10 Letters

I started reading a book--something I haven't had the concentration to do for almost 6 months.  It's about being peculiar in a good way.  I can't remember the exact title, but it's by Mary Ellen Edmunds.  You could consider it a self-help book I guess.  One of the activities in the 1st chapter is to think of 10 people who have changed your life (for good) and write them a letter.  She said you could learn a lot about yourself by who you chose and what you said.   She said not to use family but I'll break that right off the top because Ian is certainly on my list.  So here they are:

Abraham Lincoln 

Laura Molen

Ruth Bartschi

Chaim Potok

Mr. Johanson

Jim and Tonya Paiva

Kim Gamino

Ian Gleason

Debra Burnett

Mae Wright

I don't know that I'll actually write any letters, but I can explain the reasons.  When I was a kid every book I read was about Abe Lincoln.  I idolized him.  The more I learn as an adult, the more I think of him.  Laura Molen showed love to my family before she even knew us.  She stepped up at the then worst time of my life and served all of us.  Ruth Bartschi taught me that I didn't need to fit in some perfect mold to be a missionary and teach people about God.  Chaim Potok wrote fiction that made me want to read.  He made me love fiction and see and understand a group of people I would never get to see in real life.  Mr. Johanson was my middle school science teacher and taught me when I was really young that everything I learned I would be able to take with me when I die.  In my recollection he even quoted the scripture verse right there in science class.  Jim and Tonya Paiva gave me a look into another religion and showed me that devoutness is universal. They were a great example to us in teaching the Old Testament to our kids.  Kim Gamino started Camp Taylor for youth with heart disease and gave Ian a sense of independence he never had prior to going there.  She inspires me.  Ian--too many reasons to count and I don't feel like crying any more today.  Debra Burnett was my first missionary companion.  She taught me that even though it's hard work, being a missionary is a happy, fun adventure and there is a plan that we are part of.  Mae Wright, well, what a dear friend.  Her life was so different from mine.  I admire her more than I can express.  She was tough and smart and had the faith of 10 prophets.

The Grapefruit Syndrome

I was cleaning out a drawer yesterday and found something that hung on our wall about a hundred years ago.  It's still relevant.  I can't take credit for it.  It was in a magazine written by Lola B. Walters.

My husband and I had been married about two years-just long enough for me to realize that he was a normal man rather than a knight on a white charger--when I read a magazine article recommending that married couples schedule regular talks to discuss, truthfully and candidly, the habits or mannerisms they find annoying  in each other.  The theory was that if the partners knew of such annoyances, they could correct them before resentful feelings developed.
It made sense to me.  I talked with my husband about the idea.  After some hesitation, he agreed to give it a try.
As I recall, we were to name five things we found annoying, and I started off.  After more than fifty years, I remember only my first complaint:  grapefruit.  I told him that I didn't like the way he ate grapefruit.  He peeled it and ate it like an orange!  Nobody else I knew ate grapefruit like that.  Could a girl be expected to spend a lifetime, and even eternity, watching her husband eat grapefruit like an orange?  Although I have forgotten them, I'm sure the rest of my complaints were similar.
After I finished, it was his turn to tell the things he disliked about me.  Though it has been more than half a century, I still carry a mental image of my husband's handsome young face as he gathered  his brows together in thoughtful, puzzled frown and then looked at me with his large blue-gray eyes and said,  "Well, to tell the truth, I can't think of anything I don't like about you, Honey."
Gasp.
I quickly turned my back, because I didn't know how to explain the tears that  had filled my eyes and were running down my face.  I had found fault with him over such trivial things as the way he ate grapefruit, while he hadn't even noticed any of my peculiar and no doubt annoying ways.
I wish I could say that this experience completely cured me of fault finding. It didn't.  But it did make me aware early in my marriage that husbands and wives need to keep in perspective, and usually ignore, the small differences in their habits and personalities.
Whenever I hear of married couples being incompatible, I always wonder if they are suffering from what I now call the Grapefruit Syndrome.

