tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19062368036086043742024-03-13T21:27:47.019-07:00Joy In The JourneyKathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-11660751211241935602022-04-27T14:16:00.000-07:002022-04-27T14:16:04.442-07:00On growth<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The annual reminder popped up on my phone in February: Prune Roses</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I looked out the window toward the two young bushes, the bright pink blossoms dotting the stems. I have loved this very tiny bit of color in my very gray back yard. The fragrant fuchsia colored flowers are my favorite. I want to enjoy them just a while longer. I knew the pruning would wait another week, but not more.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Roses have a timetable. Pruning is vital to their ability to grow stronger stems and larger blossoms. I took my tiny garden shears outside and snipped one perfect bud that was about to open, leaving the rest to brighten my view from the back porch for a little longer. "Next week," I promise them. Next week I will make you stronger.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjDlxZxY6WMlaW_FvpiitZmgnIXIo78YUJzuRuUkKBiV49HyR6DCQQPFeKWk-S-UhJ3CDGQjalJaOv4K-FeMdd2lYItkXpNj7c7chqwEG1zNpUj2S268i8V7lT4A1HDh-w2s7KiNCENtjZXXe5bcFEoa5BDV14gbaLlvSoUy9_z6RSArmCe7Q5DjT/s4032/7C160557-0932-4A8C-9927-1BD38841C6B7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjDlxZxY6WMlaW_FvpiitZmgnIXIo78YUJzuRuUkKBiV49HyR6DCQQPFeKWk-S-UhJ3CDGQjalJaOv4K-FeMdd2lYItkXpNj7c7chqwEG1zNpUj2S268i8V7lT4A1HDh-w2s7KiNCENtjZXXe5bcFEoa5BDV14gbaLlvSoUy9_z6RSArmCe7Q5DjT/w206-h275/7C160557-0932-4A8C-9927-1BD38841C6B7.jpeg" width="206" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In a moment, a week had passed. Today is the day. Already the days are warmer and shiny new leaves are beginning to grow on the roses. The remaining flowers seem larger than last week, almost as if the roses are saying, "Wait! Don't cut just yet! Look what we can do!". But I have already waited. The deed must be done. Reluctantly I begin by snipping off all the buds and flowers. Four, five, six blooms snipped away. Pink petals from one bush, fuschia from the other, I cradle the petals in my gloved hand. The blooms are nearly spent- they fall apart the moment I touch them. Next I turn to defoliating the plants: stripping off the leaves. Alllllll of them. This will help fresh new leaves grow in just a few weeks. "This is good!" I tell myself. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">But then I see what I had somehow missed before: two tiny, perfect unopened rose buds. How can I cut these off? They haven't even begun to grow! There will be lovely scented roses here soon. Yet I want the bush to be stronger, to be able to make even better blossoms than these. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJU73_Q8GGIIe_ytVhYAQ5Xrutxo_Rcgsat8ApNjftGrQHl2o8dd1YmdvvdWuvc22ozgpCUvNlOnYdYd6w2NNv0rQD5Gqzf0vj29XUnTAJPKRCBg2r1cbBqvlmxhJyhdLuVrTaBSOdeIQbneie1RI1djLJj7UpwJheMW8ymHeCfMDxeU-tvq_YXrSR/s4032/BAEB20D8-0DAB-4F04-AD54-22E2679D8042.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJU73_Q8GGIIe_ytVhYAQ5Xrutxo_Rcgsat8ApNjftGrQHl2o8dd1YmdvvdWuvc22ozgpCUvNlOnYdYd6w2NNv0rQD5Gqzf0vj29XUnTAJPKRCBg2r1cbBqvlmxhJyhdLuVrTaBSOdeIQbneie1RI1djLJj7UpwJheMW8ymHeCfMDxeU-tvq_YXrSR/s320/BAEB20D8-0DAB-4F04-AD54-22E2679D8042.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I return to snipping again, snipping away the green, leaving bare, brown, thorny stems. I think how Heavenly Father understands this. But it's not the roses, it's me. He sees the potential blossoms I can make. The potential for growth. And he knows that humbling me, pruning back the wild stem here or there, will help me grow stronger. Darn! It's a bit painful as I snip the tiny buds from the stem. I feel like the roses, "Wait! Look what I can do!" I feel the tears; so exposed, so raw. In my mind the lessons expand; I will learn even more if I allow the Master to refine me. I feel the sun warming me, I want to stretch. I want to grow. The breeze clears the dust from my mind. I am learning to be even better. God is making me so. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWkzAwkaZw0FzEIzNJUwBFfqmtyVucJ0EBlzdkaHjZMj3Vr8a5-FOXd3iQj_GpcUUFR4bLZcFhslw0rH77y9hp4rZXyA2PD68ndpxDyO0-RxtEfBWrO5Rc1EGnNAI54WaTQJpk6Vxe6ENnl2U7roxaYBYzzruB3hbLZwpPWll5rZ_0AHV6l3ROa1Q/s4032/D615531F-99C8-4D08-BD2A-2CD2D5EEBC92.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWkzAwkaZw0FzEIzNJUwBFfqmtyVucJ0EBlzdkaHjZMj3Vr8a5-FOXd3iQj_GpcUUFR4bLZcFhslw0rH77y9hp4rZXyA2PD68ndpxDyO0-RxtEfBWrO5Rc1EGnNAI54WaTQJpk6Vxe6ENnl2U7roxaYBYzzruB3hbLZwpPWll5rZ_0AHV6l3ROa1Q/s320/D615531F-99C8-4D08-BD2A-2CD2D5EEBC92.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpGrV9z77-HqdciD7dsSCuO0ctH8oenRagKXENPRMqmyVcqAGWyKW9nzwXzgdoheqd4VGhKsavsXtBxdiJAGcMLN2FhOzyPA2wOUU1zzpOMTZW63L5Gd3tQsRiZgh_xs3zeev2Av1FQWj07USlzuiDpxSjNAH62f3vmJMjabHvdXPKIpDXX1bLBRi/s4032/F41E1C2C-22B8-488F-958A-B2E8B5C7C0AD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpGrV9z77-HqdciD7dsSCuO0ctH8oenRagKXENPRMqmyVcqAGWyKW9nzwXzgdoheqd4VGhKsavsXtBxdiJAGcMLN2FhOzyPA2wOUU1zzpOMTZW63L5Gd3tQsRiZgh_xs3zeev2Av1FQWj07USlzuiDpxSjNAH62f3vmJMjabHvdXPKIpDXX1bLBRi/s320/F41E1C2C-22B8-488F-958A-B2E8B5C7C0AD.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-71465547557453378882020-12-12T07:16:00.003-08:002020-12-12T07:50:41.417-08:00Six-million Dollar People<p><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">When I was a kid there was a popular tv show called The Six-million Dollar Man. The storyline was that a gifted military man had been badly injured, and scientists and doctors used the latest technology to rebuild him with bionic eyes, arms and legs. He could hear and see things further away than humanly possible. His reflexes and physical abilities were heightened, he could do things faster and better. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">I still remember the opening trailer lines, “We can rebuild him, we have the technology! He will be faster and better than humanly possible” </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">And people were so excited about all those possibilities! What if we could really see further away than anyone else? So cool! </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">I keep thinking about that as we drag ourselves through this pandemic and subsequent world and life commotion. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">We are discovering we cannot do things like we’ve always done them: </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Serving others? Wear a mask. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Attending Church? Wear a mask. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Dining out? Drive through instead (at least you still won’t have to wash the dishes after). </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Visiting the sick? Use Zoom. Or, more accurately for some, learn to use Zoom</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">But the effect of all this learning new ways of doing things is also a mental drain. I don’t know about you, but I am a creature of habit. My routines in the morning are fairly set, and having to change them, by say, remembering to bring a mask, or any other routine for that matter, taxes my brain. It would be so easy to say, “I don’t like this, It’s too different, I’m not going to do it until I can do it the way I’m used to.” </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">What happened to the excitement over bionic anything? </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 25.1px;">And what is that complaining really saying? Imma be blunt: I think it's like saying, “this is about me, I’m not going to learn new ways to serve and help others, I’m just not going to love and serve others until I can do it my way.” </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Here’s the thing; we can rebuild our lives. We have the technology. We can lift the limits of communication by learning new ways to reach out. (Bionic eyes, anyone?) We can expand our ability to love others by being willing to gather with masks on and learning to communicate with our words, not just our smiles. It’s a test! If our love for our fellow man is deep enough, nothing should stand in our way. </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">I’ve discovered as I’ve worked to embrace all of these new things needed (cough, masks, cough) to continue in new paths, those paths have become easier to travel. Virtual meetings feel more normal, we can still laugh and find joy in the connection. For in person gatherings, the smiling eyes peering over masks are sweet to my soul. Friends, we NEED connection! </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Yes, it takes effort. Yes, it involves surrendering some of our agency by doing what we’re asked or told. Here’s my thinking on that: the Law of Sacrifice says that we receive no blessings for giving or sacrificing unless the sacrifice is given willingly. I NEED those blessings! I need to be able to see friends, see family, attend church and many other things, so I am going to adjust my thinking to give a willing sacrifice of wearing a mask so I can do that. It’s the </span><span class="s3" style="font-size: 25.1px; font-style: italic;">willingness</span><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"> to do that that brings the joy. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">I’m reminded of the words of this hymn, </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 144px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">“In word and deed he doth require </span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 144px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">My will to his, like son to sire,</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 144px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Be made to bend, and I, as son, </span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 144px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">Learn conduct from the Holy One.” </span></p><p class="p5" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 144px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 25.1px;">Maybe these words are better,</span><span style="font-size: 25.1px;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">“Ain’t no mountain high enough to keep me from you, [friend]!”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;">I’ll wear a mask, too! </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 25.1px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 30px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 25.1px;"></span><br /></p>Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-36759239246133811762020-03-21T11:42:00.000-07:002020-03-21T11:45:32.314-07:00Give Me Jesus<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hung out my Easter
Lanterns. A couple of years ago I made these sweet little glass jars with
candles and colored ribbons to hang along the front walk. I am always drawn in
by their light as I walk by the lusciously scented Jasmine, the pastel ribbons
softly swaying near the blossoms. I feel such peace when I walk along the path.
Easter lanterns symbolically leading the
way to Christ.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBBZb1P0PxY/XnZfk01uXEI/AAAAAAAACWk/ndMIxlbK0jEgZ1vdorovasI1oZJPRQnFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/40AA4975-C5A9-41FB-91D3-CB26A8FBDF53.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBBZb1P0PxY/XnZfk01uXEI/AAAAAAAACWk/ndMIxlbK0jEgZ1vdorovasI1oZJPRQnFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/40AA4975-C5A9-41FB-91D3-CB26A8FBDF53.heic" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This year the world
is in a commotion like I've never seen. And I'm reasonably old enough to say
that with some kind of emphasis! What are we to make of all these events? Every
day it seems something else dramatically shifts, I think people may be a little
bit afraid to even get out of bed in the morning; what will happen next? And so
many prophetic scriptures come to mind! Like this one:</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">"</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-style: italic;">For nation
shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be
famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places." Matthew 24:7</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I woke up a few
mornings ago with the old song running in my mind:</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"In
the morning, when I rise.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In
the morning, when I rise</span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1.5in;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In
the morning. When I rise, give me Jesus."</span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I think my soul
needs His Light and His Peace. Isn't that what we all need? The greatest source
of hope in trying times is the Savior. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Around me, people
are panicked and afraid. I do not need to list all the many ways our lives have
changed in the last few days and weeks. Things are SO different!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We're creatures of habit, most of us. It's a
bit unsettling to not be able keep our treasured and soul sustaining routines.
