Greenwich or Blackheath, more charming areas.  

The other day a man came to repair our boiler.  We were talking about neighborhoods in Southeast London and he mentioned that Deptford is known to be the poorest area south of the river.  

Deptford is where my kids go to school. 

That really bothered me.  And it might be better if I could say that it bothered me because I didn’t feel safe in Deptford or because I didn’t think my kids went to an adequate school. But the truth is, I’ve never felt unsafe in my neighborhood or the area where my kids go to school.  And I have no complaints at all about my kid’s school.  Their teachers are intelligent and kind, their classmates are friendly and diverse, and from what I’ve researched, their government reports are categorised as “Good.” (Just below “Outstanding.”) 

So why does it bother me?  This is really difficult to own to, but I’ve realised that it bothers me because I don’t want to be associated with them.  I am not poor and I don’t want anyone to think I am.  

Any time I sense superiority or exclusion rising up inside of me I have to check myself.  There are definitely groups and categories I’m happy to not be a part of.  But why not poverty? 

I think there are two roots to my insecurity.  First- I have something to prove.  My husband has a good job, we have made responsible life choices, we are hard-working and financially practical people.  All these things are true.  But proving this to the world, or at least every person I have to tell where I live, is unnecessary because the truth is,

IT DOESN’T MATTER.  

I’ve attached my worth to a paradigm that isn’t even an option for many of the people that live around me.  My husband and I went to college because our parents encouraged us, occasionally footed the bill, and saw that we had adequate opportunity.  We grew up in a culture that valued education and we were blessed with emotional and physical stability and safety that allowed us to thrive and make good choices.  We work hard because our childhood was surrounded with examples of hard-working people and we had countless advantages in our functional and comfortable upbringings.  
These are all blessings I should be ever-grateful for, not merits I ought to feel compelled to prove by using a neighborhood as a status symbol.  

The second cause of my insecurity is that poverty can be uncomfortable.  I get nervous around panhandlers and feel awkward when the woman in front of me at the grocery store doesn’t have enough cash to pay for what she’s selected.   It’s uncomfortable to live amongst the poor.  It’s uncomfortable when my seminary girls comment on our house being so large.  (By American standards it’s not large at all.) It’s uncomfortable for me to make conversation with someone who is missing most of their teeth.  It’s uncomfortable for me to step around homeless people when I catch an early train on Saturday mornings.  Some aspects about living amongst the poor will never be pleasant, but they might be unpleasant in more compassionate ways, and less about me.  

Stereotypes and assumptions are tough barriers to break through.  I appreciated Elder Holland’s words about poverty so much.  His own humility and compassion were without condescension and inspired me to reconsider my own attitudes toward the poor; and challenge me to override the Ego of Jo and look for humanity in the faces of those around me.  

***********
I tried to write this post without sounding like a snob.  But I couldn’t do it and still be authentic.  Which I think means I AM a bit of a snob.  Which, as Marilla and the bible say, the truth shall set you free.  By acknowledging my snobbishness, to whatever extent it exists, I am free to change.  

On Saturday morning I went for a little stroll again to take some pictures.  Palm trees.  I wasn’t expecting that. 

After a breakfast of cheeses, pastries and prosciutto at the hotel we packed up and headed out.  There were about 10 things I wanted to see and do on Saturday before our 8:00pm train, which were obviously never going to happen, but priority was the American Cemetery, so we went back up to the coast straight away. 

The cemetery was a lot like the one we visited in Cambridge in that it was pristine, serene and simply gorgeous.  But it was much larger, and had a much bigger visitor center and different monuments and landscape.  

We walked through the visitor center, which is really what makes the experience.  They have done such a great job of personalizing and humanizing what can start to just feel like statistics and facts.  There were stories of soldiers who were killed, stories about French civilians, and all kinds of background about the war leading up to D-Day, the miracles of D-Day and then the fallout from D-Day.  It was so complex.  

It was bit overwhelming honestly.  A couple weeks after we came home I sat down and watched Saving Private Ryan.  I’m not into violent movies at all.  You can ask my family.  I have a reputation for walking out if there are “too many bullets.” But I wanted to see it.  I wanted to really experience it in the way most of my generation experiences war.  On the telly.  And it was painful.  But it was meaningful too, combined with the opportunity to have been there on the beach and in the countryside.  

There was also a movie in the visitor center, a family-appropriate movie, that focused a lot on the gratitude of the French people and the courage and sacrifice of the armed forces.  

I don’t really have much else to say about it.  I’ll just post the pictures. 

We ended up spending quite a bit of time at the cemetery, and we still had a three-four hour drive back to Paris to catch our train.  So we hit the road, and the drive was just as scenic returning as it was departing.  Once again, we made it to the station barely in time.  I expected the kids to all crash on the Eurostar, but I think they were too hyped.  They were pretty sleepy though on the tube once we were back in London.  

  And since our train came in at King’s Cross we made a quick stop at Platform 9 3/4.