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Stories of Faith And Recipes
I was raised in a large family in Southwest Iowa. My parents were blessed with five daughters and then years later our family welcomed a little brother. My dad was not an Iowa farmer by industry, however, we were raised with the simple truths found in the law of the harvest: You reap that which you sow.
When I parallel this to how I’ve come to know my Savior Jesus Christ, it is simple. Through the efforts of planting seeds of faith, then deliberately and repeatedly nourishing those seeds and plants, I eventually could begin to recognize the healthy beautiful testimony that had grown. My testimony has come not through moments of great tragedy nor triumph but rather through small and simple seemingly inconsequential daily events.
So why Cookies and Christ?
I am an emotional baker: happy, sad, worried, elated. Whatever the emotion, I head to my Kitchenaid. Each of my recipes has been tried, tested and changed countless times until I find a combination of seemingly perfect flavor and texture. Through the years, I’ve found that formulating the perfect recipe is just like the progress of my conversion to Christ. Lots of trying…Lots of failing…Lots of cleaning up mistakes…Followed by resolving to try again.
The following compilation pairs two of my favorite things: Cookies and Christ. I invite you along for the journey. May you find the motivation to seek Him and serve up a treat to share with love.
My earliest memory as a child has virtually no sound. Recalling it seems like a slow-motion rendering of a moment in time.
However, it’s completely vivid:
The colors surrounding me, or lack thereof…
The silence…
The helplessness…
And yet the complete feeling of peace….
And then, in an instant, without resolution, the memory is over. I have no recollection of what happened next. Or who came to my aid…
It wasn’t until a few years ago that I asked my mom about it. For most of my life, I assumed it was a hard exhausting day of parenting… or an innocent moment of distraction.
In times of reflection, I discern my life to be filled tender mercies from God and angels- seen and unseen- who’ve helped me along my way. As I began to ponder more on my first memory I wanted a level of clarity. Did God intervene?
In a non-judgemental moment filled with curiosity and courage, I finally asked my Mom about the day I nearly drowned.
She had no recollection of any such event. I told her I thought I was about three years old; though not completely certain. I told her I thought we lived in the apartments in Omaha, Nebraska.
I told her my memory of the event is simple…
I’m in the water…
I’m falling…
Slowly…
My eyes are open…
I see the water around me, other people- but none of them close by…
I see the edge of the pool- too far away for me to reach…
I’m nearing the bottom of the pool…
And that’s it…
In the blink of an eye, it’s the end of my memory of the event.
My mom explained to me that when we lived in those apartments she would often hire a babysitter to watch my sister, Debbie, and me while she ran errands with the baby. She said the babysitter would often take us down to the pool to go swimming. The babysitter had never told her of any near-tragedy…
Since asking my mom about this event a few years ago I’ve continued to give it much pondering and thought. Experts say the earliest memory you have as a child is often a tragedy or great triumph. So, which one best describes this event in my own life?
I continue to have many unanswered questions. Primarily, who saved me? And why didn’t I die in an accident that day?
I completely believe in life after death. I believe that our journey on this earth is only a small portion of who we are and the existence of life. I believe life began before we were born and continues after we die. So, why was I granted more time on this earth instead of finishing my progression into a spiritual realm?
As a Spirit in a pre-mortal place and time, I believe I fought for the opportunity to come to earth. Perhaps there was more I needed to do in learning and growing during my mortal state in proving to God that I’m still willing to fight to return to Him…
Perhaps I needed to pass through difficulty, confusion, frustration, and triumph in faith to come to know my Savior and choose to embrace His help on my journey home…
And so I’m still here- experiencing “life”.
I recognize the power of the gift of agency and the impact of my daily choices in determining the course of my life. I also recognize the power of the gift of a family. I believe it’s by God’s design that we are blessed to be a part of a family. It helps us better understand God as our Father in Heaven, and our Brother, who is our greatest advocate, even our Savior, Jesus Christ.
I now recognize that in a moment of despair, with no ability to change my own course, an angel- seen or unseen- stepped in.
The rest of the story is up to me.
Will I continue to fight as hard in this earthly journey as I did when the war raged in the pre-mortal realm?
Will I work to return to my heavenly home and serve God in helping others to come unto Christ as I strive to do the same?
As for today…
I commit to try…
Just a few weeks before I was to begin Kindergarten, Dad told us the empty house next-door had sold and we would soon be getting new neighbors. To my sheer delight, the new family had two girls and one of them was my age! My new neighbor instantly became my best friend. Her dad was the incoming principal at the high school which was adjacent to the elementary school we would soon attend. My friend’s dad arranged for us to have a tour of our new school. Our mothers took this opportunity to show us the approved route we could take as we walked to and from school each day. They walked it with us many times, making sure we knew the way.
A few days later, I was thriving in Kindergarten and excited each day as so many new things were experienced. One day my teacher, Mrs. Graham, introduced us to the school library. It was huge! We were told we could choose a book to borrow, take home and read it as many times as we could in the week! The librarian reminded us to take special care of these books and return them the next week in exchange for another. We all eagerly agreed. On library day the next week, my friend and I met out in front of our homes on the sidewalk at our usual spot. She was so excited to tell me that her dad told her of another safe way we could go to school. I tucked my book under one arm and clasped my friend’s hand as we skipped down the sidewalk on our new way to school. At one point, conflict arose as the sidewalk’s concrete was torn up. It was marked off and we could not pass. We noted our options and justified that since no cars were coming and it would just be a short walk into the street, it would be okay. As I clumsily stepped off the curb, I tripped. Immediate fear overtook me. My fall caused me to drop my library book which fell into the water runoff grate beneath the street. I cried. I cried for my disobedience in not asking my parents if I could go the new way to school. I cried for my scraped up knee suffered when I fell into the street. And I cried for failing to take good care of my library book as I had promised. My friend insisted we should continue on to school and that her dad would take care of everything. I didn’t listen. Instead, I broke another rule- I left my friend alone. I turned around and ran home as fast as I could sobbing the entire way.
Unexpectedly, my dad was still home, having not left for work yet. I poured my regretful heart out to him. I recounted the tragedy as it had unfolded. My dad made a phone call, then took my small hand securely within his as we retraced my steps to the fateful spot. A man from the city met us there. He removed the large bolts and the grate. My dad borrowed his ladder and retrieved my library book! Dad then expressed gratitude to the city worker and walked with me to school. My dad was my hero that day. He made all of my fears and sadness go away.
As a five-year-old, I don’t believe I had much of a capacity to know Jesus Christ more than a man in a great story. However, I believe through the experience of my library book, the foundation was laid for me to understand Christ’s unconditional love and patience. I saw both of these characteristics in my dad when he rescued me. I could begin to understand that we were not placed on earth simply to navigate this experience or struggle on our own.
We were working together as a family in the pre-dawn hours. The task was illuminated with reflections of headlights and intermittent emergency flashers. Like my family, I was dressed in my Sunday best. Essentially- I was moving a thousand-pound animal back to where it belonged. The mood was complete calm. “This” is how I was raised…
Growing up in the midwest, I learned that Iowans seem to live by a few simple cowboy/farmer codes of behavior:
You quietly work hard without complaint.
You work hard to help your neighbor when they need it.
You reap what you sow.
I watched our community live by these codes of conduct. It was a safe and happy place to be.
My Dad was given the tireless opportunity to serve as our church congregation’s Branch President. He was asked to help the members of the local branch with their spiritual progression and to make sure their temporal needs were met as well. I didn’t understand much as a young girl regarding the details of his call to serve for hours each Sunday in meetings, and counsels. However, I often saw him on his knees in prayer and in his home office with closed doors as he gently spoke on the phone with love to those whom sought out his aid. Sundays were days of service. Before dawn, my dad drove us in the family station wagon to church. After the meetings and worship service, we tried our best to patiently wait for Dad to finish his (God’s) work for the day so we could return home.
One Sunday dressed in our best, we napped in the back seat on our way to the neighboring town where we attended church. Without warning, Dad slammed on the brakes, flashed his brights a few times and turned on the car’s red flashing emergency lights. He parked the car in the middle of the road, and told us- “Girls! We need your help!” We all quickly filed out and soon realized we were not alone in the street on that early Sunday morning. A local farmer’s cows were out…seemingly ALL of them…
I knew from my Iowa upbringing that dangerous car accidents occurred with livestock having found a hole in a broken fence-line and wandering into trouble. It was a double tragedy: Potentially fatal car accidents, AND a farmer losing an important resource.
Dad had us spread out and form a line around the herd. We were told to put our arms straight out from our sides (making us seem visually larger to the cows?) On Dad’s cue we were to slowly walk forcing the herd back towards the farmer’s property. Dad made “cow sounds” mooing as he walked, and I followed his lead, doing the same. I was amazed that a ten year old girl and her sisters could help move a herd of cows…From the middle of the road…Back to where they belonged…Safely behind a fenced enclosure.
Absolutely everything Dad told us to do worked perfectly. We walked the cows back into their pasture through the hole in the fence from where they emerged. Mom had gone to alert the farmer and he was already working to repair his fence as Dad and us girls brought the cows back home.
When the job was finished, we returned to the car and finished the drive to church as if the experience we just had was completely normal behavior. Perhaps I thought it was.
Certainly working hard and helping others along their way was a normal way of life. Perhaps that’s why as I learned at home and church of Christ, the stories and messages were seemingly easy to believe. I saw this behavior in the world around me. Thus, a book of scripture with accounts of a man who dedicated His life to serving God- seemed more like a non-fiction history book than a far-fetched unbelievable fantasy.
Growing up in Iowa and having hard-working faithful parents: I was one of the lucky ones. I know it. My parents talked of Christ, taught of Christ and lived in a way to honor Him and His role in our lives.
My choice was to individually and independently learn, or neglect the simple teachings and ignore the proof of the existence of God that surrounded me.
The summer sky evolved into a green-gray color…
We often sat on the front porch swing watching the midwest storm roll in.
Amidst the eerie silence, occasionally the town’s tornado warning siren would ring out. My best friend’s dad, our neighbor, was a volunteer tornado spotter. I watched him exit out his back screen door, light his Marlboro cigarette and back down his driveway with a complete, yet mysterious calmness.
The short-lived stillness preceded the acceleration of wind, leading to lightning strikes, thunderclaps that shook the house followed by rain. Once the siren sounded, we knew the drill: check in with Mom and enter the cellar to wait out the storm. The cellar was dark and cold. I felt trapped. I longed to be able to see what was happening outside the safety of the concrete walls. I hoped someday to be invited to ride along with my friend, Jenea and her dad to serve as a volunteer tornado spotter. I had seen pictures and heard reports of a tornado’s destruction, but nothing “real” ever happened in our town. It wasn’t often that the warning lasted long, nor seemed scary. We would emerge from the cellar following the “All Clear” siren and typically the sun made an appearance drying the rain-soaked sidewalks as if the storm never happened.
One particular storm was accompanied by a power outage. Dad turned on an old portable radio to listen to the progress prediction of the storm. It was reportedly an advanced category tornado. Destruction was imminent. We all listened and were quickly silenced if a question was attempted. The mood in the cellar was different. The intensity was thick. The storm raged outside. I imagined some of our garden being damaged by the wind and hail. I hoped my bike would be okay. The wait was longer than it ever had been and the reports of damage painted a grim picture for nearby farmers. For the first time, the cellar felt like a place of refuge. I was grateful for its protection from the storm and peace in being together as a family.