To not see our friends and give them hugs. We tell ourselves we're sacrificing
to keep others healthy, and this is a good thing. But for some, it's just hard
to make the best of a difficult situation. We let the fear of what is yet
unknown before us take over in our minds, and it creates a very real panic. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Throughout my life,
through times of difficulty, I have felt the Savior's love and presence in my
life. In times of deep heartbreak He has comforted me. In times of fear, I have
felt a blanket of calm. During anxious times that have driven me to me knees
over and over, I have experienced His Peace and Grace. In times of loss, I have
been buoyed and carried in ways I never could have imagined. Even now, when
those around me are filled with anxiety and fear, I can testify that Jesus
Christ is the source of all peace and hope. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When we turn to Him,
we have no need to fear, this I know is true!</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Give
me Jesus,</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Give
me Jesus!</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You
can have all this world</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But
give me Jesus."</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And others are
turning to Him too. And finding peace and hope. A very few of us gather in
homes on Sundays to sing hymns and worship. Some of us gather in a FaceTime
group for uplifting scripture discussion. We FaceTime people now more than
ever! There are good people out there; I stood near a woman waiting in a line.
A woman behind us in that line had some health issues. When the door opened,
the woman in front of me and offered for the woman behind us to go ahead.
"I am not the person who pushes others out of way". It made my heart
smile. There is more of this….we all can tell of such experiences…and it brings
us hope. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No guilt in life, no
fear in death,</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is the power of Christ
in me</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">From life's first cry to
final breath,</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jesus commands my destiny</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No power of hell, no scheme
of man,</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Can ever pluck me from His
hand</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Till He returns or calls me
home</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #2f2f2f; font-size: 10.5pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here in the power of Christ
I'll stand."</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last week, a
broadcaster mentioned on social media that he was going to hang his Christmas
lights back up as a sign of hope! And boy, did that catch on!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>CHRISTmas lights! </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's not surprising
at all that someone thought Christmas lights as symbols of hope. Well, of
course! Suddenly it has become the Season of Lights once again. And oh, how
uplifting those lights are to our souls! They remind us of the Light of the
World. The Passover Lamb. They remind us of Jesus. Jesus, the Source of all
Truth and Light. They are not just CHRISTmas lights, now they are HOPE lights.
Easter Lights. They lead us toward Him! </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"These
things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye
shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's not Easter
month yet, but the lights are out. Lights for Jesus. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">May we all feel His
Hope. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9lNeJ_ZHEo/XnZfyHAliZI/AAAAAAAACWo/y1ahScmoAaIqtNRgU6lxS9vH8SbzkfNXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/23B0D97B-D5E4-4C02-93AF-3420FEA24687.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9lNeJ_ZHEo/XnZfyHAliZI/AAAAAAAACWo/y1ahScmoAaIqtNRgU6lxS9vH8SbzkfNXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/23B0D97B-D5E4-4C02-93AF-3420FEA24687.heic" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-600106394883456842020-03-15T21:37:00.001-07:002020-03-15T21:39:30.639-07:00Beans for Citrus<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-semibold"; font-weight: bold;">Who could have predicted the events of today? </span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-semibold"; font-weight: bold;"><i>(Thursday, March 12, 2020- an announcement that all Sunday Church meetings are suspended due to a global pandemic)</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-semibold"; font-weight: bold;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">I can’t even predict the events in my garden! I planted citrus, hoping for sweet, fresh fruit in a few months. I thought I had done well, but tonight I discovered the heavy, heavy rain today have left the citrus blossoms like a snowy blanket on the ground.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">No blossoms, no fruit. My heart sank.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">Then I discovered that a very old packet of seeds are still capable of sprouting.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">God gives beauty for ashes. And beans for citrus, apparently.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">It’s not my plan, it’s His.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">Maybe I’ll learn to love beans more than tangelos. And Church at home. And beauty for ashes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";">Because He is the giver of all good gifts.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: ".SF UI"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfui-regular";"><br /></span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-57063965055753233492020-03-01T20:05:00.001-08:002020-03-02T08:08:35.322-08:00A Testimony of the Restoration<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before I even
learned to read, I received a book from my Aunt Freda Smith that soon grew to be my
favorite. it was a thick volume of Illustrated Stories from the Bible for children.
Once I learned to read, I spent hours reading the stories late at night. Now don't tell anyone, because I'm sure my parents thought I was sound asleep! I loved to look at the
religious art pictures as I read each story, trying to imagine what it felt
like to be there, what else I might have seen if I had been present. I loved to think about the courage of Shadrach, Mesach and Abednego or Daniel, who had the courage to worship God, even when it meant there could be serious consequences for them. My faith grew and I felt God's love when I read that He had saved and protected them. When I
went to children's classes at different churches, I already knew
well many other stories of faith and courage I had discovered in the pages and had begun to feel God's Spirit speak
to me. My soul hungered for more. Months before that I had begun attending various churches. Sometimes I attended with
neighbors or friends, but most often my parents would drop me off and return
for me after services were finished. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On one particular Sunday, my Dad brought me to the Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter-day Saints for the first time, and left me there alone to attend, just as he had done at other churches.It was here that the seed of my testimony of the Restoration was planted. Dad gave my name and age to a good brother who met us at the door, and asked what time he should return for me. Although this good brother invited him to stay as well, Dad clenched his cigar tightly in his teeth declined but promised to return, then left me there. (I still giggle when I think of that- Dad really tried to resist!) It was quickly determined that Sister Karen Orgill
was to be my teacher, so I was brought to the pew where she and her children
were seated in the Chapel during the opening exercises, so that I could know
where to go when the time for classes arrived. I was immediately introduced to
and befriended by her son, David, who would also attend the class since he was
my age. David proudly informed me his Dad was named Bishop and was sitting at the front of the chapel. He sat next to me and carefully explained as each thing happened during
the meeting. Oh, there were many new things to experience! David would say,
"We're going to do this next," and in response to my puzzled looks
(what, exactly IS the Sacrament?), his mother would say, " David,
Shh!". Soon he just said, "just watch and see, you can ask questions
later." I think this was pretty much a miracle, that another 7 year old
could know enough to share what he knew with me. That had never happened at
other Churches I attended! </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Soon the opening
meeting ended and it was time to go to different classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was again welcomed there as we joined a
group of children my age in a classroom. Sister Orgill had prepared a special
lesson and when she began to speak, I recognized the feelings that I had felt
when I read bible stories. Feelings of peace and comfort. Feelings of
happiness. Even when I didn't completely understand, I knew I felt happy and
warm in a way I had not felt before and it felt good and right. Sister Orgill explained that our lesson that day was about something
called The First Vision. The room was fairly silent as she began to tell the
story, using some religious pictures I'd never seen before. My imagination was
sparked, I listened carefully. This young boy, Joseph Smith, had read the bible
too! He had attended different churches just like I had! He had determined that he needed to know for himself about God, and so he
prayed. This was something new to me. Despite my having attended other churches for quite some time,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>an individual prayer that wasn't a recited
prayer or read from a prayer book was a new idea for me. I'd never considered
that. But as Sister Orgill continued, I felt more clearly and distinctly that
the Holy Ghost was bearing witness of things that were true. The idea that God
and Jesus Christ could appear to man wasn't new or strange, since I had already
read biblical accounts of this happening to Moses, Abraham and others. In fact,
hearing Joseph's experience answered a question that had caused me to question the
Pastor in another church when he said God had not a body and no man could see
Him. How could Moses see God if God didn't have a body? Well, Joseph Smith knew
and now I had just learned it too! SO many questions were answered in just that one lesson!</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Looking back, I
think Sister Orgill was inspired as she taught for I don't remember the thing
that happened next ever happening again in a children's class I attended. But
it became a sacred experience for me that day. Sister Orgill<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>asked the others in the class if they would
like to bear their testimonies of the Gospel and of the First Vision. First,
she bore her testimony, which spoke deeply to my soul. Next, several other
children did as well, including my new friend David. (I think now, looking
back, that he was a natural missionary).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually, everyone but me had spoken. Sister Orgill looked at me and
asked if I had anything I wanted to say. She sensed that my heart was nearly
bursting with sweet and tender feelings. although I had just barely learned what a
testimony was, I felt I had something to say, so I did. I said that even though
all of these things were new and amazing to hear, I had felt the familiar
feelings of the Holy Ghost and believed that the First Vision had happened. As
I spoke, I felt that feeling again and knew that I wanted to return to this
church again and again, to learn as Joseph had, more of the things that were
true.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, you know that was
just the beginning. A testimony of anything requiring faith has to be cared for
and nurtured. Learning has to continue for a testimony to flourish. Just as
Joseph Smith wasn't content to sit with the miraculous knowledge he'd received,
I couldn't just sit with my new found understanding. Joseph continued to learn,
continued to pray and seek information from God. And over the years, in
addition to regularly attending church, I have done much the same. As a young
pre-teen, I read books about the history of the Church and about Joseph Smith.
I visited Church historic sites as a teenager, trying to absorb the feelings
more deeply. At every turn, my understanding and testimony grew. Eventually, I
made a serious study of the marvelous work called the Book of Mormon, and
received a sacred witness of it's truthfulness as well. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">President Russel M.
Nelson has invited us to ponder how our lives would be different without the
knowledge of the Restoration. Thankfully, I can clearly remember the time
before and the time after I gained that tiny spark of testimony. Peace and Joy
entered my life to a degree I had not known before. I gained a deeper
understanding of God's love for me. A few weeks after that day, my mother began to attend church with
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few months, she and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I were baptized, and a few years later, my
father as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our family was sealed in
the Holy Temple as a forever family, to eternally enjoy the blessings of the
Gospel. It's true there have been times of trial. But as the scriptures promise, there
has also been joy to equal the trial. For me, one of the greatest blessings of the Restoration is Peace
beyond all understanding, and a deep knowledge that God loves me individually
and provides blessings and experiences designed to help me learn and grow and return
to Him. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Without the blessings of the Restoration, all of this would be lost to me and to my family. So many other blessings come to mind, most are too precious to write. I can say that my testimony of the Restoration of the Gospel has grown since that day in Sister Orgill's class. My testimony of the Book of Mormon began that day as well. I love the perfect words of that book and the peace and power I receive when I drink from it's fountain. I am SO blessed and so grateful! </span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-68610604810744742652019-05-22T21:54:00.000-07:002019-05-22T21:54:01.423-07:00Baseball Games Lost and Good Hearts"You won!! Great game!!" I said to my son as he smiled and then hung his head. Now I was curious why he wasn't more excited for this first win of the his first Little League season after six losses straight. Most kids would be SO thrilled. Not this kid. Pleased, yes. Happy, yes. Overjoyed; no.<br />
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And then I watched as his best friend crossed the field. His best friend who played on the opposing team. His hand held up for a high five, he said to my son, "Good game!" to which my son responded, "Yeah, thanks. Sorry you had to lose, though. Losing's not so fun." They grinned together, friends who understood.<br />
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And suddenly I understood. My little-league player understood how it felt to lose, having lost so many games so far. He understood, better than most probably, how his friend felt being on the losing team this time around. "It was sort of weird. I was happy for me, but sad for him."<br />
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30 years later, I am watching grandsons play the game. All of them posses athletic gifts like their fathers. All of them hit home runs and strike out. They make great plays and sometimes not so good plays. They have wins. They have losses. The losses hurt. And their dads wisely remind them that it's good to win games but losing is good too, sometimes. It teaches us compassion. And to work hard towards improvement. And to have a good heart.<br />
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It's good to win games. But it's better to have a good heart.<br />
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<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-69089544021335048062019-04-23T17:15:00.000-07:002020-03-02T08:25:30.883-08:00The Saviors of the Garden<br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">"We 💓 Aphids!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>proclaimed the bright
green bucket with the picture of a smiling ladybug on the side. I sure hoped
so! The white rose bush was overrun with hungry green aphids sucking the life
from the stems. This little bucket of ladybugs was the last resort- mostly
because the nursery was fresh out of pre-fed ladybugs when I visited several
days before.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Oh, I'd tried other remedies; a soapy water spray knocked a few bugs
off the stems, but it seemed like they crawled right back when my back was
turned. I tried knocking the bugs off by hand (Eww!), but the thorny stems made that
painful as well. After just a few days, the aphids not only persisted but had
increased in number. There was only one thing left to try- I hoped the swarm of
ladybugs in the cute little bucket would save the roses.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Evening came, the
garden air had cooled. I knew the time was finally right to open the bucket. I
misted the rose stems with water, then carefully lifted the lid. Sweet red
droplets of Ladybugs flew everywhere. I sprinkled as many as I could near the
bottom of the plant as well as the neighboring rose bush which was strangely
aphid free. Darkness fell. I went inside and prayed the roses would be saved.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">My sister said it
wouldn't work; my niece's ladybugs all flew away. I hoped she was wrong.
