On growth

 

    

The annual reminder popped up on my phone in February: Prune Roses

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

Six-million Dollar People

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. 

I still remember the opening trailer lines, “We can rebuild him, we have the technology! He will be faster and better than humanly possible” 

And people were so excited about all those possibilities! What if we could really see further away than anyone else? So cool! 

I keep thinking about that as we drag ourselves through this pandemic and subsequent world and life commotion. 

We are discovering we cannot do things like we’ve always done them: 

Serving others? Wear a mask. 

Attending Church? Wear a mask. 

Dining out? Drive through instead (at least you still won’t have to wash the dishes after). 

Visiting the sick? Use Zoom. Or, more accurately for some, learn to use Zoom

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.” 

What happened to the excitement over bionic anything? 

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.” 

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. 

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! 

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 willingness to do that that brings the joy. 

I’m reminded of the words of this hymn, 

“In word and deed he doth require 

My will to his, like son to sire,

Be made to bend, and I, as son, 

Learn conduct from the Holy One.” 

Maybe these words are better, 

“Ain’t no mountain high enough to keep me from you, [friend]!”

I’ll wear a mask, too! 

Give Me Jesus

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.

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:

"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

I woke up a few mornings ago with the old song running in my mind:

"In the morning, when I rise.

In the morning, when I rise

In the morning. When I rise, give me Jesus."

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.

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!  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.

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.

When we turn to Him, we have no need to fear, this I know is true!

"Give me Jesus,

Give me Jesus!

You can have all this world

But give me Jesus."

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.

"No guilt in life, no fear in death,

This is the power of Christ in me

From life's first cry to final breath,

Jesus commands my destiny

No power of hell, no scheme of man,

Can ever pluck me from His hand

Till He returns or calls me home

Here in the power of Christ I'll stand."

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!  CHRISTmas lights!

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!

"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."

It's not Easter month yet, but the lights are out. Lights for Jesus.

May we all feel His Hope.

Beans for Citrus

Who could have predicted the events of today? 

(Thursday, March 12, 2020- an announcement that all Sunday Church meetings are suspended due to a global pandemic)

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.

No blossoms, no fruit. My heart sank.

Then I discovered that a very old packet of seeds are still capable of sprouting.

God gives beauty for ashes. And beans for citrus, apparently.

It’s not my plan, it’s His.

Maybe I’ll learn to love beans more than tangelos. And Church at home. And beauty for ashes. 

Because He is the giver of all good gifts.

A Testimony of the Restoration

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.

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!

Soon the opening meeting ended and it was time to go to different classes.  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, 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!

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  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).  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.

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.

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.  After a few months, she and  I were baptized, and a few years later, my father as well.  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. 

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! 

Baseball 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.

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.

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."

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.

It's good to win games. But it's better to have a good heart.

The Saviors of the Garden

"We 💓 Aphids!"  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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Grandma and the Giblets: A Thanksgiving Story

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.

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. 

But then.....well...for the first time in nearly 60 years, I set something on fire in my kitchen!

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. 

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!! 

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.

More disappointment, but this is Thanksgiving and while food is the point, it's not really the point. Time to reboot.

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?” 

“Yes, of course I did!”  Grandma huffed as she slid the pan into the oven. 

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!

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! 

“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.

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

Happy Thanksgiving!! 

May you enjoy your turkey with no giblets, because those things taste like dirt!! 

Painting a wall is a lot life life:

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.

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.

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. 

Things look fresh and new and much better than they did. I and the wall are perfect backdrops for a Beautiful Savior.

Just the Right Thing

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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!

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."

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.

Keep thou my feet
I do not ask to see the distant scene
One step enough for me.

To Be A Pioneer

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.

Well, maybe if you're from a long line of Mormons, anyway.

Some of us, though, are pioneers ourselves, becoming the first converts in the family tree.

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'!

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.

You don't have to push a handcart,

Leave your fam'ly dear,

Or walk a thousand miles or more

To be a pioneer!

(To Be A Pioneer, text by Ruth Muir Gardner, Children's Songbook, p. 218)

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.

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.

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.  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!!

Myron Spencer Higley is a cousin to my Great-great-great-great-grandmother, Martha Mills. His obituary shares the following information:

"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.

"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…

"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."

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?

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 family. 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.

May thy strong Spirit bind our hearts in unity,

And help us each to find the love from self set free.

In all our heart such love increase,

That ev'ry home, by this release,

May be the dwelling place of peace.

(Our Father, by Whose Name, text by F. Bland Tucker, Hymns, #296)

A Full Bottle of Blessings

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.

And there in Robert's writing is the date on the label: 9-09

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oil for my lamp, and a light unto my feet.

Of Grace and the Broken Cord

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.

 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. 

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.

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.

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!

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. 

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? 

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.

And THEN I asked for help. Of course! How many times do I pray for Father to undo a mess I created? 

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 all 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, "Most gladly 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. 

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?" 

"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. 

Our Savior's Love

Shines like the sun with perfect light,

As from above

It breaks thru clouds of strife.

Lighting our way,

It leads us back into his sight,

Where we may stay

To share eternal life.

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 most gladly 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? 

And so, this morning, I called a friend, “I need your help…..”