We lived in southwest Iowa. It was tornado season. Severe weather was NOT out of the ordinary. The aftermath of this storm temporarily closed the main road outside of our town. The tornado’s path was an unprecedented half a mile wide. A few weeks later as we drove to church, we noted in disbelief the twisted trees and barren ground. Had the tornado’s path been a few miles in a different direction, it would have resulted in desolation of our small town.
Following this storm, I took tornado warnings a bit more seriously. I was more attentive to Mom’s need for help and prayed more diligently for the safety of our town and neighboring farmers. I certainly sighed in deep relief when the storm had passed and the sun re-emerged signaling all was calm.
In life, storms- both literal and figurative are going to rage. It’s the very nature of biometric pressure changes and our mortal journey. The sunny days where no threat is imminent is the EXACT time to prepare. Learning of Christ was largely a figurative process requiring imagery and faith. I was young. However, I was blessed with the opportunity to learn, test and try to understand forces greater than my eyes could see. Perhaps it was a bit of a gamble…
What if the Bible and other books that testified of Christ were just fictitious stories, and believing and living life with a faith based primarily in Him produced nothing but facts and frustration?
Or…Would the effort of choosing to come to know for myself, expanding my faith, talking with God, believing in Christ and all things possible in and through Him be worth the absolute work required?
I had no idea how hard, nor rewarding the latter would be. I was just a regular girl in a small town- embarking on a path of choosing to believe…
Winters in Southwest Iowa were very harsh. Snow was often measured in feet not inches. Oft times, I was the daughter selected to go out and help my dad shovel the sidewalks in front of our home. The winter sky darkened in the late afternoon. By the time Dad returned home from work, the streetlamp reflected on the snow giving a strange illumination to our task. The rhythmic sounds of the shovel scraping the sidewalk and Dad’s breath as he worked hard and quick became sounds of comfort to me.
I remember a particular evening that Dad had assigned me to help shovel the walks. I was eight years old, short and scrawny. There had been at least a foot and a half of new snow that day. As I tried to walk down the steps of the porch to the sidewalk in an attempt to catch up to Dad, I could barely move. Every time I put my foot down in the fresh snow, it sank up past my knee. My dad kept turning around and calling for me to catch up. I was trying to be tough, certainly a trait I was known for, and quickly move towards Dad, but I was truly having a hard time moving at all. I began to get frustrated and tears fell down my cheeks. Dad turned around again to call to me and saw me crying. He came back to where I was struggling and pointed to his footsteps in the snow. He told me that if I walked in his footsteps, I wouldn’t get stuck. He had paved the way with his larger boot. We were both headed to the same place and all I needed to do was follow him. And I did. Not just in the snow that night, but in learning to live the gospel of Jesus Christ and learning to enjoy the happiness that it brings to my life.
By this time in my short life, I had heard many stories of Jesus Christ. I had also been encouraged to live as He had in service to others out of His love for God. I had been invited to follow Christ’s example and be baptized, committing to do my best to obey the commandments and remember Him. At times it seemed difficult to choose the right, but it’s in those moments I needed only to remember that the footsteps were there- truly they were everywhere. I needed only to stop struggling on my own and follow Christ.
I had officially been reassigned…
There was one paper route in our southwest Iowan town. Our family was lucky enough to have the opportunity to deliver the Wednesday only free newspaper. Mom knew every house in our small town, and they were ALL to receive the newspaper each week. Mom would draw a map of each street detailed with every house and then carve out delivery routes. Each Wednesday after the newspapers came to our home, Mom would work to bundle them with the exact number in each bundle we each needed for our group of streets. There were two extraordinary things about the paper route delivery day. First, Mom ALWAYS made a pot of chili to warm us after we returned from our routes. Second, the three dollars earned for my efforts. Most of the money I earned went toward something I was saving for. The few dollars earned each week were always well spent ahead of time. I would map out on the calendar how many weeks it would take for me to collect what I was saving for. Nevertheless, I would ALWAYS spend 25 cents at the DX Gas Station on a treat on my way home! It was typically the only treat I had each week and I would savor every bite.
Occasionally my sisters would return from school and there would be a new map drawn up with a change of assignments. However, my route never seemed to change. I had a few streets that were long with only a few homes. I didn’t mind the route and no one else wanted it… Until one day…
I arrived home and glanced at the new map Mom drawn out. I immediately pitched a fit of retaliation. I had always had the southwest corner of town; however, on this day, I had officially been reassigned to the northwest sector. My protests were simply ignored and I was dropped off at the curb on the furthermost street in our town where I was to begin my route. I always made it a personal goal to run between each home and finish my route as quickly as possible. I resolved to do the same with my new route and began delivering newspapers.
One particular house was a bit dingey. I ran extra fast and as I dropped the paper at the front door and turned to run down the sidewalk to the next house, I was met by a ferocious beast of a dog with remarkably long legs, an extraordinary amount of hairy fur, and teeth like I imagined that of a huge shark!. I was terrified! I had been bitten before on my route and feared this day would end with my name and picture on next week’s herald with the headline “ Girl Destroyed by Giant Dog-Like Creature”. I screamed in terror and ran as fast as I could, skipping the next several houses as the dog chased me. I turned the corner and finished the next street with an eerie feeling that someone was following me. I collected a thread of courage to turn and look to see who it was and confront the stranger who was completely creeping me out. It was a man-child. He looked like a man but acted like a child. He carried a small notebook. Not much larger than his man-sized hands. He seemed friendly, but I had been warned of stranger-danger in my childhood just like any other child in any other town. However, I was under the impression our town didn’t have any strangers. Everyone seemed to know absolutely everyone…
He asked me to write my name down in his notebook. I told him I couldn’t because I was busy delivering my papers. I began to run to the next house and he ran after me requesting my name again. I told him I wasn’t allowed to put my name in notebooks and I ran to the next house. He ran after me relentless with his request. I was now running late with my route and really craving the warmth and safety of chili and cornbread and being tucked securely at home. With immediate regret, I wrote my first name in his notebook and handed it back to him. He refused to take it. He said I needed to write down my phone number too. In a moment of panic yet wanting desperately some resolution, I wrote down my friend’s phone number, handed back the notebook, and sprinted my way throughout the rest of my route and all of the way home. My typical DX treat was delayed until I regrouped and purged my horrific experiences with my mother.
That evening she got exactly three calls about people not receiving their newspaper. All of them from my route. I returned with my mom to the home of the ferocious beast where I warned Mom to be careful. She agreed to stand watch as I delivered the skipped papers and sprinted back to the safety of the car in between. The terrifying -part monkey, part dog, part shark creature was nowhere to be found…
Back at home with my DX treat in hand, I recounted my frightful experiences to Debbie, my older sister who had previously delivered that route. I felt great respect for her having walked the literal paths she took with bravery and courage each week. She told me how to navigate the ferocious beast and the name of the boy who has special needs and just wanted to be friendly. She told me as soon as I say hello to him, he would stop following me. She seemed so wise to me as she proved to be correct on all points of concern.
I felt remotely validated and renewed in my plight the following week. But mostly, I felt safe. There were no more unknowns lurking on the unfamiliar streets. I could progress without fear.
As I reflect on my sister’s calming tone as she explained to me how to navigate the paths she took, I realized it’s a similar plight in following Christ.
In studying of Him and the paths he took, and learning of Him, I come to know Him. I begin to ascertain that my fears simply originate from thoughts of things I don’t understand and are the absence of faith. And this is exactly where Christ meets me.
It’s right where His perfect love catches me as my fears seem to paralyze me.
He comes to me.
He meets me right where I am in all of my imperfections and mistakes.
He loves me.
He waits patiently as I try to grapple for the strength to reach up and take His hand, and find a moment of peace in Him, enduring as long as I choose to hold on…
Growing up in a large family of mostly girls did not preclude us from work. Seemingly the work always revolved around Dad‘s stacks of 5-gallon buckets. The tougher the job, the more buckets he would retrieve from the screened-in back porch. We were delighted when the jobs were slight enough to only require one short stack of buckets. However, on one bitterly cold November day, Dad loaded the family station wagon with a large stack of buckets. We were all told to bundle up with coats, hats and mittens and get in the car. As we drove the short ten miles from our home, my sisters and I asked Dad repeatedly “Where are we going? and What are we doing?”
“You’ll see when we get there!” was Dad’s simple response.
We soon arrived at a cornfield outside of the neighboring town of Hamburg, Iowa. There were tall silos and a light dusting of snow on the frozen ground. Dad unloaded the large stack of buckets, took two for himself, and instructed each of us girls to grab a bucket as we walked toward the field. Still the question of “What are we doing” had yet to be answered. As we neared the first rows of the field, Dad picked up an ear of what looked like dried up sweet corn. We told Dad it was no good- that it was old and frozen! Dad gently removed a portion of the husk, put it in his bucket, and progressing down the row quietly said: “It’s absolutely perfect…”
We all looked at each other in confusion “Perfect for what?”
To our amazement, Dad explained we were in a popcorn field. Dad told us that he had gained permission to glean the fields. He gave us quick instructions on how to gather the cobs and not bother filling our bucket with the dried husks but to do our best to remove them. As a group of five girls ages four through ten, our “best” was certainly a matter of perspective. We worked to fill all of the buckets and as past family work had indicated, we were never done until the buckets were overfilled. Upon completion, Dad loaded the car and us girls squished together in the middle seat as the back was full Of 5-gallon buckets of popcorn. This was certainly different than any kind of work we had done before and we were all grateful to be done with the task and inside the warm car headed home. However, the work did not end as we drove away. Once we were home Dad taught us how to remove the popcorn from the cobs. We delighted as we ran our thumbs down the cob and watched the kernels fall into a large bowl. Hours later, with blistered thumbs, our labors paid off. Mom helped us pop the kernels and add a few sweet ingredients making a treat of caramel popcorn.
Many times that winter the whole family would gather together in the kitchen as we watched our popcorn kernels – gathered from a frozen field, removed from the cob with tiny blistered thumbs – be transformed into a delightful treat enjoyed by the whole family.
The process to gain the sweet treat was certainly an arduous series of tasks, but the entire family agreed, worth the efforts in the end. Perhaps therein lies a connection with gospel learning.
If I wanted to come to know who Christ was, what He did, and what He taught, great effort would be required. I would have to listen, read and learn of Christ. Take time to ponder on and pray about the things I had heard. Then in quiet moments of true desire, I could know by the gift of the Spirit that these sweet principles were true.
My childhood was simple. As children, we played…unstructured as siblings and a few neighbor friends. We didn’t have many toys or fancy electronics. We didn’t watch TV except for a few shows on Saturday morning. Summer days began with garden chores and quickly transitioned into lots of time to play. We entertained ourselves with taking turns on the tree swing, making up songs and skits, swimming at the community pool, baking up the most scrumptious mud pies and lots and lots of ‘hide-and-go-seek’. Summers were hot in Southwest Iowa and our home was not air-conditioned so primarily we played outside. Prior to an intense game of ‘hide-and-go-seek’, the boundaries were set. We decided how many of our neighbor’s yards we would use as there were but a few fences in our neighborhood. On rare occasions when it was just us siblings, we stayed on our own property and allowed hiding to take place inside the house too.