Nothing else had worked! I needed help! My own efforts hadn't changed a thing. These roses hold special meaning for me, I didn't want
to lose them to some bugs that were so small one can barely see them. Invisible
sinners, those bugs.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">As the sun rose the
next morning, I hurried to the garden. At first it looked like my sister might
be right- the tallest stems still had a fair number of aphids clinging to them.
But then I looked at the lower stems. Dozens of ladybugs were hard at work,
eating the aphids as they ! All night long they had worked their way
up the branches, covering every inch of the bush as they did. Two lower stems
were now completely clean. I could see black specks- the remnants of aphid
bodies discharged on the leaves, but the stems were clean and free. I was so
happy I almost cried! The roses were going to be saved! </span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">By late afternoon,
nearly all the aphids were gone. A few ladybugs remained, as if they had stayed
behind to protect the flowers. I said a prayer of thanks for a Perfect Creator
who knew how to ensure the most beautiful flowers could bloom freely, despite my own feeble efforts.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Three days later, I
looked out on the garden and saw the rose buds beginning to open. An hour later their ruffled petals had burst into glorious white blossoms.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">I am like this. I am
the besieged rose bush, tormented with bugs. I try to rid myself of these
things with remedies of my own creation, but only my Savior can really help. I
cry to Him. He, who shed red drops in the Garden comes to save me. And as He
does, I am cleansed. Then I, too, can burst into bloom.</span></div>
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<br />Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-54426311979178574442018-11-22T12:00:00.000-08:002020-03-02T08:24:08.283-08:00Grandma and the Giblets: A Thanksgiving Story<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I love being ‘that’ grandma! You know...the one who brings favorite treats to family events. And makes awesome rolls. And has lots of hugs and encouragement to share. Yeah, THAT Grandma.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And I had that plan for Thanksgiving. Yes I did. I even bought the amazing rolls (haha, you thought I baked, didn’t you?)! And all the stuff to make these very fun and popular mini s’mores bites. They are so yummy! So the pie-hating kiddos could still have something cool to eat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But then.....well...for the first time in nearly 60 years, I set something on fire in my kitchen!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Those yummy little marshmallow tops caught on fire under the broiler (never multi-task with marshmallows at stake). I smelled them before I saw them. I opened the oven a crack and the flames leapt higher. Oh no! I closed the oven and let the fire burn itself out. After about 15 minutes I thought it was safe enough to open without re-kindling the flame. And there it was....a huge pile of smoking, carbonized sugar on top of the pan with delicious melted, er, ultra-melted chocolate and graham cracker crust buried underneath. Yeah, buried is a good word. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sadly, I realized that my ‘THAT Grandma’ dreams had just crashed and burned in a most spectacular way. No gooey treats! I was suddenly glad I hadn’t planned on baking rolls!! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I pushed my disappointment aside and moved on to the sweet potatoes. But..uh oh. The oven won’t start. Error codes on the screen indicate ‘excessive heat inside and possible damage to controls. Please call a technician’. Hmmm...guess a fire is a little too much for an oven.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">More disappointment, but this is Thanksgiving and while food is the point, it's not really the point. Time to reboot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">While searching online for stovetop (read: non-oven) sweet potato recipes, a memory returned. I was about 6 years old and we were having Thanksgiving at my Grandma Fisher’s. It was possibly the first Thanksgiving after Grandpa Fisher passed away, and the Fisher clan plus a few others had gathered for the feast. I remember the conversation between my Uncle Ed and Grandma. “Did you pull the giblets out before you stuffed that thing?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">“Yes, of course I did!” Grandma huffed as she slid the pan into the oven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And all during the time that the turkey was roasting, Ed would ask her again and Grandma would respond that she removed the bag of giblets. I remember this because I think giblets taste like dirt and I shuddered every time I heard them talk about it. Yuk!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">At last it was time to carve the bird and Uncle Ed had the honors. Once again he asked. Once again she affirmed the giblets were not inside the bird. But then..... As he carved away and removed the stuffing, a strange thing emerged from the cavity of that turkey. Yep! Those giblets were inside the turkey all along! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">“Look at that!” Grandma exclaimed, her face turning read and her eyes filling with tears. “Those giblets were in there after all! I swear I took those out of there!” And then she laughed. And the room erupted in laughter. In fact, throughout the meal, either Ed or Grandma would chuckle and say, “Those giblets!” while the rest of us giggled. It was comic relief in our sadness over a missing family member.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">For years afterward, the same conversation occurred between my beloved Uncle Ed and Grandma. With a twinkle in his eye he would ask, “Are you sure you got the giblets out of that thing?” And Grandma would point to the ugly, smelly things (at least, I think they smell) cooking in a pan. Ultimately, I learned that things can not go as planned and often it’s just something to look back on and laugh about.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Now both Grandma and Uncle Ed have passed through the veil. They are watching their families gather for Thanksgiving dinners. Sometimes (like this year), we tell the story of Grandma and the Giblets. Sometimes (like this year), the best laid plans burst into flames.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">But always (also like this year), we give thanks for each other. We give thanks for turkeys and that we can afford to have such bounty. We give thanks for grandchildren and being able to give hugs and encouragement. And that we can buy rolls rather than slaving over ovens. Most especially we give thanks for examples from generations past that prove that plans go awry but because we have each other and love each other, we can still give thanks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And isn’t life like a fire in the oven and turkeys baked with giblets inside? Tragedy will strike all of us from time to time. We can’t predict it. The 'THAT Grandma' plans might not be how I think they should be. But we can remember that other also suffer and with a twinkle in our eye we can continue through the meal and give thanks for what we do have. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Happy Thanksgiving!! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">May you enjoy your turkey with no giblets, because those things taste like dirt!! </span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-30613534030717693472018-10-05T13:59:00.000-07:002018-10-05T13:59:00.117-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
Painting a wall is a lot life life:</div>
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Go up the ladder, paint a part, two steps back down the ladder, get some more paint, back up, paint again, back down for more paint and back up again. Sometimes it's tedious up and down.</div>
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Drip a bit. Clean it up before it dries and makes a bad habit. Working hard to make it an even coat. I think I'm done, but some Good Light on myself shows all my imperfections. Fix it. Back up and down the ladder I go, making a mess of myself with paint everywhere.</div>
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Maybe it's almost perfect now? I look and realize the wall and I are both mortal; we will not be perfect now, but I'm satisfied with what I've done. </div>
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Things look fresh and new and much better than they did. I and the wall are perfect backdrops for a Beautiful Savior.</div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-16308225719251969012017-07-28T20:14:00.000-07:002017-07-28T20:14:04.792-07:00Just the Right ThingThe job in Utah was one of those dream jobs. Every time I attended training meetings in Utah, I thought "Oh, that would be SO awesome to work there!" Woking for LDS Family Services is a dream job anyway, but the position in Central Office would be icing on the cake. Robert even daydreamed with me…he would've moved back to Utah as well. After he passed, I felt very settled here, but some little part of me always wanted to work in Central Office and to live in Utah.<br />
<br />
Robert had job dreams too. He loved his work, but when the Phoenix Temple was announced, he felt a special pull towards it. It became his favorite temple (I used to tease him about the fact that he was sealed to two different women in two different temples, but neither of those temples was his favorite!) He hoped that the position of Temple Recorder in Phoenix would be a paid position that combined both his Facilities Management experience and the exacting but important work of keeping temple records. His desire, since before we married, was to be a temple recorder. The Phoenix Temple was still under construction (or more accurately, was stuck in design phase) when Robert learned that the Temple Recorder position for the Mesa temple was about to open up, he contacted a longtime friend, Edgardo Carbajal, who works in the Temple Department, to ask about the position. Although one doesn't usually ask to be interviewed for such a post, Edgardo was delighted to arrange an interview.<br />
<br />
Robert described the interview as not so much an interview, but a friendly visit. The brother doing the interviewing explained that he was meeting with people, trying to discover who it was the Lord had in mind for the position of Temple Recorder. They talked about many things, including the responsibilities of the job. Robert felt qualified for the job, for sure, but by the time the interview was over, he also knew he was not the one the Lord had in mind for the position. And in the end, what we both wanted was to be doing what the Lord needs us to do. Little did we know, the cancer returned only a few months later. "Ah, that was why!" we thought. Robert did not even live to see the Phoenix Temple dedicated in this life. I'm certain he was present on the other side of the veil, but not with his own feet set on earthly clay.<br />
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Then the 'dream job' position opened up. My first thought was that I loved my life here. Close to most of my kids and grandkids, not to mention many, many friends. Then I thought about the long term benefits of the job in Utah and positioning for retirement. I wondered how a better retirement fund would happen in my current place. After a struggle, I decided to apply for the job. I'm good at what I do, so I wasn't surprised when I was notified that I was one of the final candidates. Nervous, yes. But not surprised.<br />
<br />
I loved the opportunity to be interviewed! I enjoyed visiting the Church Office Building and getting a little tour of the grounds. I especially enjoyed meeting so many people, all of whom work to move the Lord's work forward. They are all people I admire, many are people I enjoy working with from my current position. Working right there, I thought, would be so fun and so inspiring. I hoped it would be a terrific experience! At the same time, I had some mixed emotions about leaving what I've known for almost 30 years. And the idea of moving to Utah, the place Robert and I dreamed of living, without Robert felt a little odd. Still, I'm always up for a good adventure (that's something Robert and I had in common).<br />
<br />
The morning after the interview, I wanted to just relax and enjoy the weekend with my son and his family in Idaho. As I prayed that morning, I felt perfect peace and assurance that "Whatever happens will be exactly right" for me and for everyone else. It was such a tranquil feeling that I commented to Jane (my sister-in-law) that I wasn't sure if I was even feeling things, because I felt such total calm. I went off to 'play' with my family and it was wonderful!<br />
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The following Thursday morning, when I arrived at work, I noticed the picture of Robert and I from our wedding had fallen off the sticky board where it resides. I picked it up and suddenly felt Robert so very close. All the memories of that Temple Recorder Interview streamed through my mind and it was as if he was standing right there saying to me, "Don't worry, everything that happens will be the right thing for not only you but for everyone else." And I wanted that most of all; whatever happened, I wanted it to be right for everyone and the work to go forward with whomever the Lord needed there to do it. And somehow I knew that meant I needed to stay right where I was. So, when Sandie called later that day, I wasn't surprised when she said someone else had been selected for the job, and I immediately felt peace about it. I am very aware that the Lord is mindful of my needs, my desires and my abilities. Sometimes the abilities I think are important to Him and not the ones He wants me to develop. Sometimes, times like this, I am given direction on which way to go. That direction came after I did my best to go a different way, but then the Lord said, "That's okay, I need you here."<br />
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My oldest son had said "You can't ask the Lord to bless your efforts if you don't make an effort to do something yourself." That's so true! (Wow! I have such wise kids!) I still don't know how that retirement positioning thing is going to work out. But looking back I see that so very many things I wondered about have worked out far better than anything I could have thought of. The Lord has blessed and continues to bless my efforts. I'm profoundly thankful for the opportunity and the experience. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keep thou my feet<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I do not ask to see the distant scene<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One step enough for me.<br />
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-43579352952089618132017-07-24T20:26:00.000-07:002017-07-24T20:35:28.087-07:00To Be A Pioneer<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
If you're a Mormon,
you might feel a certain amount of pride in having Pioneer ancestors. Ancestors
who sacrificed all, crossed the plains in handcarts and wagons and began a new
life in a new land. Pioneers who not only settled distant towns and made the
desert blossom as a rose, they did so for a religion that filled their hearts
with joy and peace. </div>
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Well, maybe if
you're from a long line of Mormons, anyway. </div>
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Some of us, though,
are pioneers ourselves, becoming the first converts in the family tree. </div>
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That's me. I joined
the Church as a convert from another faith. My mother and I were baptized on
the same spring day 50 years ago (ouch! I'm that old?). My father, after
exhausting many a missionary, stepped into the waters of baptism a couple of
years later. I completely loved and embraced this new Church. All of the peace
and joy that was missing in my life I found here. There was just one tiny
painful point. Most of my new-found friends were from Pioneer stock…and I was
not. I could not yet see myself as a different kind of pioneer. I simply wanted
to have pioneer ancestors. When my new friend, David Orgill spoke of the faith
of his great-grandfather, Heber C. Kimball, I was jealous. When other friends
spoke of pioneer ancestors who crossed the plains, I was green with envy. Oh,
how I wanted to be one of those 'pioneer families'! </div>
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My hope was renewed
when my mother began to take an interest in Family History work (Genealogy). I
begged her to find some hidden line of Pioneers and I could finally claim a
birthright I thought I was owed. She searched…spending hours in genealogy libraries
and travelling to Utah for more. She authored five volumes of family history on
her father's line. No Hidden Pioneers. </div>
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You don't have to
push a handcart, </div>
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Leave your fam'ly
dear,</div>
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Or walk a thousand
miles or more</div>
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To be a pioneer!</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(To Be A Pioneer,<span style="font-style: italic;"> text by Ruth Muir Gardner, Children's Songbook, p.