You could say this was written specifically for me.  I think we'd probably been married 2 years when Keith showed it to me.  It taught me a good lesson, but like the author, I'm still learning it.  I have been saying forever, the only thing I gave up in marrying Keith is Miracle Whip.  All the other sacrifices have been his.  While that's not completely accurate either, my husband puts up with all the quirky, annoying things about me.  After nearly 18 years,  I actually believe that he doesn't even see many of them.  It's kind of like believing him when he says he doesn't notice other women.  It's a happy and secure place to be.

Prodigal

What does  prodigal mean?

Some of the definitions say wasteful, extravagant, lavishly reckless--none of the things I had ever associated with prodigal in the prodigal son.   I mean I knew spending the inheritance was the gist of the story,  but I always thought him leaving the family was where the term prodigal came from--being impetuous and stupid basically.  Then I found another definition:  a person who acts irresponsibly and later regrets it.

We were reading the New Testament with the kids the other night and I was reading the parables of the lost sheep, the piece of silver, and the prodigal son.  We all get  the importance of the one sheep and how a person feels if they have $10.00 and lose one.  The obvious fixation is on the one that's lost not the nine that are easily spent or saved.  We've all heard the story of the prodigal son  at least 100 times.  This time though, one verse stuck out.  After we were finished, I went back and read it again and asked Keith some questions.

Luke 15:7 

 I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven

over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine

 just persons, which need no repentance. 

Okay, so I have to admit, it's been my personal mission for years (and I'm not perfect at it yet)  to come to a place where I don't resent people who live a prodigal life and then repent and now have a seemingly perfect gospel life.  I've finally accepted that whether I tell a white lie or commit adultery (don't worry Keith, it's just an example) I am every bit as dependant on the atonement.  The degree of sin is irrelevant.  So, reading this verse took me back a little bit.  Aren't we all prodigal?  There aren't any sinless persons--except the one telling the story.  It's been a hard lesson for me as I try to do whats right and watch those around me.  There's the next lesson--stop watching those around me!

It would be good if the verse had a footnote to explain it, but I guess I'll just have to study it out and hope someone smarter than me had the same question and wrote the answer down somewhere.

Until Proven Otherwise

Short and sweet.
I heard a really good talk a few months ago that I haven't been able to forget--maybe there's a reason for that.  It was in person, so I can't go back and read it or put it into context.  I can't even remember the speaker's topic, but one sentence he said has almost haunted me ever since. 

He said,  "Every good thought should be treated as a prompting until proven otherwise." 

Duh!  If every good thing comes from God why should I ever think that good thoughts are my original ideas?  I should trust that I am capable of receiving a message from God through the Holy Ghost and act on it.  If I find out later that it was just me, well, no harm no foul, right?

It seems like hundreds of times that I've had thoughts about someone or something and I've brushed it off only to find out a day or week later that it was a prompting I should have listened to.  That's an awful feeling.  I figure if I start living by this principle, even if I can't remember who said it, it could change my life.

Flashlight and Tweezers

I was talking with someone recently who was going through a really hard time.  She had just lost her mom;  found out she'd lost a brother who she'd been out of touch with for years;  watched her other brother go back to drugs.  The list includes many other things including more than one chronic health condition that will eventually take her life and a common-law husband who she's never had the perfect relationship with and hasn't even seen for a few months.  We were talking about what God wants for us and how we should live--the meaning of life kind of stuff.  She told me how we are supposed to focus on the things we have to be grateful for, even if we need a flashlight and a pair of tweezers to find them.  I laughed.  That may be the best proverb I've ever heard.

It's given me reason to ponder so many times over the past month about how many people who have lived in the history of time have needed a flashlight and a pair of tweezers to find things to be thankful for.  I am not one of those people.  From the time I was born,  I have had everything I needed to have a good life.   My parents loved me.  I always had a home.  I got to have a good education.  I've had a variety of incredible friends.  I've seen beautiful, interesting, places and experienced so many wonderful things. 

Since I've grown up,  I've had the blessing of a husband who is honorable and giving and who I know was a gift to me from a loving Heavenly Father.  I have 3 of the choicest people who've ever been on the planet as my own children.  Again, I have a home that's warm and stocked with good food to eat and healthy water to drink.  I am in good health.  I'm still learning and seeing and doing many wonderful things.

Though losing my son is impossible to bear and can, at times, overshadow all the other things that are good in my life, I don't need a flashlight or a pair of tweezers to find the blessings that can give me solace.