On one particular sweltering summer day, such parameters had been set: just our house – inside and out. A quick ‘Eeny-meeny-miney-moe’ with our toes and the first person was named ”it”. The rest of us scattered and hid. I had an idea to hide in the attic. I figured no one would look there as it was crazy hot. To my dismay, I soon heard my sister’s voice. She opened the attic door. I knew she must’ve cheated and watched me go there. I held my breath and stayed silent behind some boxes of off-season clothes. Moments later I heard her say “Well since no one is in here and this door is supposed to stay locked, I’m locking it and going to find everyone.”
“Wait! What?“ were my silent thoughts…”She wouldn’t…“
I ran for the door. It was locked. I knew she had done it on purpose. I pounded on the door and screamed for help but alas, no one came. I had the reputation of being the most ornery sister, perhaps even a bit overly competitive. So I sat in the attic with a bright red face dripping in sweat for what seemed like hours. There was a bit of self-reflection that day. However, only a bit mixed with initial anger quickly turning to sadness. Eventually, I heard giggles and the lock turn… I had been set free…
I had learned about repentance and the Atonement of Jesus Christ. But I wasn’t really sure how it worked. I knew I felt sorry for sometimes being mean in my family but I wasn’t really sure that those were the types of wrongs that I actually needed to repent for. It seemed as though repentance was more for things like stealing candy from the store or telling a bad lie. Perhaps I was a little confused about what it all really meant. But I do remember that I had a bad feeling about the sister I was becoming, and I wanted to change. I knew I would need help to change but I wasn’t sure how Christ could really help me with this. Perhaps I needed to more fully pay attention to what I was learning about Christ.
When I was a young girl my mother arranged all of the music for our church congregation’s Sunday worship service. Many times, my sisters were featured in the church choir. My sisters loved to sing and even took voice lessons to improve their notable musical talent.
I had a different talent. My talent even came with a special name; I was the “Family finder”. I possessed a seemingly remarkable skill to find all missing objects. Mom would turn to me for lost dolls, car keys, shoes and anything else that had been misplaced. I was proud of this talent, but…
One particular Sunday’s musical number featured my two youngest sisters. Many people in the congregation came to them afterward and told them how beautiful their song was. I was simply jealous. So I asked Mom if I could have a turn to sing in church. She was surprised by my question and my desire. She asked me what song I wanted to sing. “Teach Me to Walk in the Light” was my favorite song I learned at church and I told Mom it’s the one I wanted to sing.
My mother was a gifted vocalist and apparently had passed that talent down through DNA to everyone but me… The concepts and importance of harmony, pitch, and key all eluded me. However, the congregation was small; everyone who wanted to sing was given an opportunity to do so and I certainly felt that it was finally my turn!
Perhaps Mom was a bit relieved that the song I chose is a duet between parent and child. However, the first verse is a solo by the child. As we gathered at the piano to practice our special musical number, I sang my heart out to the familiar words. Mom stopped playing and with great excitement told me about an idea to make our number extra special. She explained to me that it’s often beautiful when the piano plays the music and the soloist speaks the words of the song in poetic form. (Perhaps she was trying to save the congregation from hearing me sing therefore preserving the quality of music.) Nevertheless, I insisted on singing my favorite song with all the energy and zest that I felt the words in my heart to mean. My angel mother encouraged me to do just that… Mom joined in on the second and third verses with the same love in which she taught the very message of the lyrics.
We sang the song as written and arranged by Clara W. McMaster.
Teach Me to Walk in the Light
Teach me to walk in the light of his love;
Teach me to pray to my father above;
Teach me to know of the things that are right;
Teach me, teach me to walk in the light.
Come, little child, and together will learn
Of his commandments, that we may return
Home to his presence, to live in his sight-
Always, always to walk in the light.
Father in heaven, we thank thee this day
For loving guidance to show us the way.
Grateful, we praise thee with songs of delight!
Gladly, gladly we’ll walk in the light.
These words summarized all I that hoped was true about the gospel of Jesus Christ. I wanted to believe in a Heavenly Father who knew me and heard me when I prayed. I wanted to believe that the goodness and light I saw in others was the light of Christ, and simply part of who I was. As I sang out, I literally felt a warm feeling helping me understand that the words I was singing were true.
One summer morning a few weeks before sixth grade was to begin, my best friend and neighbor, Jenea got a hot tip that ALL of the cute boys from our class were over at Kurt’s house for some backyard football. Jenea and I brainstormed about how we could get noticed…
Should we casually be in his neighborhood?
Go “visit” his sister?
All the ideas we came up with seemed to expose our obvious intentions…
We usually spent our summer mornings riding bikes. I always got up extra early to do my assigned household and garden chores so that by the time Jenea leisurely woke up and ate her pop tarts, (I was so jealous) I would be ready to go play.
On this particular morning, we planned to just simply be out on a bike ride and happen to be riding by Kurt’s house.
From my view, there were two major problems with this flawed plan:
I certainly could not tell my mom “So that I can get the attention of cute boys… “
The second problem with Jenea’s plan and the most prohibitive of reasons…
Jenea was the natural leader in our friendship. I can’t remember how she resolved problem #1…
Or if…
But problem #2 Had a simple resolution in her mind…
She said I could borrow her younger sister’s 10-speed bike.
So off we went cruising down the streets of Sidney, Iowa without a care in the world. We stayed on the flat streets for a while as I got used to Jenea’s sister’s awesome 10-speed bike! Before long, we were both riding with no hands as we sat back in the seat and let the wind blow our summer sun-bleached hair. We felt totally cool…
“Let’s go! “Jenea said and we headed up the hill to Kurt’s house. We chugged up the hill and to our surprise, the boys were all hanging out in the front yard! We tried to act cool by not breathing too hard as we pedaled up the steep hill. We exchanged a few breathless “hi’s” and turned the corner just passed Kurt’s house. This street was a dead-end cul-de-sac. We stopped to catch our breath. There was only one way back home… Back down the hill we just climbed and back by Kurt’s house.
Jenea suggested to really make an impression we ride without hands right as we passed by his house. She took the lead. I was right behind her.
Moments later we were back by Kurt’s house. Jenea sat back on her bike seat and I followed her lead. We were so cool!… And we knew it…
However…
In a split second, I ran over a rock that knocked me off balance. I tried to put my hands down quickly and navigate the hand brakes but I couldn’t. Instead, an epic CRASH ensued…
Right past Kurt’s house…
Where all of the cute boys STOPPED playing football to see my personal catastrophe…
In that moment of personal despair and complete humility I picked up Jenea Sister’s bike, wiped some tiny rocks off of my face, and peddled as fast as I could to catch up to Jenea …
Two weeks later when school began, I still had scabs and scrapes all over of my scrawny knees and elbows…
So why does this experience remind me of the gospel of Jesus Christ? Because this experience parallels my earthly journey. I need to navigate God’s rules. I seem too often to want to look cool, be cool, and successful. I make plans, set goals, and surround myself with good people.
But… I will always FALL short…
Always…
The Atonement of Jesus Christ is not the back-up plan for if my “Plan A” doesn’t work. …
It is THE plan!
Heavenly Father knows I’m not perfect. He sent a Savior to help me (each of us) -to pay for my mistakes. shortcomings, and lonely heartaches. And- Heavenly Father blessed me with the Holy Ghost to: -Guide me -Direct me -Comfort me -And Influence me.
As I strive to listen better, I hear the Holy Ghost whisper…
He whispers to me the very things I need to hear.
Often, I hear him whisper to me:
“Get up… “
“Wipe the tiny pebbles off of your face… “
“You’ve got this… “
“Keep going…”
“Keep trying…”
“Your savior is here for you.”
“There’s hope and happiness ahead…”
“Heaven is cheering you on!”
When I was in sixth grade I was much smaller than my classmates. However, my feet began to grow at an alarming rate. Our family didn’t have a lot of extra money. My grandma from California would go to K-mart at the end of each summer season, buy all of the clearance tennis shoes and sandals in every size and ship them to us in a large box. As our shoes wore out or we progressed in size, we would go to the box in the attic and retrieve what we needed. In the spring of sixth grade, a few weeks before the much-anticipated track and field day for elementary school, I asked Dad if he could help me get the box out of the attic so I could get a larger pair of tennis shoes. He moved the heavy box into the nearby bedroom and called Mom in to help me as I filtered through unable to find a larger size. Mom confirmed I had already taken the largest size the last time my feet had a growth spurt and there was none larger. She apologized and said she would look for some the next time she went to town. Later that day I overheard Mom and Dad talking about the shifts in the household budget necessary to buy me new shoes. I was immediately appreciative for my new shoes knowing the sacrifice the family would need to make.
The next week I came home from school one day and Mom said she had found some shoes in my size. She explained that she didn’t have much time or money but she was able to find a pair at the grocery store that should work. She went into her room and brought out a pair of bright red huge tennis shoes. I told her they were WAY too big! At her urging, I tried them on. My eyes looked downward at my scrawny bruised and scraped up knees and attached to my tiny insufficient ankles were these large bright red tennis shoes. Mom extended her thumb between the end of my shoe and my toes and determined them as a perfect fit. I whispered a near-silent “Thank you…” and turned away to go to the hall mirror. I looked again and wondered “Why did my body have to grow this way? Why was I so scrawny and small except for these hideously large feet of mine? Why couldn’t I be small and cute like my younger sisters or pretty like my older sister?”
With no alternative, I wore my shoes to school the next day. I was teased and mocked. I felt dejected but never told a soul. Instead, I became relentlessly determined to prove to everyone that these red shoes were really fast at our annual track and field day. I cannot recall my times or the places in which I finished, only my resolve to not be defeated by the harsh words of others.
Is this not what I was learning about Christ? He was mocked too. If He while on the cross, having suffered unimaginable pain and torment was able to plea in prayer, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.” I was certainly going to be better off for doing the same. So perhaps I was beginning to learn a few things about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Certainly, repentance, forgiveness, and change were all becoming very real concepts to me.
Generally speaking, I grew up with a concept that I was a part of a great family. I didn’t always love all of the garden work but it must have spoken to my soul because I usually didn’t hate it. I liked the satisfaction of the empty 5-gallon buckets at the beginning of my rows of peas being filled while I worked quickly to try to be done before my sisters. I remember tasking with Dad to fill up countless buckets of potatoes at harvest time. The strawberries made delicious jam, and buttered sweet corn was also one of my favorites. We had a huge backyard garden of our own and we also tended the elderly neighbor’s backyard garden. I believe my dad made a deal with them that we would work the garden and they could have all of the harvests they could eat.
We grew a lot of green vegetables! Unfortunately, they found their way to our dinner plates each night. My method of attacking these undesirables was to conquer them first, getting them out of the way so that the main dish could replace the awful taste left behind. In our family, you were certainly NOT excused from the dinner table unless you had eaten your entire serving! One night, all had been excused and Dad was the first one outside after dinner. Moments later we were all called back inside and sitting around the kitchen table. Dad then brought in a handful of that evening’s dinner vegetables covered with a light dusting of dirt. He reported that he had retrieved them from outside the kitchen window. I was humbled by the brilliant idea one of my sisters had to rid her plate of vegetables. The idea was brave and bold, but also terribly flawed as we had no family dog for clean up duty, and the windows outside the kitchen table were adjacent to the walkway to the backyard. I have no recollection of the specific resolutions to the standoff that night. However, it was clear that we didn’t always love all of the garden work, nor the bounty that two backyard gardens produced.