218</span>)</span></div>
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The wanting grew
when we spent a summer visiting Nauvoo, Illinois and other Church history
sites. That summer, I read and re-read the History of Joseph Smith, written by
his mother, Lucy Mack Smith. Oh, how I longed for religious roots sunk deeps as
theirs. Lucy became an example to me, her faith and dedication to do whatever
the Lord required of her ennobled my heart. I can't explain the bond I felt
with her, but time would prove the reason for it.</div>
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Years later, some of
my longing for Pioneer blood was satisfied by knowing that my children have
contributed to the posterity of Hyrum Smith, brother to the Prophet Joseph
Smith, and a real Pioneer of the Restoration. Their father is a direct
descendant of Hyrum. I found peace and joy in that knowledge and the feeling of
love and admiration towards Lucy Mack Smith grew. I felt humbled to have had a
part in blessing in her life. I realized that each of us is a pioneer of sorts,
we each blaze our own trail. That concluded my desires for Pioneer blood of my
own, and I even stopped asking the Lord for such a blessing. If such a link
were ever found, that would just be icing on a beautiful family history cake. </div>
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Ancestry DNA is a
marvelous thing. A few weeks ago, I did a DNA test through them, hoping to find
clues to help untangle the Messenger family on my Grandmother's side. All
efforts at research had stopped at my great-grandfather. My mother had
concentrated her work on my grandfather's line, leaving my grandmother to do
her own. When grandma hit a memory snag, she stopped as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was messy. So messy that I reasoned there
couldn't possibly Pioneer ancestors in that line anyway. When her father
supposedly died, Grandma was sent to live with another family. The information
stopped there. I felt stymied, so I took a break. Now Ancestry DNA had fixed
the mess. And there he was! A TRUE Pioneer Missionary in the early church!! We
aren't direct ancestors, but we'll claim him anyway!!</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1906236803608604374" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1906236803608604374" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1906236803608604374" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PE_tQ_8Q4Gc/WXa8TH6WGlI/AAAAAAAACAY/7aN7ZhTU73QyIRLfGaCXMDl0wNEjVc_rgCLcBGAs/s1600/Myron%2BS%2BHigley.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PE_tQ_8Q4Gc/WXa8TH6WGlI/AAAAAAAACAY/7aN7ZhTU73QyIRLfGaCXMDl0wNEjVc_rgCLcBGAs/s1600/Myron%2BS%2BHigley.png" /></a></div>
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Myron Spencer Higley
is a cousin to my Great-great-great-great-grandmother, Martha Mills. His
obituary shares the following information: </div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">"Myron S. Higley, son of Job Higley and Dorcas
Eggleston, was born in Simsbury, Ct. December 29th, 1801. His father supposed
to be dead, in his 12th year Myron, with a younger brother, was leased to an
uncle, but not relishing the treatment they there received, left without
warning after two years' service; wandered off some forty miles and were kindly
taken in by a stranger with whom they lived some years, when they went to
Gananoqui, Canada and engaged in the business of turning wooden bowls and making
water buckets, which Myron exported in large quantities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">"He married Priscilla Ebberson, October 1885;
heard and embraced the Gospel just before the patriot war and moved to New York
State… made his mother a visit and converted her to the truth of the gospel,
but her husband (for supposing Myron's father to be dead had married again)
being so much opposed to the religion, she concluded not to be baptized then… </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">"From Nauvoo he moved to Benton's Fort on the
Des Moines River then to Council Bluffs, and from there to Uintah, Utah….His
family number eleven children, seventy-one grandchildren and fifty-six great
grandchildren. He was tender hearted, strictly honest and a faithful devotee of
Mormonism."</span></div>
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Why do I share this?
Why not leave the story un-fulfilled? Why not be happy with BE-ing a Pioneer of
my own making?</div>
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For me, this entire
journey proves how closely connected we are with each other. A glance at my
social media feed shows me this as well- you know, that Six Degrees of
Separation thing. But THIS connection is about <span style="text-decoration: underline;">family.</span> Somewhere in this valley are other relatives of Myron
Higley. Higley Road, Town of Higley, all surely named after some distant
relative! We're all related somehow, the actual links are hidden in our
ancestry. Before this event, I didn't believe I was connected to any of it.
Often, how we see our connections shape how we treat each other. The same blood
that made Myron a tender-hearted and faithful man runs through me and to my
children. The strength to survive difficult life situations, the desire to work
hard, the desire to have a strong family…all of these things are shared in our
genes. That makes me think, what hidden and shared experiences are in the genes
of that stranger I see on the street? What common ancestor-ly experience is
shared by my new friend at church? What hidden link might I share with my
neighbor? I wish I could see how your fourth-great grandfather was a kind
stranger to my third-great-grandfather. It would give me greater cause for
compassion and understanding. We need to be kinder to one another, because in
the end, we're all connected.</div>
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May thy strong
Spirit bind our hearts in unity,</div>
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And help us each to
find the love from self set free.</div>
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In all our heart
such love increase,</div>
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That ev'ry home, by
this release, </div>
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May be the dwelling
place of peace.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Our Father, by
Whose Name,<span style="font-style: italic;"> text by F. Bland Tucker, Hymns,
#296</span>)</span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-56200412281712079822017-01-22T17:20:00.000-08:002020-03-02T08:29:46.669-08:00A Full Bottle of Blessings <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k5kbAADgYL4/WIVbdIDbXCI/AAAAAAAAB6U/mdqOC7lYrAojeX-9rdwp1spf_6_HutigACPcB/s1600/IMG_8411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k5kbAADgYL4/WIVbdIDbXCI/AAAAAAAAB6U/mdqOC7lYrAojeX-9rdwp1spf_6_HutigACPcB/s320/IMG_8411.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My home teacher asked me if I had a bottle of consecrated oil in my home. I knew I did. Well, I thought I did. It wasn't where I thought it was. Two weeks later, while looking for something else, I was digging through 'Roberts drawer' in the dresser I found it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And there in Robert's writing is the date on the label: 9-09</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">September 2009. Robert was home from the hospital, doing Chemo. We were so full of hope. But I have forgotten about this oil....did Jeff come over and they consecrate oil together? Did they do that in a Priesthood meeting? I remember Robert had a couple of other bottles which he gave to others, but this one was ours. I remember the tender comfort I had, knowing that there was a bottle of sacred oil in the fridge, and more importantly, a Priesthood holder who was able and willing to use it by my side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bottle is nearly full. Not that Robert didn't give or receive blessings. He did. Some of my most sacred memories are of blessings received at his hands. There are precious few of them (how many blessings can a person have in just three years?) but he did give them. To me. To children and grandchildren. To others- we often made quick visits to hospitals and homes of friends so he could assist with blessings. But most of the blessings he received were in the hospital, using someone else's oil. So our bottle is almost full.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Full represents something else to me. Roberts favorite saying was "My half-full cup runneth over with blessings." A full bottle of oil. It is evidence that our life, his life, my life, have also been full of blessings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And oh, the blessings we received. Not just Priesthood blessings, given by the laying on of hands. But blessing blessings. We filled journal pages listing the tender mercies of each day. The way we met was a true tender mercy from the Lord, evidence of His design and Plan for us. And as the blessings of days together continued, he would squeeze my hand, or I his, as a silent recognition of a tender mercy unfolding before us. Even holding hands (which we always did) was a tender mercy! How have I forgotten this? But I have.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And yet this week, as I had petitioned Heaven for a return of some of that Joy, the bottle of oil appeared to remind me. It's always been there. I just lost it for awhile. A bottle full of oil for blessing others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oil for my lamp, and a light unto my feet.</span><br />
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-38454812865314946752016-02-21T09:16:00.000-08:002020-03-02T08:34:10.425-08:00Of Grace and the Broken Cord<div style="font-family: 'Arial'; font-size: 18px;">
I think I've always had an independent streak. When my sisters and I were very young, Dad often referred to us as "Little Miss Independence". Usually when we were asserting our right to 'do it myself'. My earliest memories are dim, but there is photographic evidence of my efforts to do more than I was capable of.<br />
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I also remember Dad saying the same about my younger sisters. For the sake of our continued sisterhood, I won't post photographic evidence for them, but I do recall at least one sister stomping her foot, arms folded firmly, "I DO IT!" at about age three. "Ok, Miss Independence!" Dad responded and smiled as he watched her. </div>
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As I grew older, I often preferred doing things myself over asking for help. While seven months pregnant with my oldest son, I rearranged the furniture in our apartment, lifting a heavy bookcase onto the top of a desk by myself. I'll admit to being tired afterwards, but I really thought the 'adoo' made by others over this apparently risky behavior was a little unwarranted. Arms folded stubbornly, I claimed there was nothing wrong with doing it myself.</div>
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Sometimes I lack the patience to wait until someone else is available to help. I recently undertook a project of painting my large wood entertainment center. It comes apart, the sliding center shelf is heavy, and I realized I couldn't take the thing apart by myself without risking damage to the TV underneath the shelf. I called two trusty helpers from church who lived nearby, "Hey, Home Teachers!" and they happily hurried right over to assist. 10 minutes and the shelf was dismantled. I was quickly reminded that people love to help when asked, and I was thankful they were available and most wiling to help.</div>
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When painting was complete and I was ready to reassemble it, I decided I was independent/strong/stubborn enough to put it back together without help. This involved lifting the long, heavy center shelf with loose inserts up over my head and settling it onto the four very small brackets by simultaneously sliding the two inserts out towards the sides. I figured the brackets would hold the shelf up until I could secure them to the shelf with screws. I lifted...the inserts both suddenly shifted...and before I knew it, the entire shelf slid down the wall and slammed to the floor behind the cabinet. I had to crawl behind the cabinet to get the shelf out, but it didn't appear there was any lasting damage other than additional distressing on the already distressed paint finish. Good enough!</div>
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But then I found damage I wasn't expecting: a broken electrical cord. I'm not sure if the shelf slamming to the floor severed the cord, or if the cord snapped from being stretched tight, but I now held in my hands two parts of the power cord for my stereo speakers. No power, no sound. For a music lover like me, this is tragic! I sadly realized that if I had just asked for help, the broken cord would still be whole and the speakers would still work. </div>
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What prevents me from asking for help? For me, it's most often impatience...I just want something done NOW and don't want to wait for someone to come to help. Other times, I prefer to work alone because I don't want to work someone else's plan. How stubborn is that? </div>
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Sometimes I overestimate my own strength. I knew I could lift the shelf, I just hoped the sliding boards wouldn't shift. When they did, the shelf crashed to the floor.</div>
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And THEN I asked for help. Of course! How many times do I pray for Father to undo a mess I created? </div>
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This is SO like my spiritual self! The Lord willingly offers all that I need and more: "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness." He promises that I don't have to do it <i>all</i> on my own. And if I ask for help, the Lord is not only eager to help, His Atonement is perfected as he does! Paul's words tumble into my heart, "<i>Most gladly</i> therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me." Suddenly my weakness is a happy thing, a thing that brings me closer to Christ. I need not be afraid of asking for help. I promise to work at not stamping my foot and insisting on my own way. And as I do, His Grace is sufficient for even that impetuous act. </div>
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Looking at the severed power cord, I think that I could probably fix it myself (I've done a few things like that), but since I am practicing a better way, I unfold my stubbornly crossed arms and resist the urge to stamp my foot. In a sheepish text message, I confessed the broken cord to my son. "Can you fix this?" </div>
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"Probably" he says. The offer of a pizza and game night sweetened the deal, so he brought his family. We played games, we talked, he fixed the cord. The symbolism is not lost on me, a son repairing that which was lost. He was happy to help, even though it caused some strain on his already tired hands. And he gave a warning...if the cord gets warm, it's best to just get a new speaker than risk a fire. Whole power cords are better than repaired ones. </div>
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Our Savior's Love</div>
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Shines like the sun with perfect light,</div>
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As from above</div>
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It breaks thru clouds of strife.</div>
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Lighting our way,</div>
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Where we may stay</div>
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To share eternal life.</div>
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I understand it now! My limitations are not something to be ashamed of, rather they are the means by which I may become a partaker of His Grace. We cannot save ourselves. And so I will <i>most gladly</i> glory in my infirmities. With His love, I am not afraid of letting others see my weakness. I no longer want to stomp my feet through life, my stubborn nature creating bigger struggles along the way. How much better to leave the power cords whole by asking for a couple of extra hands at times, than to insist on doing it all on my own? </div>
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And so, this morning, I called a friend, “I need your help…..”<br />
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-89033166141766796332016-01-01T17:27:00.000-08:002016-01-01T17:27:24.372-08:00Packing Up Christmas<div style="font-family: 'Arial'; font-size: 18px;">
Sometimes I wonder why we do it....all this decorating and hanging of lights. This year it was hard to get started with all the decorating and hanging of lights. Some Grandchildren eager to help decorate the tree made that a happy memory and a new tradition. That started the process that for me takes days to begin. There are over 100 nativities to unpack and arrange. Even with a few that stay out all year long, it takes daayyysss. But soon all the nativites were set up, the lights strung and my heart was ready to celebrate the birth of the Savior. And it was wonderful! How I love the Christmas season. Even when difficult things arise, Christmas reminds me of THE most important and wonderful event ever! </div>
