The High Price of Fame

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

When I was a young mom, I’d occasionally watch General Conference and wonder what it would be like to be one of those women who speak at the pulpit? My first thought was always that I’d have to have an entire new wardrobe—one without baby spit-up and cooking stains. Since that wasn’t likely anywhere in the near future, I usually just went back to cleaning the toilet.

The ensuing years have proven that my life situation definitely does not suit church-wide fame. For instance, there was the morning 43 years ago when the phone rang in the kitchen. I was still getting kids off to school; nobody answered. It stopped ringing. I figured whoever it was would call back. At least ten minutes later, I walked into the kitchen to find Son #3 (then two years-old) sitting on the breakfast bar chatting away with someone on the other end of the line. “Ben!” I said. “What are you doing?”

I grabbed the phone out of his hand. “Hello?” I said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize my son had answered when the phone rang.”

There was laughter on the other end of the line. “No problem. We had a lovely conversation.” That was astonishingly gracious of her, since it was the General Relief Society President OF THE WHOLE CHURCH who had called to let our region Relief Society know about a special meeting in the near future. I sighed and envisioned my name being redacted on some heavenly list somewhere.

Many years later I submitted a light humorous piece about my cub scout troop to the Ensign magazine—I had nine boys and a girl in that group. (Daughter #2 refused to let her brother have all the fun without her.) At the time, the magazine’s guidelines required a small photo of the author attached to the published piece. Their photographer called to set up an appointment with me. He said he wanted the background to be my home environment. “It helps people relate to your story if they can see you in your surroundings.” Hmmm?

Because I was then teaching middle school, we arranged to meet at my home an hour or so after school. Son #5 was a senior; my older kids were away at college or on missions. My husband would still be at work. The house would be quiet.

Frantically, I had cleaned the night before so that my “humble abode” would show it’s best, if worn and weary, self. This is where in novels, the plot thickens.

A couple of students delayed my exit from school, so I arrived home for my appointment only minutes before the photographer showed up. The living room was still orderly, but the kitchen and dining room looked like a robbery had taken place! Dirty dishes everywhere, cupboards open, empty bread wrappers absent-mindedly abandoned on the floor. Bacon grease sitting in a pan on the stove. And a couple of dozen eggshells littering the counters.

I knew immediately what had happened. Son #5 and his buddies had sluffed a class at the local high school and had come for home breakfast. It looked like French toast—their favorite. Evidence suggested that there were several of them. And because they tended to be straight ‘A’ students, they probably had headed out without cleaning up so as not to miss physics or calculus (or basketball—another priority) which actually required they invest some serious study. They assumed there’d be plenty of time after school to come back and clean up the mess.

The photographer beside me, I looked at the mess in dismay. I’m so sorry,” I said. “But I guess if you really want a picture of me in my true environment—here it is.”

He grinned at me. “Yeah, there were a lot of us at my house, too. Our kitchen looked just like this.”  He walked around a bit, obviously considering what might be the best angle for a photo. In the end, he chose to have me sit in front of the bookcase which divided our dining room from the larger living area. The shelves were filled with random sizes, subjects, and ages of books. From cookbooks to Dr. Seuss to a biography of Albert Einstein, there was not a single place in my home which better reflected who we were or what mattered to us.

But the truth is, I would have been OK photographed in the clutter of the kitchen amidst the mess of our everyday life. My dad once told me when we get to Heaven, a giant screen which documents our entire lives will be available for all to see. The good stuff and the bad. It’s pretty clear I was never destined for fame; but I hope the record shows what was most important to me: two year-olds who chatter away to strangers, then grow up to have two year-olds of their own, or a young friend who knew he was welcome in my kitchen regardless of the mess–and grew up to lead the high school down the street. Fame just cannot compete with that.