"Password"

Passing the time

Passing Grades

Pass with flying colors

Pass the ball

Gave him a pass

Made a pass

Pass/fail

The storm has passed

Pass the buck

You may not pass this way again

Passing  judgement

This too, shall pass

Pass a test

Pass out the treats

2 ships that passed in the night

Don't let it pass you by

And it came to pass...

I'm kind of a freak about words.  I really listen to the words people use and I replay conversations over and over in my head--regretting the words I use or pulling meaning from the words others' use.  Password is one of my favorite games.  We have this 70's version of the box game and our kids are really quite good at it.  I like it because it makes us communicate.  It makes us pull together and remember things we've shared together.

There are words I like to use and hear and then there are words I don't.  Euphemisms in general are not my thing.  Just say it like it is.  That's my philosophy.  Sugar-coating isn't my strong suit.  Not when I'm talking somethand not when others talk to me.  I remember once when Ian was pretty little, I said cars could squish peoples' guts out.  My friend was surprised at how I laid things out for my kids.  It kind of shocked me because I thought making it plain was the best way to keep him out of the street.

Getting to the point, I have for as long as I can remember, hated the term: "passed away".  It makes it seem like a person just disappeared or faded or floated off.  I've never understood why people couldn't just say died.  I get it now.  I stop, mid-sentence sometimes.  I say gone, left, and a number of other words including passed because the words died and dead produce an actual, physical pain in my gut--see,  I could've said stomach, but the word gut conveys the deepness of the feeling so much better.

"Pass" is used in sooo many phrases and in almost everyone of them it is some sort of euphemism--a passive way to say something.  I now have empathy for all the people who can't bring themselves to say the word died.  Keith conducted, and I attended, yet another funeral between Christmas and New Year's.  She was a woman we cared about.  I visited her the day before she died, and even though I'm a pretty good person, I have to admit, it's possible that part of the reason I went is because she told Keith 2 days earlier that Ian had been in the room with her.  It's comforting to know that all 3 of us were visiting the same woman and hopefully helping her go. 

I guess it's proof, (if there is such a thing,)  that we really don't die, we just pass to another place.

Bread and Stones

I've had an image in my mind for a while of a big monument like the ones pioneers built.  It's made out of hundreds of stones all mortared together in some beautiful setting.  Sometimes you find them with a plaque attached that lets you know the reason for them.  Sometimes you can see where the plaque used to be and you have to wonder.  I searched the internet and this photo was the closest thing I could find to what I imagine. 

The reason for the image comes from a scripture--roughly--Michelle's translation--"Who are you, if, when your child asks for bread, you give him a stone?"  You can see the actual words in Matthew 7:9.    It goes on to talk about how we give our children good gifts because we love them and that God gives them even better gifts because he knows their needs better and loves them even more than we do.  I've really been thinking about how many times I've given stones instead of bread. 

I don't make homemade bread.  I could say I can't or that I don't know how, but I have umpteen cookbooks and plenty of flour.  I used to have a bread maker, but something happened to it.  I buy the frozen dough sometimes, but I usually make it into scones.  I don't make homemade bread.   I think I'm afraid of it.  I make such good pies and cookies and so many other things, but not bread.  My mother made the best homemade bread.  She would rub butter--real butter over the loaf right after it came out  of the oven so it would glisten on top.  It would only last one day no matter how many loaves she baked, because it was so good.  She is such a good soft-hearted mother.  She gave me all the right things.  She always said things in just the right way so that I would draw the right conclusion on my own.  She never pushed or forced.  She always complimented me and made me feel smart and talented and even though I never believed her, she always told me I was beautiful.  She gave me bread.

I could use some of her qualities.  I'm pretty rough around the edges--like a stone.  I say things that come out wrong and hurt feelings.  I don't focus on the positive enough and I certainly don't have a light fluffy way of making everything glisten.  This new year, I'm going to learn how to make homemade bread, but more importantly,  I'm going to learn how to give bread.  Maybe every mother in the world sits pondering all the unnecessary stones she has given her children.  I kind of hope so.  Anyway, the point of the monument?  I'm hoping by the end, when I'm the one going in the ground, that my kids won't see my mothering as a huge pile of stones.