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This year, though, it was truly an effort to put it all away. it wasn’t that I was sad to see the holiday be done (I've felt that before, too), but I just didn't want to go through the effort. For some reason I felt overwhelmed with doing it all by myself and found it difficult to find the motivation. I simply didn't want to do the work. Curling up on the sofa with a good book sounded right...not the ladder climbing, box carrying, wrapping and packing tasks that loomed before me. </div>
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Looking at the half empty boxes of tissue paper and bubble wrap strewn about the family room, I resolved to do it anyway, and discovered a change of heart and understanding in the process. </div>
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I began by gathering the nativities from around the four corners of the house (did I mention 100+? They are everywhere!). As I swept the surfaces of my bedroom, a painting caught my eye- "She Worketh Willingly With Her Hands" by Elspeth Young, a print I had chosen because it reminds me to do the 'work' of my life with a willing heart. I felt a little bit chastened as I realized my grudging packing away of a sacred celebration was quite far removed from willing. What had I just celebrated? ....an honored life and sacrifice made by my Savior, the Child born in Bethlehem. Of course.</div>
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And now I felt reluctant to put away the mementos of such a celebration?! Suddenly I recognized the gratitude I felt for such beautiful things to remind me of sacred events.</div>
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As I gathered a set of camels carrying wise men, I wondered how it would have been if those scriptural sages had not put forth the effort to make the journey to honor their King? My King? Was I making a true and honest effort to honor Him?</div>
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Next I found a well beloved (read: damaged) set of wooden figures. I thought about how I would need to repair some of the damage next year (this has become an annual ritual, the Nativity repair place). But as I held the wooden manger, I thought about how the Savior heals my damage. Suddenly the damage to these few pieces became sacred...He could heal me and I looked forward to healing the carefully carved figures in remembrance. </div>
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In the next room I found the open armed Mary from Peru, welcoming her visitors. I pondered if I was truly welcoming and open armed myself? Yet, as Mary, the Savior welcomes all with open arms and a caring heart. I carefully moved Mary to a permanent place where her loving arms could remind me of this all year long; that I want to have open arms and an open heart and not fear those who might hurt my feelings or act in ways with which I am unfamiliar. </div>
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As I carefully wrapped and packed lovingly handmade figures, many given to me by dear friends and family, I was gently reminded not to pack away their friendships or my love for them. My relationships with those I know and love is important to me, so while I carefully pack the mementos away, I want to remember to create more memories that give these mementos greater meaning next year. I want to find greater joy as I unpack next year and place the keepsakes out for a rejoicing celebration. </div>
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The last item to be packed each year is a large rustic manger lined with raffia hay. The manger is empty- the cloth 'baby' is packed with the nativity costumes. I considered the symbol of this empty manger, as I look forward to the Savior's return to earth again. Am I ready? What is the condition of my heart and how will I feel when He returns? These questions are part of the pondering path I have traveled in preparation for the coming new year. As I place the manger in the shed and close and lock the door, I remind myself that next year when I begin the preparation for Christmas, that empty manger will be the first thing I see. My heart is filled, my soul wants to do all I can to be ready to welcome Him...welcome Him always. </div>
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The tumult and the shouting dies;</div>
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The captains and the Kings depart.</div>
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Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,</div>
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A humble and a contrite heart.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My heart is lighter now, my rooms a little less crowded with animals and figures bowing in reverence. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never want to forget or pack away the reverence that I've learned and felt this day and this season. How thankful I am for His Divine Love always, and Christmas time in particular! With a humble heart, I turn the page of a New Year and a page in my hymnbook to find words for today: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Press on, enduring in the ways of Christ.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thus saith our God: "Ye have eternal Life!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!</i></span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-34077989605945638002015-10-15T20:59:00.005-07:002015-10-15T20:59:53.680-07:00Where the Dandelions Grow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last weekend, I took a little break to do some traveling with dear friends. My companions were ladies of great faith and full of fun, ladies I am blessed to call my friends. We share a the common bond of widowhood, and they are each an inspiration and blessing in my life. It was not by accident that we have found each other, but that is a story for another day.<br />
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On this day, we are visiting some historic Arizona homes and some pre-historic Arizona forests (otherwise known as petrified). The perseverance of both pioneers and tall trees is amazing. I am awed and inspired thinking of the faith and fortitude of those who’ve gone before, and realize that even hard times make for beautiful people and crystal forests.<br />
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As we trekked about the northern reaches of our state, I spotted this large rock, nearly as tall as I am, in the middle of a carefully manicured lawn. The beautiful home behind it was surrounded by huge elegant hydrangeas. But for the plaque mounted upon it, this large black rock seemed out of place. And the greenery that adorned it seemed even more out of place: a lowly dandelion!<br />
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“Weeds grow anywhere!” I thought. (True, isn’t it? I’m always pulling weeds!) Then I thought of toddler hands, gathering yellow flowered dandy-lion bouquets as gifts. I looked again at this stately, fluffy headed ‘flower’, the fluff of many a child’s wishes. The rock soil of this little dandelion was strong enough to provide all that was needed for its growth and this little flower is about to explode! What can I learn from dandelions that grow in tough spots? Keep the Faith! Keep growing!<br />
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“Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God.”(Ether 12:4)<br />
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And now, as I look over the pictures from our trip, I am reminded of dandelions and pioneers and widow ladies, all of whom have mounted rocky climes in life and bloomed beautifully!<br />
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"You have nothing to fear from the journey,</div>
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Though your way may be burdened by thorns.</div>
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For the Lord will be with you each step of the way</div>
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As you travel with faith through the storm.</div>
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And you've nothing to fear from your trials,</div>
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Though they may seem too heavy to bear.</div>
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Take His hand and He'll lead you gently along</div>
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And you'll find peace and safety there.</div>
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There is nothing to fear from the nights that are lonely,</div>
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There's nothing to fear from the cold!</div>
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and there's nothing to fear from what might be tomorrow,</div>
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For heaven is with you, And angels watch over His fold."</div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>(You Have Nothing to Fear by Rob Gardner)</i></span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-21324037537010042402015-09-08T20:41:00.000-07:002015-09-08T22:05:04.343-07:00Prayers and Giggles<div>
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"Daddy, will you tuck me in?" Bedtime stories and hugs from my dad were the best, but this night I had a different plan. I think now, that if my Dad had known what trickery was in my innocent mind, he would have done things differently. My five year old heart had decided, with the added ammunition of a little book I'd received while visiting a church with our neighbors, I was going to ask my dad. It never occurred to me that Daddy probably didn't do much praying. I wanted to learn, I assumed he could show me. Don't Daddies know everything? </div>
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"Oh?" And "Hmm" were Daddy's first responses. I showed him the little booklet of prepared prayers. There were the usual mealtime prayers everyone knew: </div>
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God is great, God is good, </div>
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Let us thank Him for our food.</div>
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And then there were other prayers for bedtime. Until that little book, I'd never thought of praying at night before bed. Daddy looked through the book and showed me one, "What about this one." Suddenly I was gripped with an odd thought. If I needed to read the prayer, how could I close my eyes to pray? Well, besides the fact that I couldn't read all the words yet.</div>
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"Yeah, that one!" And handing the book back to Daddy I said, "You read it" </div>
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Daddy grunted uncomfortably, "This is your prayer, you should say it." </div>
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"What does it say?" I asked. And as Daddy read the rhyming verse, I had another odd thought: this prayer doesn't really match what I think. "No....I don't like that one. Can't I just say what I want? Do prayers have to be from the book?", I asked. </div>
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Long pause. Daddy's eyes got a little moist, I could tell. "Sure" He said, "you say whatever you want. I think God listens to all prayers." </div>
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And then suddenly, I ruined it. Yep. I got the giggles. And Daddy lost his patience. "I think you're too silly to pray," and he kissed my forehead, patting my head as he turned to leave the room. </div>
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It was a long time before I thought about praying again. At least, in a serious way. We said 'Grace' over our meals sometimes, but otherwise prayer was rarely mentioned or discussed. Not until I was much, much older. Not until after we started going to Church and Daddy started going with us. Not until then did prayers became a little more common place around our house.</div>
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Although I'm sure I sat through many, many lessons about prayer after that, I don't think I took it too seriously until I was in my early teens. Sure, I had prayed and received answers before that. The embers of my faith were fanned into a tender flame through prayer. But it took years to learn not just how to pray, but what to ask for. The scriptures remind us to 'ask not amiss', and I learned that asking the right questions was important. I learned, after weeks of begging the Lord for miracles, that neither I nor He could interfere with the agency of others. Over the trials and tears of life, I learned that giving thanks for those trials and challenges endowed me with the ability to see the good in them. I learned that when I pleaded with the Lord to deliver me from sorrow, His promise was often not deliverance but instead it was His constant companionship. "I will be right beside you, all the way." was the constant reminder as life situations changed. I have learned that prayer is so much more than a child's poem to be recited day after day, night after night. My prayers are the sacred words of my heart on wing directly to the heart of my Heavenly Father. No worldly noise can interfere. Over and over again, prayer has been the gentle hand that opens my eyes to the beauty in the world around me. </div>
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Abide with me; 'tis eventide, </div>
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and lone will be the night </div>
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nor find in thee my light.</div>
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<i>(Abide With Me; 'Tis Eventide, Hymns, No. 165, text by M. Lowrie Hofford)</i></div>
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I am still learning and practicing the art of prayer. A few months after Robert passed away, I realized that because of the change in our morning routine of praying together before I said my morning prayers, and also due to the "widow's fog", I had neglected those morning prayers. A return to that routine, even though the prayers themselves were anything but routine, and the fog began to lift. It is a constant learning process, I think. And He listens to all of it. Sometimes the answers are immediate, sometimes they are not. But prayerful moments always leave me filled with peace. </div>
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Bright and happy mornings, gratitude filled days, sorrowful sunsets and sleepless nights, I have been able to express the desires of my heart to my Heavenly Father and He has lifted me up through all of it. I can share whatever I feel, He loves me anyway. From the morning planning meeting as I begin the day, to the evening return and report, He fills me with peace. Through prayer I am reminded that I am loved with an Infinite Love.</div>
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He answers privately,</div>
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Reaches my reaching</div>
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In my Gethsemane,</div>
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Savior and Friend.</div>
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Gentle the peace He finds</div>
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For my beseeching.</div>
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Constant He is and Kind,</div>
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Love without end.</div>
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<i>(Where Can I Turn For Peace,</i> Hymns, No. 129, text by Emma Lou Thayne)</div>
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In time I not only heard my dad pray, but as his own faith flame grew, I saw that he too, understood the power of prayer. Now, as I look back at my first nervous, attempted prayer filled with uncontrollable giggles and I realize that Daddy's words were more true than he knew at the time, "You say whatever you want...God listens to all prayers." </div>
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Daddies know everything.</div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-19144442167077211892015-08-22T16:15:00.000-07:002015-08-22T16:49:44.816-07:00Sometimes a Mountain Gets in the Way<br />
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My granddaughter Miss Cass and I recently spent a weekend at a wonderful mountain cabin (ok, her mom and dad and brothers came along, too, along with her Aunt Jen), just for the fun of it. Miss Cass loves 'forest and trees', and time in the mountains. I noticed how happy she and her brother were to explore everything in sight, picking up rocks, pine cones, rocks, flowers and more rocks. They were blissfully unaware of the efforts of their parents to pack, plan and prepare for this wonderful weekend together. I especially loved taking little walks with them, around mountain lakes, watching as they gathered more happy memories and cool things (rocks!). Miss Cass is safe and happy because others who love her are beside her. At the water's edge we found cattails, which provoked memories of me as a tearful child when my own gathered cattail exploded in the car. I made a mental note: Sometimes, even grand mountain adventures are accompanied by disappointment. Still, Miss Cass and I both love the mountains.<br />