My sisters and I took piano lessons with an older lady who lived across town. I enjoyed piano lessons like I enjoyed green vegetables… Perhaps because I had other talents… The older widow lady who taught us lived on a large lot. My dad must’ve been a bit of a charmer because before we could vote in opposition we were now tending to nearly an acre-sized garden comprising her entire backyard. I no longer thought our own backyard garden was big. This new garden spot triumphed in size overall I could imagine. It was a lot of work! I remember spending countless hours planting, weeding and harvesting this ginormous garden. As we tasked in this garden I would often see my piano teacher watching us from her back porch. As I worked to rid every single pumpkin plant of its choking weeds in anticipation of a marketable harvest, I would wonder if she had a family?… Did she miss them?… Did they visit often?… Did she used to garden with her own children?
There was an element of being caretakers of so many gardens that provided life lessons of humility and hard work- especially in times of extreme southwest Iowa humidity! But more importantly, I recall how I began to feel about this older widowed lady. As time passed, I felt a connection to her. She was always gracious for the homegrown goods we would take to her front door. I truly began to feel a love for this lady whom I barely knew. Was it the Christ-like love as spoken of in the scriptures? I knew it was a good feeling. I was far from Christlike perfection, but I felt like a good person for feeling this way. Perhaps it was a good start…
My parents seemed to love going to church. I myself enjoyed the children’s and youth classes, but when the last bell sounded I was ready to go home. My parents, however… not so much. Between their responsibilities to teach and minister and their love to talk with fellow members of the congregation, we were often the last family to leave. One particular Sunday we had been told it was nearly time to go. We gathered together in the hallway near where our parents were visiting. All five of my siblings and I were standing in the hallway next to one another in a long line to allow others to pass by when an overzealous older lady friend of my parents turned the corner into the hallway.
“Roger! Linda!” She gasped in excitement. “Are these your daughters?!”
She began at the opposite end of the ‘line’ from me and one by one playfully pinched the cheeks of all of my sisters.
As she walked from one to another she was giddy with compliment saying, “Everyone as beautiful as the next and as beautiful as their mother.”
Then she got to me. I was the last sister in line. From my blondish hair to my over-sized feet and everything in between, I looked different from my sisters. She stood squarely in front of me, studied me for a moment, looked down the line at my sisters and then turned to my parents and asked “Now… Is this one yours?”
The words stung. She asked a simple question; my insecure heart heard her say that I wasn’t as beautiful as my sisters- that I was the other one. Perhaps I was too tall, too plain, too blonde, or just altogether too different…The adversary had victory over me that day as I allowed myself to feel dejected and ugly and that I didn’t belong in my own family. This stranger’s words seemed to pierce my inner being. Truly my own quiet thoughts had led me to doubt that I was pretty, my ornery personality often made me feel like I didn’t fit in with my sisters but never before had it been said by someone else…
It wasn’t my own sin that made me feel the depths of despair. But I felt a burden of great intensity. I felt insufficient. I was beginning to wonder if there was potentially a divide between those who had the capacity to learn of Christ and act of Christ, even believe in Christ and those who didn’t. Was I too different from my sisters to progress spiritually like them? I had always felt different; even a bit of a misfit in my own family. That particular day…I felt too different. It seemed that I had more doubts and fears than faith…
Drops of bright red blood fell and were quickly absorbed by his shirt. He leaned forward and the next several drops hit the pavement. My classmate was dramatically outraged drawing the attention of the on-duty faculty supervisor.
Moments later, I was sitting in a hard plastic chair outside the principal’s office.
I couldn’t believe how unfair it was that I was wasting my only opportunity during our 7th-grade schedule to get a little fresh air outside after our lunchtime.
Not only was I missing out on chatting with friends and potentially a little more four square- but I was potentially facing disciplinary procedures.
…all because of a dumb boy….
A group of us had been playing four-square during our post-lunch break. The combination of my undersized body and underdeveloped athleticism exaggerated both weaknesses. Nevertheless, I wanted to fit in and hang with my friends so I took my turn in line and rotation with the four-square group. It seemed as though I was immediately seen as an “easy out”. Unfortunately, my efforts repeatedly proved my competition correct. I rarely progressed out of the first ranked square immediately returning to the back of the line.
On this particular day, the kid occupying the square with the highest rank had been serving the ball and a hefty dose of verbal sarcasm and taunting. He also took grand delight in playing on my weaknesses and sending me to the back of the line.
Eventually… I had all I could take…
After I missed yet another ball spiked in my direction, I retrieved it and with all the grit my undersized frame could muster I threw it back to him. In my mind, I hoped for a cartoon type result where the ball had the strength to send him backward twenty feet…
Instead, it only grazed his nose but struck with such an angle causing a bloody nose.
I fought off tears telling myself to be tough as we were called into the principal’s office. I was angry and ill-equipped to keep my emotions in check ironically landing my classmate and I square in front of the principal.
I listened to the account of events from beneath my classmate’s soiled tissue. I thought he was ridiculous but sat in silence withholding rebuttal.
My punishment was equally ridiculous. I was told to follow my classmate around outside for the remainder of our free period with extra clean tissue…
I perceived it to be completely and absurdly unfair….
My mortal journey through life thus far, (and continuing through today) was littered with elements that seemed unfair. My weaknesses can truly be a source of substantial frustration until I realize, and remember what they can actually do for me. They help me understand that as a mortal -with physical, mental, emotional and spiritual limitations- I will never feel “enough”. It’s the adversary’s greatest work that I believe even momentarily that in my insignificant feelings, I:
Quit trying to improve…
Quit trying to believe in God and my existence through Him…
Or quit trying to understand and use the blessings of the Atonement of Jesus Christ DAILY in my life.
As a young teenager, I was drawn to the goodness and hope that Christ could help make weak aspects of my life stronger- and the way was through Him. The literal path made available because of His drops of blood…His sacrifice for me, even each of us.
Our church group had an organized Girls Camp every summer. The emphasis was to have some new experiences, expand friendships, feel the blessings of service, enjoy nature and grow in appreciation for God‘s incredibly beautiful world.
However… I hated it. I knew I was supposed to love it. My sister’s loved it. It seemed like everyone else loved it… Except for me. We had many rules. One specific requirement was that we had to wear jeans for protection against mosquitoes. My super thick oversized hand-me-down jeans and the hot and humid typical midwest summers were not a pleasant combination. I never felt creative nor the need to sit around the picnic table and make a craft. I would’ve preferred to run around, play a game or go canoeing. But those activities weren’t always options. Camp songs… Tents… Portable potties… A strong “No thank you” to them all!
Nevertheless, when I was 13 our church group traveled over 250 miles to Girls Camp with me in tow. I was assigned to a small four-man tent with three other girls I didn’t know. I’m not sure whether they knew each other beforehand or made quick friends with one another but they were everything I wasn’t: crafty, content to wear jeans, friendly, outgoing, and above all – happy at camp. The first day we were given a long list of rules for our safety. We were also given a stern warning that noncompliance to these rules would result in us being sent home immediately. I saw the light. I hated camp. I wanted to go home. And apparently all I had to do was break the rules and I would be set free. And so I did…
Unfortunately, since we had traveled over 250 miles for the camp that year, my leader refused to make the long drive home. So I was assigned to spend my long hot days in a tent by myself. I guess I was in what can be called “Girls Camp Time Out”. It was a miserable punishment.
At the end of the week, my leader drove me home in silence. Upon dropping me off at the meeting place with my parents she turned to me and asked me to never return. I felt completely relieved. I had been officially and forever kicked out of Girls Camp. I put my gear in my family’s station wagon and sat watching Mom and my leader have a conversation. I knew I would be in trouble. I didn’t care. I figured whatever my punishment would be, it couldn’t be worse than Girls Camp.
Mom got in the car and began the drive home. She didn’t say anything, making me incredibly nervous. Finally, I couldn’t handle the silence any longer and I asked her what my camp leader had said to her. Mom didn’t say, but she simply asked me about my experience at camp. I told her how much I hated everything! She was quiet for a minute and then helped me understand the sacrifice that my camp leader had made to take me there. She told me about how much work was involved to prepare to leave her family and all of the preparations that she had to do ahead of time to make camp enjoyable and safe for all of the girls. I began to feel terrible. I had not thought of the impact my behavior would have on somebody else. I was only concerned with myself. The sick feeling in my stomach was made worse as my mother went on to explain more about this lady and her life.
I realized that I had made a very selfish series of mistakes. I wanted the terrible feeling to go away, but I didn’t know how to do it. Mom then reminded me about repentance and seeking forgiveness through Christ. I was ready to try. When we got home Mom dialed the number on the telephone to call my camp leader. I was nervous. As soon as she said “Hello…”
I said a quick “I’m sorry”.
It was a short conversation but I did feel a little better. Mom then helped me understand that I needed to repent to my Heavenly Father. She reminded me that Christ had already paid the price of sin and we can be clean again after we repent. I remember the long walk upstairs to my room knowing that when I got into my room I was going to need to apologize to my Heavenly Father for what I had done wrong. I expected it to be awful and hard. However, the moment my knees hit the floor by my bed, I felt intense peace and a type of love only possible from a perfect Heavenly Father whom I had been taught so much about.
I had spent much time in the previous years rationalizing my lack of spiritual progression. I knew I was different from my family members. Instead of seeking to know whether God would take me as I am, I used my differences as an excuse to take a different path.
In a desperate attempt to rid myself of inner chaos, I turned to Him. As I did, I knew my loving Heavenly Father was aware of my inner struggle.
It was a monumental experience towards my progression of acting on faith. Perhaps God’s love and the blessings of the Atonement of Jesus Christ were available to all who sought them.
In the 1970s our home had one rotary phone on Dad’s desk. We were not allowed to use it without permission. Sometimes when I had finished all my chores, I would ask Mom if I could call my best friend, Jenea, who lived next door, to see if she wanted to come over and hang out. Mom would tilt her head to the side and ask why I wouldn’t just run next door. Most days I did just that. However, sometimes Mom would let me sit in Dad’s oversized office chair and call Jenea from the rotary phone.
My fingers would meticulously dial each number: 3 7 4 2 2 2 8. I would wait in great anticipation as it began to ring. Once Jenea answered, we would talk for a while as I spun around in Dad’s chair – feeling like I was a super important person having a super important conversation. Moments after hanging up, I’d sprint outside to meet Jenea!
For many years, I shared a large second-story bedroom with two of my sisters. One summer, Mom shook up the bedroom assignments and I was assigned to the bedroom with a second-story window facing Jenea’s second-story bedroom next door. It wasn’t long before we realized that with an open window to let a few breezes in, we could hear each other talking. Bedtime became one of my favorite times of the day. Jenea never understood why it was so early, but she would head up to her room when I went to mine and we would talk to each other each evening. Sometimes it was a bit hard to hear each other as we were trying not to talk too loudly for fear of being muted by parental forces.