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Somewhere there’s a mountain</div>
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with flowers in the spring</div>
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I will take my shoes off</div>
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and wade the mountain stream.</div>
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And it’s a long, long way to walk,</div>
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but one day I’ll climb to the top.</div>
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(Somewhere There’s a Mountain, Jason Deere)</div>
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I recalled the excitement I felt as a child when my family made the trip to my grandmother's mountain cabin. As I grew older, I became more aware of the effort it took to climb the mountain. Still, I begged my parents to make the effort, because I wanted the gentle peace I knew I would find while I was there. I am not alone in this desire for peace-finding. My sisters and cousins also loved the sacred mountain cabin built by my grandfather. They, like prophets of old, and many others all over the world, have sought solace on the mountain tops. The Savior himself climbed rocky paths towards God. <br />
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"And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray: and when the evening was come, he was there alone."(Matthew 14:23)</div>
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Lately I have longed for the feeling of times past, a feeling of greater joy in climbing the mountains of life. I find too many mountainous days that are far too rugged for my weary climbing skills. When I stand at the base and look up, I am overwhelmed and wonder how I'll ever climb that far. I don't want to make the effort. I want the carefree adventure Miss Cass has, rather than the adventure in front of me, completely forgetting that Miss Cass is surrounded by peace because she knows her Dad and Mom are beside her and will help her when the climb gets rough or her gathered cat tails burst into fluff. Then the Lord gently reminds me: I, too, am promised strength for the climb! The scriptures are filled with those promises, but the words of God to Joshua are some of my favorite, “...I will be with thee: I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee." (Joshua 1:5)<br />
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If you had the choice between walking alone or walking hand in hand with God, which would you choose? Me too.<br />
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As I daily kneel before Him, He faithfully and constantly offers His hand, and I am strengthened. Strengthened along the rocky mountain ledges, carried through thickly forested paths where the light is dim. He lifts me over huge jagged boulders with strength greater than my own. When I choose to follow Him, sacred things happen in the mountains. On this day, with children and grandchildren beside me, I am lifted by the Spirit, and the peace returns.<br />
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Joyfully, I realize that the blessing of increased faith and strength, the nearness I feel to my Savior, have all made it worth the climb.<br />
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“I lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” </div>
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(Psalms 121:1) </div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-23687243811436101142015-07-23T20:12:00.002-07:002015-07-23T23:35:54.494-07:00Pioneers of a Different Kind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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First off, you have to know that my mother did family history work. That is almost an understatement. To say she did it is like saying streams run down mountains. My mother did rivers of family history research. To prove it, I can show you five large books that are the result of her work. A mountain of published books written by my mother about our ancestors, each one at least two inches thick!<br />
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I remember helping to search through graveyards and microfilm, looking for names, dates, birthplaces, marriages. Sometimes there was success. Mostly I was bored. Once we had a class at church about it. It seemed that my friends all had ancestors who were Pioneers. I wanted a Pioneer ancestor! I wanted ties to someone who trekked for miles with a handcart or a wagon. You know, the ones they sing songs about? I remember asking my mother, but she had not found any of those handcart folks in our ancestry. None. My youthful desire to know more was crushed.<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px; text-align: start; text-indent: -10px;">You don't have to push a handcart,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px; text-align: start; text-indent: -10px;">Leave your fam'ly dear,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px; text-align: start; text-indent: -10px;">Or walk a thousand miles or more</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px; text-align: start; text-indent: -10px;">To be a pioneer!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Open Sans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); line-height: 20px;"><i>(To Be A Pioneer, text by Ruth Muir Gardner)</i></span></span></div>
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It has taken a trek of decades, but I have discovered pioneers of a different sort. My grandparents, my father’s parents, were modern pioneers from the midwest. They left dusty Illinois and made a trek of their own, to the clear California air (ironic, isn't it?). It is there that they made camp and where my grandfather built a large apartment complex in Inglewood and a beautiful cabin in the San Bernardino Mountains. That much I know for sure. I realized there are gaps in what I know, and I wanted to know more.<br />
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My Grandpa Fisher died when I was four years old, shortly after completing construction of that cabin in the woods. My younger sisters never knew him on this earth. On my family photo wall hangs their original wedding picture. A daily reminder of my grandmother. She was widowed fairly young..,younger than I am now. Nearly all of my memories are of her as a single woman. Just as we marvel at the strength of handcart pioneers, I have marveled at my grandmother’s strength. I wonder how she managed. I remember visiting her regularly in that Inglewood apartment which she now managed alone, my Dad working on her car, fixing this or that. I know my Aunt and Uncle helped her in the same ways. I realized how much we are alike and how much we have in common...and those are two different things. My boys, including step-sons, are always willing to help, just as my Dad helped Grandma, I am filled with a sudden deep gratitude for all of them and their service. But I wonder still, how did she do it?<br />
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My Grandma is the pioneer in my family! We are alike in that we are both gregarious people. She loved to travel, as do I. So many little things I find myself doing that I recognize as her habits. But still I wonder, did she lean on her faith? Did she struggle to adjust her cooking to just for one person? Did she find it hard to sleep sometimes? When her little poodle greeted her as she came home from work, did she wish for someone else’s greeting? How I wish she had written something…..<br />
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This will never resolve for me. Those who are gone are gone; we don’t suddenly find their thoughts written in places they did not write them.<br />
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But I can write. You can write too! Why leave our children wondering what we did to make it through? We can leave a record for our children’s children’s children (mine is this blog). A record of all of our thoughts and dreams. Our treks through mountains and along rivers, our valleys of mistakes, our triumphs on the peaks. The Joy we have in our posterity (wow…think of that, our children’s children reading about how we loved them!).<br />
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And like pioneers of old, I hope to leave a testimony of what gets me through. In every time and season, I want my beloveds to know this:<br />
There is no experience or situation on earth that you cannot get through when you look to God. His promises are sure. He keeps his covenants, so when you keep your covenants with Him, everything will turn out for good. Even when you cannot, with your earthly eyes, see the result, I promise, it will all work out. That’s the faith of a pioneer….knowing God leads the way.<br />
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-75568002339071425042015-06-26T12:28:00.003-07:002015-06-26T13:13:52.467-07:00My Father's Child<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I remember how the words stung. I was in my early 20s when a friend called my Grandmother a bigot. Stung like a smack in the face! At first I was offended! I wanted to defend her…but as I thought about it, I realized the word fit. "Prejudiced" was a kinder word which I, myself had used when referring to my Grandmother. But in the eyes of those who did not know and love her as I did, she could be seen as a bigot. I knew the reasons for her prejudice, though, yet I believed what I knew was true about her, that she was a good person.</div>
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Let me explain just a bit. Grandmother was orphaned at a very young age, subjected to the cruelties of life as an orphan in the early 1900’s. She endured a hard life that shaped her opinions and her self image. Later, as a young woman, she worked as a studio page at MGM Studios. She began building a new life- the kind many young women dream of even today. She shared an apartment in the Los Angeles area with a roommate, a Jewish woman whom she had met at work. Grandmother’s Hollywood heyday life might have looked glamorous, but working so close to the Hollywood scene opened her eyes to all kinds of seamy things. She witnessed well known stars, also Jews, who preyed on young women or young men in their dressing rooms. She witnessed studio moguls, again Jews, care more for their money making than the people with whom they worked. One day, she returned home from work to find that her roommate had moved out, taking EVERYTHING in the apartment with her, including the furniture that had been purchased by my grandmother. She was devastated, to say the least. For whatever reason, she could no longer distinguish between wrong actions and race. And so, her prejudice began. It was fueled, I’m sure, by the actions of many others. Yet, when I was with her, I only witnessed her kindness towards others. She was generous and thoughtful. Whatever she might have said about race or color, I saw her ACT a different way. My actions towards others were first influenced by an earthly Grandmother, but my understanding of infinite love and kindness and how to love others was deepened by my belief in my Heavenly Father. I came to understand that before anything else, I am my Father’s Child.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Palatino'; font-size: 12.000000pt;">Strong and wise—captivating eyes, Magnificent being.</span></div>
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Spirit bright, emanating light
Now hid from our seeing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Palatino'; font-size: 12.000000pt;">You forget who you are
You, who outshone the stars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Palatino'; font-size: 12.000000pt;"> Amazing smile</span></div>
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You are your Father’s child.</span></span></div>
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I know (as do you) that the wrong actions of one Jewish person does not make all Jewish people bad (pssst, I think Grandma understood that, too). There are many, many more good, honest and delightful Jewish people, some of whom I am blessed to count as dear friends, who are just as repulsed by wrong actions as you or I might be.</div>
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Fast forward several years, to when I announced that I was expecting my third child. Grandmother was alarmed, “Why would you bring more children into this awful world?” she demanded. However rudely stated, I understood that grandma shared her opinion because she loved me, it didn’t make me mad at all. My response was evidence of that understanding, “Well, Grandma, I knew that you would still be here to love my children, so everything will be ok.” And there it was, the truth…we loved each other. She loved my children. That love bridged all the gaps in our beliefs.<br />
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I believe, then and now, that we are all children of Divine origin, Children of a Heavenly Father, and each has a spark of goodness inside us. I believe our Heavenly Father loves us all equally. Because I love Him, I want to be like him, to follow Him. I try so very hard to love others equally as He does. Now loving others does not mean I need to agree with their actions. In fact, the opposite can be true. My love for my two year old son does not mean that I let him run free, into the busy street to be squished by cars. I love him and because I do, I must say what I believe is right. His protests for freedom don’t change my love or my resolve to keep him safe. I believe running in the street isn’t good for you. You might disagree. I disagreed with Grandma’s assessment of having more children, but it didn’t make me love her less. Nor did my desire to have more children cause her to love me less (to the contrary, she loved all of my children immensely).</div>
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So now we are in a world where right and wrong are sometimes mixed up. Where good people understand things differently than other good people. Just as my grandmother understood her world differently than I did. The truth is, we are all good people! Whatever you believe doesn’t change my love and concern for you. Just because I disagree with you about something and say so doesn’t mean I don’t love and care about you. Hopefully I have learned to express my opinion more lovingly than my grandmother did, but if not remember that I still love you. That spark of goodness in each of us can still shine through. My grandmother shared her sometimes prejudiced opinions with me <i>because</i> she loved me. I still let her. On the occasions when I did not agree, I still knew that she loved me. Just as I will ALWAYS love you. Friends included!</div>
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I love the words of Thomas S. Monson, “Never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved.” You, my dear family and friends, are much more important to me than the earthly policies and politics that surround us. We are bound by loving ties. Your actions will not change my love for you, you must know that. We must never let our ideas cause us to hate each other for if we become haters, if we become true bigots, we will not be able to see the real Truth before us. As has been so beautifully and perfectly modeled by the wonderful people in South Carolina, we must continue to love each other, even those who seek to hurt us, and continue to remember who really are, our Father’s Children.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Palatino'; font-size: 12.000000pt;">Now there were none before or after like Him </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Palatino'; font-size: 12.000000pt;">He was God with us and is God still</span></div>
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In life and death His love for us defined Him </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Palatino;">And to do His Father’s will
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<span style="font-family: 'Palatino'; font-size: 12.000000pt;">And so He came to save</span></div>
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Because you are your Father’s child.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">(Your Father</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">s Child by Kenneth Cope)</span></span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-60734771563772078572015-06-19T17:51:00.000-07:002015-06-19T20:07:01.878-07:00O My Father<i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i>