I realized at (too) young of age how simple it was to remove the screen from the window and climb out onto the second story roof eave. We talked every night for what seemed like hours. I felt safe perched on the roof eave and at peace divulging my deepest thoughts to my friend.
I had learned that prayer is communication between us as children on earth and our Father in Heaven. I experienced this as we prayed together as a family in our home multiple times each day.
My parents wanted each of us to try and understand how personal the relationship can become between us and God. The concept became crystal clear to me once praying was likened to talking with a good friend. I learned we can tell Heavenly Father anything we want and that He loves to hear about the things that make us happy and the things we are worried about. I could easily nod in understanding. This is EXACTLY how I talked to Jenea each night.
As summer came to an end, I received another bedroom reassignment. It turns out nighttime roof chats had been reported to a couple of parents and with school beginning soon, apparently my bedtime routine needed to be altered…
I had been challenged to try praying to Heavenly Father as if I was talking to a friend. With my nightly ritual of discussing EVERYTHING with a friend being abruptly modified, I was willing to try talking to my Father in Heaven instead of Jenea. It was different, and yet the peace I felt in talking over my joys, struggles and all things in between was comforting. I loved the familiar feeling of feeling that Someone out there thought I was important, and that my thoughts, hopes, struggles, and dreams were worth listening to…
I was raised in a family where I was taught to pray. However, at the age of 14, I certainly did not have what I would consider to be a relationship with my Heavenly Father. It was an element of my life that I was still trying to understand what I believed in.
High school brought the opportunity to play on sports teams. I loved playing volleyball and basketball with my friend and followed her onto the high school track team in the spring!
Our first four competitive meets were rained out. In week five, we were finally blessed with a sunny day with no threat of thunderstorms. Area coaches agreed to hold multiple large invitationals for the rest of the season to try and play catch-up and give the athletes an opportunity to compete against each other before regional and state meets. Thus, my first track meet was attended by eight area high schools. As we arrived at the stadium I was completely awestruck. There were SO many people. We were immediately given two instructions by Coach Hummel: “Stay off of the football field, (A string about a foot high was placed around the entire perimeter to remind people to stay off of the field, protecting it for the football season in the fall.) and pay attention to ensure you don’t miss your events”. Our team found a nice grassy spot on the embankment surrounding the track and took off for our warm-up laps around the track.
I was the only runner from my school in the mile event, but I knew that I was supposed to listen to the first call and turn in my entry card at the scorer’s table. I listened closely, heard my event called and turned in my card. Then I just simply watched other teams of runners and followed their lead. When they stretched I stretched. When they jogged I jogged. So when I came back near the scorer’s table and saw the hurdles being moved onto the track, I asked the nice lady at the scorer’s table if they have moved the mile run to after the hurdles. She jumped up and called the people putting the hurdles on the track to get them off and told me the mile was getting started on the far side of the field.
In near disbelief combined with panic-stricken horror I broke the big rule of running on the football field in an attempt to make it to the starting line of my race. I jumped over the string barrier, sprinted as fast as a distance runner can sprint and when I neared the starter whose gun was already raised to start the race I screamed: “Wait!” At that moment I failed to unsuccessfully navigate the string barrier on that side of the field and tripped over it landing face down right at the starting line. In that moment of crisis, I put my faith to the test. I uttered the most sincere fervent prayer of my life thus far. I begged my Father in Heaven whom I was desperately trying to believe in, with all the faith I could possibly muster… to make me invisible… It was the only solution I could think of…
When I heard giggles, I knew my prayer had gone on answered.
I was trying to understand spiritual things at this time in my life. I was trying to see if prayer was real and if I had enough faith to ask for things that I felt I needed. I’m sure I wasn’t completely surprised that Heavenly Father did not make me invisible. I was desperate and in a desperate moment, I asked for a desperate solution.
I held back tears as I took my place in the back of the pack of over twenty runners at the starting line wishing I was anywhere but there. Three laps into the race I found myself in sixth place. My mind had been wandering through embarrassment with God about my ridiculous plea for help. Perhaps in a last ditch effort to try my faith that day I prayed for help in running the last lap of my race and finishing strong. With 100 yards to go, I passed the two front-runners.
I felt God had sent me a message. I felt he wanted me to keep trying, to keep believing and keep searching.
I was 4’11” and maybe 70 pounds as a freshman in high school. I decided to try out for the volleyball team with my neighbor whom I was still blessed to be best friends with. The first day of practice we had to record in the coach’s notebook how many overhand serves we got across the net in our first 25 attempts. Tears filled my eyes making focusing to record my zero nearly impossible.
The next summer after school got out, I began my quest for grand improvement. Dad and Grandpa put up a net in the side yard at our house. My goal was to make 50 over-hand serves over the net every day. I would serve my ball over (or accidentally under) the net and run to the other side, retrieve it, and serve it from that side. It was a very slow process to reach my goal of 50 successful serves. Some days, it would take me hours. I had grown up watching my dad work hard and never complaining, or seeking approval from others for his efforts. I expected the same from myself. Some summer evenings as I was trying to reach my service goal, Dad would quietly approach our “court “and stand on the side I was serving to. He would then chase the erratic serves all over his side and toss them back to me. His presence not only gave relief to my fatigued body, but my spirit was renewed and uplifted.
At the age of 14, I was understanding the hardships that life has to offer. It was never life-shattering, awful, or crazy difficult experiences, just normal teenager-like tough times. I understood sadness and frustration and recognized that the journey through life would be filled with moments of difficulty. I was trying to decide how much effort I wanted to put forth to understand spiritual beings and messages.
One night, as I neared my goal of 50 overhand serves, I felt like God intervened. He reminded me of Christ’s goodness and the light that shone so brightly in my Father who lived his life as a valiant follower of Christ. Christ-like examples were around me and in my very own family. I knew then that I was blessed to have that in my life. Perhaps that simple blessing was enough for me to stretch my faith and work a little harder to figure out how to reach up and take my Savior’s hand to help me.
The words hit me and I was instantaneously and dramatically silenced in disbelief.
Our family was moving nearly 1000 miles away from the small Iowa farming town that had been home for over ten years. My dad had accepted a job offer and the news was absolute…. No room for discussion.
I didn’t own thoughts to sort through what I had been told. I told Jenea hoping she would tell me how to think and what to feel. We sat in silence…
A few seemingly short weeks later, the family station wagon was loaded and ready to go. It was a cold day in January, but a few friends and family showed up to see us off. As I sat in the back seat watching familiar faces roll by my window, I was numb. I didn’t know how to say goodbye. These people were an extension of me and my family. We were a close-knit small Midwest town. We lived simply and loved wholly. The people in this town allowed me to feel safe. They served our family when my mom got sick, they cheered me on and coached me in swim, volleyball, basketball, and track. They taught me at school and informally about life and how to look out for one another. They loved me. And I – them. How was it possible to say goodbye? I had no words nor capacity to do so….
Exiting our beloved town, we rode primarily in silence for what seemed like endless miles. No previous life experiences had prepared me for the gaping wound that I felt where my heart used to be. It felt shattered and scattered along the thousand miles from Iowa to Pennsylvania. I wondered if this was how experiencing the death of someone special felt like: Completely out of sorts. Completely out of control. Completely numb…
Over the next few weeks and months, anger became my preferred emotion. I went through the motions at school and even joined the track team. But something was missing… My heart was broken and I didn’t know how to fix it. Peace in prayer had no staying power; the emptiness wouldn’t leave. Kindness by others only momentarily distracted the void. I didn’t know how to pick up my brokenness and try to progress. I wondered if it would even be possible.
I wrote letters to Jenea longing for time to rewind and take me back to one more day as best friends next door. I couldn’t understand why God hadn’t preserved my perfect world.
The anger ate at me, destroying me…slowly…
I felt worse about everything.
My sisters seemed to quickly transition, make new friends, and thrive. I was stuck.
“Where was God?” I wondered…
“Why did he abandon me?”
“Why did He help my sisters and forget me?”
I began to long for the anger to stop and to feel some kind of happiness again…. but I didn’t know where to begin… The concept of “healing through Christ” was familiar terminology… but what did those steps look like? How could I gather the strength and faith to test His teachings?
Somedays I felt like I could try to feel my Heavenly Father’s and Christ’s love that I so desperately wanted to believe in…
Somedays I think I did…
Somedays I failed. Despondently going through the motions of prayer and scripture reading I hoped for greater sustaining peace…eventually.
When I was a Sophomore in high school our family moved from the only place I had ever known as home to a small crossroads in Pennsylvania. It wasn’t even large enough to be considered a town. I had been blessed to have a best friend live right next door to me for almost ten years in the small farming community that we left behind. The move was rough on me at an especially tough time in my teenage years. I longed for a friend.
One night in my Junior year, after coming home late from an out-of-town basketball game, I woke my mom to tell her I was home. Customarily it was a quick “Okay sweetie” with closed eyes in full parental exhaustion. This particular night, I needed help.
Mom sat up in bed and I took a seat too. I told her I was having a hard time and had been for awhile. I told her how much I missed my childhood friend. Mom gave me sound inspired advice that night. She told me to pray and ask Heavenly Father for a true friend. I quickly left her bedside and retreated to my own, where without delay I took her advice.
A few weeks later, the seasons changed and I joined the track team. I was blessed with endurance, not speed, so I took a position with the long-distance group. There was a runner a year younger than me. We could carry the same pace throughout our workouts and ran together nearly every day. Meanwhile, I was still asking God every night as I prayed that He would bless me with a friend. As days turned into weeks I realized how much I looked forward to track practice every day. Not for the running; but rather because my prayer had been answered. I had been blessed with a friend.
My faith was growing. I would often learn things that Christ taught about and put them to the test in my own life. Often it seemed strange to me that a girl in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania seemed to be important to Heavenly Beings. However, I found enduring peace and happiness on this journey.
Volleyball season my senior year was met with much anticipation. Most of us were returning starters with goals of progressing extensively through post-season play. My teammate and fellow setter and I were named co-captains. We were excited to pick up where we left off in our offense with 4 hitters and 2 setters. It was a bit old-school for the emerging faster-paced changes the sport was embracing, but we were a well-oiled machine in our rotations.
The first day included many familiar drills and fun. Coach Firth taught us that discipline and hard work resulted in fun and success. Practice was always just that! However, when we broke into our offense work portion of practice he informed us of some changes. He worked to teach us an offense where only one setter was on the court at a time. My mind raced. My teammate and I, both setters, had just been named co-captains and now he was putting one of us out of a job. Undoubtedly my face turned red with embarrassment mixed with anger as Coach told the team my co-captain would be our setter and I was moving to outside hitter.
Coach told me to stay late after practice and he would help me learn my new position. I felt defeated. 5’8” was not tall “enough” to be a hitter. My arms were most similar to a storybook snowman’s: weak insignificant sticks. Unfortunately, I didn’t spend much time in the weight room due to the smells that emerged from that dingey corner of the school…Therefore, my legs nearly equaled the girth of my arms. My vertical jump was unfathomably insignificant. There was NO WAY I could succeed at hitting.
I was angry at my coach for ruining my senior volleyball season and stewed over it for the rest of practice. Afterward, he reminded me to stay late and take a few extra reps at hitting. He invited the rest of the hitters as well and worked with me to get the footwork and approach down. Before too long, my hits would clear the net, but never go down with the force of my teammates. I watched our hitters pound the ball hard and forcefully across the net. I knew they were good. I had played alongside them as their setter the previous year.
Coach watched me watch them. My teammate, our setter, was good too. He must have seen the defeat in my eyes as he approached me on the sidelines where I had taken myself out of turn. I told him I didn’t think there was any way I could ever hit the ball like them.
He took one look at me and laughed as he rebutted “Of course you can’t!!! You are too short, you can’t jump, and (lifting my arms up) you have no muscles….”
My throat ached and I fought off tears as I quickly looked away using all my emotional and physical strength to avoid crying right there on the sidelines. Coach positioned himself right in front of me and told me he never expected me to hit like them. He told me I would be equally successful and important to my team when I simply learned to place the ball where the other team’s defense had holes.
“I know how to do that already!” I blurted realizing that was the best part of my game as a setter- basically sending the ball over the net to a hole in the defensive coverage.
The next day at practice, with renewed confidence I took my new place in our offense’s rotation with confidence. Coach needed me to be my best self as a hitter with my strengths, not imitate the strengths of others.
The concept was no different than coming to know ourselves as God sees us. Our Creator made each of us different- sizes, desires, talents, strengths and weaknesses. Our opportunity on earth is to magnify our gifts and triumph over our weakness while we work to become an authentic version of a child of God. Our Father in Heaven knows us perfectly and sees our potential for success. He knows as we work with each other and the greatest teammate, our Savior: Brother, Friend, Advocate, that we can overcome all that is hard, wrong and unfair about our experience on earth. In working together, we realize how our different strengths and weaknesses weave together to accomplish more than we ever could on our own. In trying to do just that, I could eventually learn to appreciate my own differences- including twig-like arms…
By the time I was a Senior in high school, I had great friends and found a good rhythm in my new school. It was much larger than the school we had left in Iowa, but I came to appreciate everything that made it different.
At the beginning of my Senior year, we were assigned our school lockers. We had a seven-minute break between classes. The administration felt like this was sufficient time to trade out books and spiral notebooks from one class in exchange for what we would need for the next class. As students, we recognized these same seven minutes to be extremely important social time. Materials were quickly exchanged and then my friends and I would hurry to ‘the spot’ to gather, chat, bemoan our homework load, etc.
All Senior lockers were in the social studies hall. It was a long T-shaped wing on the far side of the high school. There was a large wall heater known to be the gathering spot in this hallway. No doubt the perfect place for a locker would be right next to this heater. When I received my assignment I began to walk the ‘T’ searching for my number. In doing so, I drifted farther and farther away from the perfect ‘spot’. In near disbelief, I noted my locker was almost the furthest away it could be.
My initial thought was, “This is going to kill my social life!”
I would have to travel so far between classes to even get to my locker that I would miss all of the time for chatting.
However, what I did find at the end of the ‘T’ was solitude. I quickly realized that no one was ever down there. Most of my locker neighbors opted to share lockers with their friends in a prime location as a time-saving device. With this solitude, my open locker became a place of prayer. I said more prayers facing the back of my open locker than anywhere else as a Senior in high school. I spoke with my Father in Heaven between nearly every class. I truly developed a close relationship with Him. I uttered silent prayers of gratitude, pleas for help, and enjoyed moments of quiet reflection. This locker became the place where I poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father and counseled with Him about the things which I should do to improve my life. I had no doubt that my Heavenly Father cared about me: where I was, what I was doing, my joys and my struggles.
I began to understand why Jesus Christ was willing to do the will of His Father. He loved Him. He knew Him. And He wanted what Heavenly Father wanted. It was a concept I could testify of…completely.
My senior year of high school began with multiple goals and a change in outlook. I had decided to make better decisions regarding what I did with my free time and the places I frequented and the company I kept. I was blessed to be welcomed into a group that spent their weekends shooting hoops and having good clean teenage fun with a standard of high morals and meaningful values.
One Friday morning at school, I asked one of my guy friends what our group was doing for fun that weekend. He told me I was on my own because the boys were all going camping- no girls allowed! While pretending to not to, I listened in on their conversation at lunch outlining the details of their campout including a specific description of where the site was located.
I cannot explain the compromised thought process that resulted in me dragging along a girlfriend and heading out of town on an unfamiliar course to crash their “man” camp-out. We left a bit late into the evening and I certainly wasn’t prepared for any problems finding their campsite. Nevertheless, I took a wrong turn on a darkened road in Allegheny National Forest. What I thought was the road to find my friends, was actually just a few car lengths long. It was a short paved easement from the county road to a farmer’s road. Without realizing my mistake until it was too late, my turn left us stuck in a muddy field.
My friend and I immediately jumped out and assessed how stuck we truly were. “Think…think..think…” I impatiently told myself. I tried turning the wheels to the left and to the right. I had watched my mom drive in snowy southwest Iowa, noting she was pretty good at getting herself free from deep snow. I tried to use similar skill sets in my current pickle, but with no success. We were clearly stuck -and with every unsuccessful attempt in getting free, I feared we were only getting ourselves into a deeper problem.
I had thought about praying for help several times during my crisis. I had failed to gather enough faith to even try- knowing my troubles were due to my own mistakes and a slew of rules I had broken. Looking around at the increasingly darkening skies and at my friend whom I felt bad for leading astray, I decided I had no choice. I starred off into the horizon and said a silent prayer asking for help.
An idea immediately came to my mind to take the floor mats from the backseat and wedge them underneath my back tires. The mud was thick. I was filthy. My friend was equally filthy. We got in the car. I said another quick silent prayer and slowly and carefully stepped on the gas. The car climbed out of the deep ruts and I slowly turned it around and back onto the asphalt easement. My friend and I looked at each other in disbelief. We were free! We got out to slosh back through the mud to get the back seat floor mats. It was pitch dark. We did not have flashlights and despite tireless efforts, we only ever found one. I feared the punishment momentarily but relished in greater gratitude instead.
My friend and I stopped at a gas station, cashed in our dollars for quarters and spent a long time at the nearby car wash trying to erase any proof of my evening antics from my family’s car. After a second trip back inside for more quarters, and a second round of soap and water, we deemed our work pretty impressive including a soaking wet, but perfectly clean back seat floor mat.
It was a long drive home from my friend’s house and well past curfew. I retraced the evening’s events in my head. It all began with a terrible idea, proceeding quickly to a poorly thought out plan. However, I had been rescued. My desperate prayer was quickly answered and I was freed from the stress, anguish and inner turmoil of my poor choices. I remember connecting a few dots of thoughts on my drive home. My evening had played out similar to an analogy in a repentance lesson from church.
Mistakes lead to the desire for change. Humility and prayer brought in God’s help. (His perfect love provided us a Savior to literally rescue us from our wrongdoings, and the filth of sin.) The relief I felt when I was safely driving home in a clean car continued to deepen the analogy of being cleansed from sin.
I arrived home. Mom hardly woke when I came in saying nothing about the early morning hour. I took a long hot bath and threw my clothes in the washing machine.
The car was clean.
My clothes were clean.
I was clean.
With the exception of a missing floor mat, there was no evidence of any wrong-doing. However, there was a standard of measurement secured. I knew the importance of repentance and now I knew through a personal analogy exactly what steps to take to be clean and feel peace. For the remainder of my senior year until I left for college, an occasionally mentioned missing floor mat by a backseat passenger reminded me of my experience and the ensuing lessons. Not a bad trade off….To better understand Christ’s willingness to rescue me…
At this point in my life, seasons seemed to change quickly. Christmas time was near and our family had a tradition to carol to friends and neighbors and upon leaving with our parting tune of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” my little brother would give a loaf of Mom‘s special Holiday Pumpkin Bread to our friends. Many of the friends and neighbors we caroled to considered our visit one of the highlights of their Christmas season.
Money was tight this particular Christmas. My parents called the family together to discuss the caroling plans and to let us know that there just wasn’t enough money in the budget for both the ingredients to make the Holiday Pumpkin Bread and for our traditional Christmas meal of ham, rolls, Jell-O and pies. My parents let us know the decision was up to us kids to choose between making the bread to give out while caroling or having our Christmas feast. My parents then left the room to allow for free discussion amongst us children. As siblings, we had a quick chat and it wasn’t but a moment until my older sister announced our unanimous decision to our parents. We wanted the bread!
We caroled on several nights in the weeks preceding Christmas. With our last batch of Holiday Pumpkin Bread packaged and ready to go, our family loaded up in the station wagon on an especially chilly evening to head out on our final night of caroling. It was Christmas Eve. We were done with everyone on our list when Dad announced one last stop. The house was small and there were no lights on. I didn’t want to get out of the warm car to go to the door only to find out that nobody was home. But at my parents’ urging, explaining to us that this widow lady needed some good cheer we quickly gathered at her front porch. She slowly emerged from her dark home and quietly answered the door. We sang our carols and with the parting tune, my brother gave this lady our last loaf of bread. A tear fell down her solemn cheek.
In that very moment, I knew our sacrifice was well worth it. Our family returned home that evening to find our front porch lined with numerous stuffed grocery bags filled with Christmas ham and trimmings and much much more. My parents never found out who served our family that Christmas Eve. Those earthly angels tended to our immediate needs but more importantly left a strong impression on our family of love, compassion, and hope.
In that Christmas season, I saw the cycle. I understood fully what it felt like to have Christ-like love for another. I also felt what it was like to receive Christ-like love from someone else. Truly this simple concept is the direct avenue to endless joy.
I began playing high school basketball in Iowa standing at 4’11” with disproportionately large size 8 feet. Such numbers further complicated my general lack of coordination. My Sophomore year our family moved to Pennsylvania during the basketball season. I was ineligible to play. In my Junior year, with wavering confidence, I joined the Varsity team. My height had finally caught up to my feet and I was thrilled with learning the game and its quick pace. Between my Junior and Senior year of high school, I had struggled with changes as a result of the move. However, I discovered a dilapidated basketball court about a block from my house. The asphalt was sloped and broken. The metal net was barely hanging on. Nevertheless, this court became my place of refuge. It was there, that I could forget about all the little struggles of being an awkward teen in a new town.
My sanctuary became my passion and my Senior year resulted with much success on the court. I was honored with many scholarship offers to play basketball at the collegiate level. I verbally committed to play for a small college not too far from home.
One Sunday in early spring of my Senior year, a group of leaders from church and my parents collectively expressed their concern regarding my choice of where to attend college. They feared it was short-sighted. I left this arranged meeting quickly, in complete silence and utter outrage at the lack of support from the people I trusted most.
I drove towards home and stopped by “my court” as I thought about my own plan for the future. It was a good plan. I had worked plenty hard to be successful. I believed in myself and I knew without a doubt that I was strong enough to thrive in the nearby town, playing the game I loved. I also knew that my loving Heavenly Father was there to help me.
It was time to acquire a second opinion about my future- this time- from God. After arriving home knowing the family would be quite a while behind me I went straight upstairs to my room. As my knees hit the hard wooden floor by my bed, tears were already streaming down my cheeks as I uttered a prayer to my Father in Heaven pleading with Him to tell me I was good enough to do what I had worked so hard for.