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<i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: xx-small;">(If you think I wrote something similar a while back, I did <a href="http://joy-fuljourney.blogspot.com/2013/06/today-is-fathers-day.html" target="_blank">here</a>. This just shows that sometimes the feelings return and I have to talk myself through them again.)</span></i><br />
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Father's Day is coming. My widowed friend mentioned this was a hard day for her to attend church. Not that she wouldn't go, because partaking of the Lord's Sacrament and renewing sacred covenants is, after all, the reason we go to Church and is far too important to pass up. But that it's just hard, being widowed- the father of her children is not present on a day set aside to revere fathers. We discussed the difficulty our children might have on Father's Day as well. How many people feel lost on these occasions? It hurt to think that celebrating something wonderful and God-given, as fathers are, would be difficult for some of us.</div>
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I thought about the first Father's Day after my dad had passed away. There was much in my life to be happy about, yet the sadness was still there. My Dad was gone from this life and I missed knowing he was there, even while I heard others speak of their fathers and the things they had planned to do together. A few weeks later, I was invited to sing at a funeral. The man was much older than my father had been when he passed away. He'd had more opportunity than my own father or even my late husband to have a fatherly impact in this life. There were not only grandchildren in attendance, but great-grandchildren. He had been beloved by all, even those who disagreed with his faith. One grand-daughter said, "He was like another dad to me. If I was mad at my dad, I couldn't be mad at Grandpa." I wondered, who are my second fathers? Surely I had them...but who were they? </div>
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The words of the song were poignant:</div>
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"O My Father, thou that dwellest in the high and glorious place,</div>
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When shall I regain thy presence and again behold thy face?"</div>
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<span style="color: #010101; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">(Hymns, O My Father, 292, Eliza R. Snow)</span></div>
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On the surface, the words sound like a hymn for the fatherless, but they are not. The poet is referring to our Heavenly Father. One who is Father to all of us. </div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">"Our Father, by whose name all fatherhood is known,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">Who dost in love proclaim each family thine own</span><span style="color: #010101; font-family: Times New Roman;">."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"> (Hymns, Our Father By Whose Name, 296, F. Bland Tucker)</span></div>
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I thought about the many people in our lives who act as second fathers, even when we have good fathers present and active in our lives. I thought about my sons, how they love their children, but how they love their nieces and nephews also and how they can be like second fathers to them. All around me are good men who teach their sons to be good men. I can be thankful for that. </div>
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I thought of my Heavenly Father, of the many blessings HE showers down on me. Regardless of our situation- whether we have living fathers or not, or if our fathers have been involved in our lives or not, or any other of myriad father situations, we all have a Father who loves us and is there for us. Just like earthly fathers, we can deny His existence, we can exclude Him from our lives or we can turn to him for everything. But unlike earthly fathers, He will never leave us, even when we turn from him. He is always there. </div>
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I know there's the whole line of thinking that we should honor our fathers and mothers every day, so why make a fuss on one day? And there's good reason in that thought, but we DO make a fuss on one day. And we rob ourselves of a lot of happiness and good memories if we let our bitterness or grief over our earthly situation sideline us from such celebrations. Maybe it's my 'party girl' instinct, but on this Father's Day, I choose to jump in. I choose to celebrate good fathers of all kinds. I will celebrate my sons who are wonderful fathers and uncles. I choose to appreciate and thank good men everywhere who do father-like things for others. And, most of all, I can praise and worship my Heavenly Father, who made a glorious earth and placed His beautiful children on it. He made a Plan of Happiness where we can learn and grow and gain eternal blessings! And He loves and blesses me and my family every day. On this Father's Day, I choose to gather with good people at church where we raise our voices in praise to Him. </div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">"And now we'll sing great praise and rev'rently recall</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">The Holy One who gave his Son,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">The Father of us all."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101; font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">(Children's Songbook, Fathers, p.209, Dawn Hughes Ballantyne and Joyce Mills Jensen)</span></span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-10334501229235997262015-03-15T15:25:00.000-07:002015-03-15T15:25:03.601-07:00Time to Love (or why I became a college dropout after age 50)<div>
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>I post this with a caveat to my children and grandchildren: I am not in any way suggesting that you drop out of school or if you are thinking of going back to school, I am not suggesting that you shouldn’t. Each of us have individual decisions to make related to our lives and fulfilling our potential. My hope and prayer is that you prayerfully and honestly examine the priorities you have set in your life. Sometimes sacrifice now is necessary to achieve greater potential in the future, sometimes the sacrifice now is too great. This is MY decision and why I made it.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I love to learn new things. I think most of us do. Although I dropped out of college when I got married, I continued to learn. I devoured my husband’s textbooks and most other books I could find. As personal computers came of age, I learned all I could about them. I recognized their potential to do great things and eventually (in the 1990s) taught myself HTML markup language and created a personal website (yeah, I know, HTML is now almost obsolete, but only almost). More than once I considered going back to college and getting the degree I started out to get. Then I realized that my dreams and hopes and plans had changed and perhaps I wanted a different degree. Oh, and there was the cost. At a time when my own children were starting college, it seemed there wasn’t quite enough time OR money to support my own degree seeking. Still, I continued to learn about things, many things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Finally, an opportunity arose to attend college and it seemed I had the time to do so. Thanks to BYU-Idaho’s Pathway program, the tuition was quite affordable. And what better place to obtain a degree? BYU! (Go Blue! Rah!) So, I embarked on a college journey while simultaneously wading through the waters of grief after the passing of my husband. Sometimes I felt I was in deep water, perhaps even over my head water, but the impending homework deadline was screaming from my laptop, so I would push those thoughts aside and stride right back into the collegiate ocean. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then came the Math semester. My struggles with math <a href="http://joy-fuljourney.blogspot.com/2013/10/of-oatmeal-and-fractions.html" target="_blank">(documented in this post</a>) meant that it took more and more of my time to complete the assigned work. I mean, talk about DEEP water! I had learned to approach my learning with prayer, and that did help, but only after many, many hours of study and work was I able to complete that semester. I was amazed, but I escaped that class with a B! Wow! I breathed a sigh of relief- the college degree seemed attainable after all. I still wasn’t sure what kind of degree I would seek, but I plunged back in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Well I’m not sure I’m wiser</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>But some things are clearer</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>And it’s getting clear that I’m not here for long</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>So what am I to do with my few minutes here in this place?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That is, until I was visiting with some of my (step-) children. I was on a college break, between semesters, and was enjoying time with family. I commented that I wished I had time to see them more, and my step-daughter said, “But you always have homework!”. Ouch. I drove home that night pondering…what was I sacrificing? Who is most important? I do not have small children at home. But my children and grandchildren are no less important. And there are so many! Even if I text or call them all in a week…well, there aren’t enough days in a week. And so began a season of pondering. What is God’s plan for me right now? Is college really part of that plan? A wise person said to me once, “These earth-life days and hours are sacred hours. We will not get them again.” Well, duh. Was I making the most of my earth hours?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>And we hear the world sigh with its aches and its pains</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>We see the grass wither and watch flowers fade</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What my heart told me was not what my brave, educated mind wanted to hear. But as soon as I knew it, I knew it was right. I do not want to spend these sacred earth-life days worrying about homework deadlines and test scores. I want to spend time loving and serving. I want to have the time to sink deep into sacred scripture and not worry about if I’m writing an appropriate discussion board entry. I want time to to make a journey to see grandchildren (ok, and their parents) without worrying about getting the homework done before or after or during that journey. I want time to do His work without hurrying home to complete an online test.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>But oh, there’s a day that is coming</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>When everything will be new</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>And oh, God will dry every tear</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>And everything sad will be made untrue</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>And oh, it’s gonna be a celebration</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>All of creation longs for</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>And while we’re waiting for that day to come</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>We’ve got a little more time to love.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, if you’re thinking that maybe I’m not using my time wisely, remember that my singular lifestyle means that I do EVERYTHING myself or I pay someone else to do it. I choose to pay someone to take care of my pool, so that I have time to enjoy using it. We all make trade-offs. I no longer want to trade sitting in front of my laptop doing homework for sitting with grandchildren on my lap reading books together. I no longer want to trade slipping out after a meeting so I can complete homework by the deadline for slipping a homemade treat onto someone’s front step. This is the time I have, and there is only so much of it (and me) to go around. I have been ultimately blessed and I want to share it. For me, at least, doing His work does not mean doing homework. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>There are little ones hungry for love of a family</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>So many hungry for bread</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>On the left and the right surrounded by the last and the least</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>And just down the street and just across the table</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>Hungry hearts are waiting to be fed</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>‘Cause deep in our soul we’re all longing to be at The Feast</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>But until we sit down where there’s more than enough</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 18px;"><i>Let us give as we’ve been given and love as we’ve been loved.</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(A Little More Time to Love by Stephen Curtis Chapman)</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Thomas S. Monson has said, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"</span></span><span style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"We cannot call back time that is past, we cannot stop time that now is, and we cannot experience the future in our present state. Time is a gift, a treasure not to be put aside for the future but to be used wisely in the present.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my present, I want a little more time to love.</span></span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-68388601537787143352014-12-31T15:49:00.000-08:002014-12-31T16:04:57.887-08:00Stolen Memories<div style="font-family: Tahoma; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">
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Precious memories, how they linger,</div>
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How they ever flood my soul.</div>
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The police officer looked me with a straight face, "Who do you know who wants to take all your stuff?" I stared back at her. Names and faces ran through my mind, but I quickly sent them away. Who indeed? Who would take things that have great meaning for me personally? Who would want the silver rings and pins made by my grandparents? Who would gain enjoyment from wearing jewelry my mother wore? Who would want a box full of well worn and loved pocketknives belonging to Robert, set aside to give to our grandsons?</div>
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But someone did want, and so they entered my home while I was away and took them. They stole my memories. They took precious gifts from my husband, things saved for later, things beloved by my mother and grandmother. They dumped drawers on floors, emptied closet shelves and looked through boxes and cases, scattering the contents about, leaving only a portion of what was there before. Now part of me was missing. Gone.</div>
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I remember the next morning, December 23rd, weeping again, as I realized just how much my things were a part of me. As I dressed for work, the ring once belonging to my grandmother- gone. The necklace, given to me by Robert- gone. I looked around. No silent reminders of family or love or anything. It felt as if Robert had left again, I missed him. Intensely. I try not to be a 'thing' oriented person, so I was surprised by this. But his things were gone. "Robert's love is eternal," I reminded myself. I didn't feel frightened. In fact, I felt complete comfort. I felt enveloped in peace and during that day, even though the confusion of loss remained, I knew and recognized the Divine Signatures of the Lord as the day unfolded. "They are only things," I reminded myself. Although the stolen things could never be replaced, I was thankful that at least that I was ok. My family was ok. My little dog was ok. Still, I ordered an alarm system.</div>
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And then, as if taking a few things wasn't enough and before the alarm system arrived, the robbers returned a week later and took even more. I stared at the dining room floor where silver knives lay, the silverware drawer empty, handmade Irish lace linens tossed aside (at least they didn't take those!). My grandmother's silverware gone. Who does this? And I cried. Too much of me was missing now. Not just when I dressed for the day, but now the things I used and loved in daily life.</div>
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Then the next wave of unwanted feelings arrived: I trusted no one. I began to feel afraid. Everyone was suspect. "This is not me," I think as I close every blind in the house, shutting out the sunlit back yard view and the purple Ruella blossoms. As I prepared to leave for work, I did more than a routine check. Locks that weren't usually locked were checked and locked. I took special note of where and how I left things. Who will try to steal my life while I am gone? And as the fears began to race through my mind, I prayed that God would help me lose the fear. </div>