I felt an undeniable love from my Heavenly Father. This had become a feeling I was familiar with. I knew He knew my struggle, my pain, and also my correct choice. Without a doubt, I felt like I needed to change course. I knew I needed to exercise greater faith and trust in Him and follow Christ’s example by accepting God’s will. I also knew that He would be there to help me every step along the way.
I was leaving Chicago on my 18th birthday.
The sun seemed to rise unusually slowly. I’d been waiting for it to light the sky and my surroundings all night.
As the sun crested over the flat Midwest landscape I finally felt like I could rest. I was on a series of Greyhound buses from Pennsylvania to Utah en route to begin my freshman year at Brigham Young University. My first bus had arrived in Chicago in the early morning hours. It was a point of exchange where I unloaded from the bus that had brought me thus far on my journey and awaited the departure of the next bus at 5:00 am.
For several hours I sat eyes wide open in a filthy, poorly lit bus terminal in Chicago, Illinois. Most people sat quietly and dozed off. My heart raced every time someone spoke- whether to me or to someone else. I had a few snacks and sandwiches I packed from home but my stomach churned from nerves and fear. I couldn’t eat. I sat motionless.
The night passed slowly. I kept watch on everyone who came and left and rested my legs atop my suitcases. I tried to distract myself with thoughts of my hopes and anticipations for college life. But mostly I just silently prayed non-stop that I would arrive safely.
Eventually, I loaded my suitcases and settled in on the bus departing Chicago that would take me to my final destination. For hours, I watched out the window as a somewhat familiar Midwest landscape seemingly unchanged- rolled by my window. I was grateful for a window seat on this leg of the journey to lean against. I sighed relief as we crossed the Mississippi River into Iowa.
I finally drifted off to sleep. My exhausted mind told me I was “home” and I could rest for a bit.
A second sleepless night took me through Wyoming before arriving in Provo, Utah late morning. At the time, it seemed strange to me that I was the only rider who got off in Provo. I sat on my suitcases waiting for a ride my parents had arranged to take me to my college apartment.
I had barely spoken to anyone in three days. I felt a level of emotional and physical exhaustion I had never known was possible, but I was safe, and anxious to begin this new chapter.
As I look back now on this experience I wonder if when things got tough at school- Did I remember praying for three straight days that I would get there safely? Did the peace I felt remind me that God is there? That he is mindful of me?
The transition to college had fun days mixed with hard days. One hard day I wrote a letter to Mom. I felt guilty for being a difficult child to raise and causing her so much grief the previous 18 years. The pangs of missing her and my family were intense at times. And I needed to let her know in whatever way I could use words to convey the love I felt in my heart. I better understood God’s plan to send us to earth with families, and truly the important divine role of mother…
And… I vowed to myself there would NEVER be another birthday without cake!
College had its full swing of physical, mental and emotional highs and lows. For the first time in my life, I felt like my spirituality was truly my own responsibility. I didn’t have my dad with me to call the family together in prayer, nor Mom to teach us from the scriptures. I was on my own. This responsibility sometimes felt daunting.
However, college had it’s plus side: lots and lots of good-looking guys and much fun to be had! One night my roommates and I decided to go watch some of these college boys play basketball at a nearby gymnasium. I had a crush on one of them named Whit who unfortunately already had a girlfriend. My roommates and I had a great time watching and laughing and talking that evening until we noticed the game had stopped. Whit had attempted a layup and was fouled hard. He was laying on the ground having suffered a gash over his left eye. His girlfriend rushed to his side. His not so secret and terribly awkward crusher (that’s me) was whisked away by a couple of wise roommates. We went back to our apartment where they skillfully taught me the art of Chocolate Chip Cookie making.
I had never made cookies before. In fact, I’m not sure I had ever before tasted homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies. That night, after we were sure Whit’s girlfriend, who happened to be our neighbor, was back at home, we went over to his apartment to give him some “hope you feel better soon” cookies. These cookies were made to near perfection and apparently had miraculous powers because they resulted in a complete change of heart…eventually…
A year later, Whit and I begin to date. It was- girl from East meets boy from West and that is how our story began. It wasn’t long before I realized we weren’t just dating to pass time. He was searching for someone who would be strong in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a loyal life companion, and a nurturer for his future family. I too wanted all of these same characteristics in my spouse; I just wasn’t sure that I was ready…
However, I knew that I was ready to trust my Heavenly Father. I knew that I had felt led to that specific place at that specific time. I knew that I was ready to follow Christ’s example in leading a service-filled life. Above all, I knew that I would need to be ready to stand as a witness of Christ and to teach of Christ in my own home.
The morning of my August wedding found me in an unfamiliar place, however, surrounded by my family.
We were staying with a distant relative near Washington DC.
I didn’t have enough money for hair nor makeup appointments but I was blessed with a sister who was willing to help me do my best.
We finished hair and makeup and I told her there was one last task to do… I had six ugly black stitches in my ring finger… And I wanted them out…
My summer job search had landed me at a roadside farm near our small town in rural northwestern Pennsylvania. I had worked my way up from harvesting strawberries for 25 cents a quart to assistant farm-hand making $3.25/hour. The best thing about my promotion was that I got to ride an ATV to and from the different fields to check on crews and harvest crops to sell at the road-side stand.
My hands looked like farm hands… Dry, rough, calloused, and stained with green from the plants and weeds.
A week before my wedding, I decided to begin wearing rubber gloves in an effort to try and reverse the effects of the long summer’s work from my hands.
One morning I was doing the routine field checks and preparing to harvest some broccoli and cauliflower to sell at the stand that day.
My quick work took a wrong turn when I carelessly sliced my finger as I cut the broccoli spears.
I drove back to the stand, wrapped my finger tightly with a few bandaids, doubled the rubber gloves, and finished my chores for the day.
The throbbing was intense and my bloodied bandages began to show through my gloves.
The boss man said I should get it looked at and I reluctantly told my mom what I’d done. I went to a nearby medical clinic where a doctor looked at my messy bloodied finger.
He cleaned out the debris and pieces of a rubber glove and told me I was lucky I cut it without damaging any tendons.
He quickly and seemingly carelessly stitched up the cut with thick black synthetic sutures and told me to schedule an appointment for 10 days later to recheck the healing and remove the stitches…
Six days later, I was in Washington DC, on my wedding day, begging my sister to cut off my stitches.
She refused; citing doctor’s orders.
I rummaged through my make-up bag for a solution. With seemingly no viable alternative, I used nail clippers and tweezers to complete the job myself…
I looked at my hands…
They weren’t pretty… at all…
The stains had faded, but the swelling on my ring finger remained and the callouses and dryness were only temporarily soothed with inexpensive lotion…
Hours later as I exchanged rings with Whit- the swelling prohibited my wedding band from sliding past my second knuckle. We had a nice little laugh…
I couldn’t hide it: My hands were working hands.
Little did I know then how important those hands would be as I decided to dedicate my life in trying to use them to be an instrument in God’s hands.
Turns out… working hands are the best kind…
The lessons I learned over the next several decades regarding what God needed me to do for Him and what He still asks of me today are humbling.
He doesn’t need me to have all the answers or know exactly where my journey leads.
He just needs me to take one simple step today in faith in continuing to seek His will, follow Him, and use my working hands to further His work.
The wintery weather of 1991 was rough in the mountain valley town we lived in. Perhaps it was a typical winter as per the almanac… perhaps it was only seemingly especially rough because our car had a hitch in it’s ‘giddy-up’.
Every morning, mid-day or evening as we left our rented apartment, we would be hopeful, even prayerful that the car would start.
It never did… at least not with a simple turn of a key.
There were two people needed each with distinct jobs required in starting the car. One person needed to sit in the driver’s seat, and as momentum built, pop the clutch in the perfect moment and turn the key, then skillfully respond to the momentum built from the car descending down a snowy icy residential hilly street.
The other person had the job of pushing the car with enough strength and speed to allow it to gain momentum to coast down the hilly street, all while digging their feet into the snowy icy hilly street as to not lose one’s footing and end up face down.
I took the pushing job. It was in my wheelhouse of knowing what to do. Navigating my footing on snow and ice was perfected as I attempted to sprint on my paper route as a kid in southwest Iowa- no matter what the weather. So I claimed my job and ignored Whit’s attempts to convince me otherwise.
Nevertheless, Whit tirelessly attempted to convince me each day for months I could do the “driver’s seat” job. I refused to try. The liability of his parents’ car sailing down the city street and my fear of not timing the engine start correctly was too risky in my mind. And as two full-time students trying to make ends meet on my waitressing tips, we needed a car to get to school and work. Thus it was obvious to me we take fewer risks and go with what we knew.
Whit adamantly disagreed. Perhaps it had everything to do with me being six months pregnant with our first child…
Nevertheless, I am obstinate and patient in my obstinance.
Every departure from our apartment began with the same conversation and ended with the same result. Whit would try and convince me to sit in the driver’s seat… Without a word, I took my rightful position at the trunk of the car and wouldn’t budge. I waited out his lame attempt to convince me to do something other than push the car down the hill.
The truth is, we made it through! Each departure had me pushing the car down the hill and sprinting to catch up and jump in the passenger side.
I remember never feeling anything but grateful that we had a loaner car from his parents. And-I remember feeling an inner competition to see if I could jump in the passenger seat a little quicker and a bit more “Dukes of Hazard -ish” each time.
I often flashback to this season of my life where I tried to acquire an attitude of gratitude. Perhaps sometimes God intervenes and brings it to my remembrance, and perhaps sometimes my own conscience works to not forget…
I’m grateful I remember. Sometimes I let self-pity fill my thoughts as I ponder the blessings I wish I had. And then I remember:
Who I am…
Who I want to be…
What I want to represent…
Even- Who I want to represent…
Focusing on my invisible problems is a life void of discipleship of Christ. So my perspective shifts and my actions follow. I fail…And I try again. Some days, I remember my red cold nose staring back at me in the visor mirror, mascara smeared from cold watery eyes- and the girl- dressed in her waitress uniform offering up a silent prayer of gratitude for the safe, warm, transportation and a plea that restaurant patrons will be generous enough with tips to cover the rent payment…
Everything I was feeling seemed wrong…like I was broken…
I had read books and magazine articles and gone to all of my prenatal appointments.
Nevertheless, I was completely ill-prepared for the inevitable. His beautiful blue eyes stared back at me as I tried through tears to understand him, his needs, and how I could possibly attempt to meet them.
I felt insignificant and completely insufficient in the skill set required to be a good mom. I was exhausted and overwhelmed. My emotions were out of check and I felt lost.
I couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel more natural and capable in my role as his mother.
Why did my world with an amazing husband and perfect beautiful baby boy feel clouded?
Long before this time, I believe I was in a pre-mortal existence. I believe I fought for the opportunity to come to earth and get a body. I believe I promised I would tirelessly fight off the adversary and fight for truth in utilizing my agency to work to return to my Heavenly home and help others to do the same.