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And He did. He changed my heart. Now I felt concern. Not for me. Concern for a thief. I wondered what kind of person would have such a need that they could violate someone else's space in such a way? "They [thieves] don't think like you and me." the police officer had said. I knew that was true! (C'mon, you know I have to laugh, right?) I knew I wanted to forgive that person. What if I met them? How would I feel? What would I say? We think of people like this as poor in Spirit, as needful, and we assume they feel remorse. It's easy to forgive remorse. What if there is no remorse? What if they cruelly melted my grandmother's sterling jewelry without a thought for the care and love she poured into it? Then how would I feel? I know what I WANT to feel. I want to feel charity. I want to forgive as I have been forgiven. I don't want fear, alone-ness or mis-trust to invade my life, and for that reason, I needed to forgive. </div>
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How do I forgive someone who has taken parts of me away? It's easy to find comfort in THINGS, isn't it? I miss Robert, but I still have his wedding ring. Wait! It's gone! What will remind me now? Again, the distinct Divine Signatures of the Lord arrived. As I juggled demands of work, holidays, insurance adjusters, and life in general, things slipped into place in amazing ways. There were moments that worked out miraculously and as they did, I felt the impression from the Spirit, "I am aware of you! I know what your TRUE needs are, and I will give them to you as you need them! You need only to remember Me!" </div>
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"Always remember Him" is the sacred promise I renew each week. When I do that, I feel charity toward those who have stolen from me. When I remember Him, no one can take His love away. No one can take Robert's love away. I need not fear, for I am always in His care. No one will steal my peace or my joy, for they are given by One who knows and loves all. And that's enough.</div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">" Fear not, little children, for you are mine, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">and I have overcome the world, and you are of them that my Father hath given me;</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">And none of them that my Father hath given me shall be lost....</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">Wherefore, I am in your midst, and I am the good shepherd, and the stone of Israel. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">He that buildeth upon this rock shall never fall.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">And the day cometh that you shall hear my voice and see me, and know that I am.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">Watch, therefore, that ye may be ready."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #010101;">(Doctrine and Covenants 50: 41-46)</span></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-72685766166686836262014-12-20T17:55:00.002-08:002014-12-20T18:08:25.605-08:00A Baby Brings So Much Hope<div>
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Years ago, my friend Sally and her family found themselves in a hard situation. Their joint business venture with another family had failed, they lost their large lovely home and as they tried to repay creditors and investors, they became financially strapped. They moved to a much older and much smaller home. But before they could begin this process, Sally gave birth to another beautiful baby. I asked her if she felt as if the baby added to the stress of the situation. “Oh no!” she replied, “It was the perfect message from Heavenly Father, a reminder that even when we had lost so much, we still had what was most important, each other. A baby brings so much hope!"</div>
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<i>“Come, Lord Jesus, to the Manger;</i></div>
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<i>May we see thy tender face?</i></div>
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<i>Great Creator, here a stranger,</i></div>
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<i>Infant in this humble place."</i></div>
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Many of us find ourselves beset with sadness at this Christmas season. For a variety of reasons and in a variety of ways, we sometimes find it difficult to reconcile the happiness of the season with the sadness that surrounds us. Not so long ago, I found myself wondering the same thing. I wondered if I would ever feel the deep joy that comes when my heart is full of purpose. In my head I knew the answer; I knew what things were most important, but my heart just wasn’t feeling it.</div>
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I decided a purposeful study of Scripture was needed. What better way to feel the answers I needed than by reading the words of the prophets? I knew myself and my hectic schedule needed a little prodding, so I signed up for a class. I knew the requirement to daily ‘dig deeper’ would force me to take time to ponder, not just to read, but to read long enough to feel. </div>
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<i>Darkness scatter, Morning swell;</i></div>
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<i>Come, dear Lord, Immanuel;</i></div>
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As part of the class, we were to choose an attribute, something we wanted to develop. And so the adventure began, as I studied and planned and, eventually, I noticed some progress in my feelings. I re-learned that faith is an action word, that to daily feel of God’s love I needed to also act. I prayed for, looked for and found ways to serve, often anonymously, that I might act on the faith I needed and felt. Sometimes the acts were small. And often, so was my progress. </div>
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October flew past, November began, I recognized that gratitude was also essential to warming my heart. As I recognized the many blessings in my life, my eyes were opened to more and my heart once again began to feel a deeper joy. And then, as if to test my resolve, a grandson arrived six weeks early. While his mother and father stayed in the hospital with him, two sweet siblings stayed with me. As the two kiddles and I snuggled together on the sofa one evening, we read a Christmas story. I remembered my friend’s words, “A baby brings so much hope!”. There it was…even while one baby struggled for life, we all had hope. Then I was reminded of A BABY who came to ensure that all would go well for all of us forever!<br />
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A few days later, a newly widowed friend said to me, “I just can’t be happy at Christmas. I have lost so much, I will never be happy again.” As I wrapped my arms around her in a hug, I knew the answer: A baby. A Holy Baby, the Savior of the World. Together we wept, but these words brought us peace, “<span style="color: #2f393a;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">…And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictionsand temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.” (Alma 7: 11-12) </span></div>
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<i>Come in glory to the earth,</i></div>
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<i>Come to us to rule and reign,</i></div>
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<i>Ready us to kneel and greet thee,</i></div>
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<i>Come, Lord Jesus, Come!</i> </div>
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I will always celebrate Christmas! This season is the season of Joy! Even the saddest, most heart wrenching things can become a path to know of God’s love for us in a greater, deeper way. I know of pain and heartache. I know of loss. I know there is One who heals all wounds, binds up our broken hearts and fills them with joy. He gives us peace, love and purpose! How can we turn away from celebrating Christ, who gave us everything? The baby who brought so much hope to the world! </div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Without Christ, there would be no Christmas. Without Christ, there can be no fulness of joy. Without His birth and His Atonement, we would have no Intercessor, no Advocate with the Father, and no Mediator who makes it possible for us to return to the presence of our loving Heavenly Father and live together as eternal families.” Bishop Gary M. Stevenson, <i>Liahona</i>, December 2014, The Reality of Christmas.</span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-43652280527900970692014-11-22T20:56:00.002-08:002014-11-22T20:56:52.388-08:00Each Word Chosen Carefully<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 22px;"><i>But behold, I shall take these plates, which contain these prophesyings and revelations, and put them with the remainder of my record, for they are choice unto me; and I know they will be choice unto my brethren.</i> (Words of Mormon 1:6)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314);"><span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Grandma Zehrbach always told the best bedtime stories. On warm summer nights when I couldn’t quite settle into sleep, Grandma would lay beside me in the twin bed that used to be my mothers, and tell me stories about little girls quite like myself. The crickets outside the window sang and garden scents floated into the room, as the princesses in my dreams climbed trees just like I did and had grand adventures just like mine. The little girls in Grandma's stories were always smart and wise and kind, just like me. Oh how I loved her bedtime stories! </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314);"><span style="line-height: 22px;">My Dad told stories too. His were true- about his childhood. I laughed so hard I cried when Dad told about chasing a greased pig as a boy, slipping and sliding around the pasture (Ew!). And the time Grandma put a pot roast on to cook while everyone went to church. Everyone, that is, except for Uncle Bill, who was working on the railroad. He arrived home shortly before everyone else returned and finding a delicious pot roast on the stove, sat down and ate the entire thing! I never met Uncle Bill, but I think his appetite was carried on to my sons. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314);"><span style="line-height: 22px;">I love scripture stories, too. I always have. I am filled with courage when I read of Daniel in the lion’s den, courage to do what was right even if it is scary. When I read of the young boy Jesus teaching in the temple, I recognized that sometimes children go to church when their parents don’t. And so I did. Soon enough my parents joined me, but those first years of church attendance were fueled by an understanding based on scripture. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">I am a child of the modern age,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">I am a son of the present hour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">What can these words from so long ago</span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); line-height: 22px;">The Scriptures exist today because </span><span style="line-height: 22px;">someone (actually, several someones) bothered to write them down. How beautiful are their words! Their voices speak peace to my heart and mind, and because of sacred words, we are all instructed in the ways of the Lord. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">We are the prophets, years gone by.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">We spent our days, we gave our lives</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">For a record which was written not for us,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">But for you. And every word is true.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Thankfully, someone wrote my Dad’s stories down (most likely Mom), as well as the stories of many other ancestors. Dad’s stories provided a foundation of love and acceptance for others that has continued in my heart ever since. The longer I live, the more precious their words become to me. Yet, there is a small thing missing- the stories of their struggles and trials. My grandmother was widowed at a young age…how I wish she had recorded her thoughts and feelings. I have only her living example witnessed through youthful eyes to help me understand how to go on. </span></span><span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 22px;">Those stories, written and un-written have inspired me as I continue writing memories and testimonies of my own- for my children and grandchildren.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Ancient prophets like Isaiah, Paul and Mormon wrote not just to make a record, but to specifically make a record of their testimonies for future generations. Isaiah looked into our time and made a record of his warnings. My faith is stronger because of their words. I am lifted to a place of understanding as I read and, like Mormon, the words are choice unto me!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">Each word chosen prayerfully,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">Laid down carefully in its place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">For here, from so far away,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">And we pray;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;">Hear what we have to say!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino;"><i>(What Can They Have to Say? - Steven Kapp Perry)</i></span></div>
Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1906236803608604374.post-80340826878741532882014-11-08T22:30:00.003-08:002014-11-08T22:30:33.718-08:00Endure to the End<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
The nice looking business man in the airplane seat next to me said, “Yes, I was saved a few years ago when I became a Christian. I’m always learning new things about what that means, and how to have faith.” We talked about faith as something that grows as we use it, but sometimes using faith is hard. Later I thought about his comment about being ‘Saved’. </div>
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So often people believe that being saved is a single act; words spoken as the Spirit moves our hearts, and that’s all that is needed. But being saved involves so much more than just saying so. We know that His Grace is sufficient for everyone. But truly being saved involves acting on our faith daily. It involves remaining to committed to His gospel through thick and thin, and by following His example. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size: small; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><i>"And I heard a voice from the Father, saying: Yea, the words of my Beloved are true and faithful. He that endureth to the end, the same shall be saved.</i></span></div>
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<i>And now, my beloved brethren, I know by this that unless a man shall endure to the end, in following the example of the Son of the living God, he cannot be saved."<br />(2 Nephi 31:15 -16)</i></div>
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One of my dear friends was stricken with Multiple Sclerosis while in her 30’s. From the very beginning, she has displayed such a cheerful attitude and has been faithful in enduring. She enjoyed a short reprieve from the effects of her disease for a time, during which she had two beautiful children. But soon, she began to lose strength and agility in her legs. Before long she was walking with the aid of crutches. Yet she remained positive and cheerful. She is known by many as one with a delightful sense of humor. One day I bumped into her in the grocery store, she was using a motorized scooter. But the light in her eyes was unmistakeable. She was not only enduring, she was improving spiritually. Several months later she called to let me know that her family was going to be sealed in the temple. I was thrilled for her, but I was also greatly impressed with her joyful determination to endure to the end. She is an example to me of someone who could easily say, “I’ve been saved, and my life is hard, so I’ll just sit right here and do nothing more.” but she has instead continued to serve others, serve her family and love and serve the Lord. And she does so joyfully. To me, she is a happy example of Enduring to the End.</div>
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The very word ‘endure’ implies some kind of hardship, or resistance. Even so, I don’t believe our enduring has to be mournful or sad. What is the point of enduring if we cannot feel joy at knowing the source of our endurance, the Savior’s Atonement? I love the simple reminder in Nephi’s words, </div>
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<i>"Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life."<br />(2 Nephi 31:20)</i></div>
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Kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05085658967077873622noreply@blogger.com0