And now with seemingly inconsolable cries coming from a beautifully crafted wood bassinet, I needed to fight through the postpartum depression that had grasped hold of the person I used to be and was nearly suffocating her. I had read about hormonal changes causing mood and depression problems, but I never thought it would happen to me this intensely. I believed happiness was a choice and available to any who chose to cast their burdens at Christ’s feet and claim it. But for me- at this time, it seemed relentlessly out of reach.
Somehow, I scraped enough strength to change and feed my baby and fall in debilitating fatigue-back in bed. Morning brought the light of day and in sincere prayer, I pleaded for my own light to return. I wondered if it’s dimness could be seen by others; I concluded it must…
Months later…Slowly… Like the rising sun, my energy reasserted, my strength returned, and my resolve renewed…
I wasn’t sure how to fight- only I knew that I needed to be all in -in doing so. I now held the divine mantle of mother and my fight was no longer just my own. The sweet innocence that returned my stare and reached for me needed me to fight for him too.
In my brokenness came my ability to be taught by God. I was not alone. In my exhaustion, angels- seen and unseen fought alongside me…
Their strength became my strength. Eventually, enough Christ-centered faith to take one step replaced my fear.
I promised I’d keep fighting, utilizing strength made possible through the Atonement of Jesus Christ…
Perhaps a similar promise that I made long, long ago.
In 1993 Whit and I had a toddler and were expecting our second son. We had made a simple decision that seemed dramatic to the world’s typical views. Whit went to work at an entry-level position he was over-qualified for and I stayed at home with the kids despite the salary with Whit’s position being technically below the poverty line. We crunched the numbers and knew we could (barely) make them work with a few creative maneuvers and a lot of sacrifices. There was no budget for date nights or babysitters, but occasionally we would splurge with gas money by going to the park by the river together as a family with a picnic lunch. Whit and I would sit on a denim quilt handmade by his Grandma and watch Brennen as he tirelessly chased birds. It was strangely one of his favorite pastimes at the park. He would swing for a minute, zoom down the slide a time or two and then chase seagulls until we had to bribe him with a treat to get back in his car seat and head home. Here’s the deal… he never caught a bird… Not too surprising given the nature and resources of seagulls. Nevertheless, Brennen giggled with delight in the chase and recounted his adventures all the way home about the time he almost caught one… As I watch Brennen 25 years later well into his own adulthood- he still chases “birds” and I love to watch him and become inspired just as much. The “birds” he chases aren’t literal- well not most of the time… But rather seemingly unattainable dreams. He’s never been shy about setting his dreams, hopes, and visions at an impressive mark and then working with God to align his will with His Creator’s.
Here’s what I know about God’s will for each of us as the very individual beings we are… It changes. It’s His very plan that I progress. Thus it makes perfect sense that God’s will for me is not a one-time destination but rather a seemingly invisible line of upward progression. As I work toward understanding His will for me, aligning my desires with His, working my hardest as if the attainment of such goals is accomplished by my own merit- and then accepting God’s grace and magnitude to watch in humble disbelief at what we create together… Indeed chasing “birds” is a beautiful way to live life. As I stumble in the chase, Christ is there. When I allow Him to dust the dirt off of my chin and help me to my feet, I realize I’m not alone.
God wants Brennen to continue to chase “birds”. He wants me to believe- and chase them also. He wants me to trust in Him, follow my son’s lead with faith in the knowledge that in and through God, nothing is impossible. As I allow my Father in Heaven to help navigate my goals dreams and ambitions, I see His work unfolding and myself just playing a simple part, delighting in the chase.
Courtship led to marriage. A few years later we were blessed with a son, and then another. They were the best of friends. My boys were ages four and two when our small family moved from Washington State to a community near Washington DC for Whit’s two-year work assignment.
We spent many family nights at Bertucci’s restaurant in Herndon, Virginia. It was a great Italian place with brick-oven baked pizza. Each time we would go, the waiter would bring the boys a small ball of dough. He told them to make it into any shape they wanted and then he would bake it for them and bring it back ready to eat. He would suggest they make a car or a boat or their favorite zoo animal or whatever else they could imagine. My boys loved this and worked over their dough for quite some time chit-chatting with each other about all great things in their lives while Whit and I were able to catch up with our own adult conversation.
On one particular family night outing, the waiter told the boys that they would have one more minute to finish their shapes and he would be back to collect them and take them to the oven. When the waiter returned he noted their dough was in the shape of a ball. He asked the boys “Didn’t you want to make a shape?”
Brennen spoke for both of them and said with great pride “They’re basketballs!”
Bryson raised both hands in the air with tiny clenched fists and said “Yeah!!”
The waiter smiled and returned ten minutes later with some baked balls of dough not looking much different than the ones that had been initially delivered to our table 20 minutes prior. I had two delighted young boys.
As a young mother, I often felt exhausted in my daily efforts to care for my children, be a good wife, and try to keep the household running smoothly. I continued to pray and read of Christ, but I often felt like I lacked the mental energy to truly progress in my spiritual knowledge of the scriptures. As I tried to serve as Christ did and testify of Him through my actions within my own home and immediate community, I didn’t always feel like I was doing enough…
Perhaps my continued conversion was like a ball of dough. Even though the change was hard to see, and despite my feelings of inadequacy, there was a process of change and improvement happening. The evidence of such was in quiet moments where tiny hands held storybooks of Christ, and little voices, tired at the end of the day, said “Mom, can we read it again?…”
Every Sunday when the boys were young it was much the same: -Church worship and service
-Make a simple dish to share
-Dinner at the in-laws
-Relish in how lucky I felt…
The weeks felt long in this stage of life. Everything I accomplished seemed to get undone; clean laundry and dishes became dirty again, floors and bathrooms needed re-scrubbed, groceries purchased were eaten and full children became hungry again. My life seemed to be a consequential replay of the days, hours and even minutes past.
However, Sunday was my reprieve. Spiritual nourishment and church, was followed by physical nourishment at my in-laws. My mother-in-law always made the most delicious comfort food. My sister-in-law and I each contributed an inconsequential side dish or dessert. The conversation was light and entertaining. The food was amazing. And truly the company I kept left me feeling super blessed that I was lucky to be where I was, with the people I was blessed to call family.
My in-laws were always quietly supportive; never judgemental. Through their Christlike example, they taught me how to treat others. We had somewhat different backgrounds and beliefs. But as we gathered, our common goals of humanity and family expanded my understanding of Christlike love.
One Sunday I was attempting a new recipe from a friend of Apple Pie Bars. The prep work of peeling and thinly slicing apples and making a flaky crust with precision and care took me hours. Gratefully my husband entertained the boys as I worked uninterrupted. I placed the large jelly roll size dessert in the oven. In 40 minutes we would need to be loaded up and en route up the road to my in-laws’ home. I checked on my dessert often and began to worry as the sugary apple mixture boiled up over the edges and fell onto the bottom of my oven and heating element. My oven would be a mess, but the apple pie bars were beginning to look and smell nearly done.
I helped to gather shoes and jackets and ready the boys for Grandma’s house. Grandpa owned it too, but it was always referred to as Grandma’s house. Certainly, she was the heart of the home and all who entered felt her unconditional love. My last-minute preparations were interrupted by billowing smoke from my oven. I opened the door to flames. I quickly tried to remember my childhood 4-H lesson on kitchen fires and grabbed some salt to try and extinguish the flames. I scattered a handful of salt on the bottom of the oven where the sugary spillover had caused quite a mess. Thermodynamic airflow sent salt throughout the oven and covered the top of my potentially delicious Apple Pie Bars that I had spent all afternoon making!
I gasped in horror! They were ruined. My oven was a mess and my home- foggy with smoke. I turned around to my motionless family. “Get in the car!” I snapped. “We don’t want to be late.” I grabbed a brownie mix on my way out of the door and we headed to the In-Laws for dinner.
Gathered around the table, we all had a good laugh as I recounted the dessert sitting on my back patio sticky and salty… No one complained at the brownie mix dessert. Sunday dinner with the In-Laws was most certainly the highlight of my week. These were good people; Christlike people. Even in my adulthood, I was still learning to emulate His ways… His love… His steps in humanity to all as I witnessed others around me doing the same. I was surrounded by brightness, hope, and unconditional love… Enough to give me wings for a time as I tried a little harder to be a little better as a mom, wife, and friend to all I encountered in my week.
After moving back to Washington state, our family welcomed a baby girl. Whit often had foreign work assignments and would travel for weeks at a time. I became fiercely independent determined to “succeed” at parenting even when I was attempting it alone…
One night, when Whit was away on travel, The kids and I spent the evening at Brennen‘s Little League game. His strength had always been his hitting, but that night he finished the game having struck out three times. He had single digit strikeouts on the 24 game season, so for him, this was a big night of disappointment.
Gratefully our home was close to the ball field so even though it was late my hope was to transition the kids with a quick snack and get them into bed. We pulled up to the house. My younger son Bryson went inside as instructed to make sure his backpack was in order for the next day. He had a habit of misplacing his things causing stress in the mornings. I unbuckled my daughter Jessie from her car seat and urged Brennen to quickly take his shower while I prepared a snack. Getting Jessie inside and settled was a struggle as she was cranky, hungry and tired as it was well past her usual bedtime. As I tried to calm her and help Bryson find his school things, I realized Brennen was still sitting in the car. I quickly went back outside, tried to motivate him, but the ball player remained in the car refusing to speak or leave.
Frustrated myself at this point and hearing Jessie crying inside I left the ball player to wallow in his discouragement as only a good mother could and went back inside to the child crying the loudest. In this moment, I knew I was incapable of handling things on my own. I went to the kitchen cupboard to retrieve a sippy cup but retrieved much more. The cupboard was not an uncommon place, in fact, no place was really uncommon at all.
I was a mother in a weakening situation not knowing the things which I should do to resolve the immediate conflict. However, I did what I had learned to do long before. Literally looking into the back of the cupboard to pair a sippy cup lid with its base, I uttered a plea for help. I prayed for guidance as to how to handle the situation before me.
Heavenly Father was generous with His quick answer as the thought was simple and clear! “Call Jim”. Jim is my father-in-law. He had raised three boys and certainly had advice on how to deal with sport-induced sulkings. I dialed the phone hoping to glean some advice and to my surprise and delight, Jim said he would come right over. A few minutes later Grandpa’s car pulled up no doubt catching the baseball player, still sitting in the car, by surprise. Jim took his grandson for a walk and a talk. Only Brennen and Grandpa know the words exchanged that night but after the walk, my son was renewed as was his faith in himself.
I knew my Heavenly Father was aware of me, that He loved me and wanted to help me as I followed Christ’s example and prayed in faith believing I would receive an answer. I knew Christ’s light existed in all people. There was much goodness in the world because of His light. Christ’s selfless life set a perfect example of how we are to help one another as we travel through this life en route to returning to Him. I saw proof of these things within my own home.
The boys felt utterly tortured… on an exceptionally warm day in May. As I arrived early at the outdoor amphitheater having agreed to help my friend, an instructor for the dance studio, with her young children I was excited to experience my first recital as a “Dance Mom.” The boys were less enthusiastic. Jess quickly and excitedly gathered together with her class. As the youngest ballet students, they would perform first and then be able to go sit with their families for the remainder of the recital.
Jess loved to go to her ballet class. Potentially it was the thrill of getting to wear the over-priced butterfly tutu, or perhaps it was getting to spend more time with her sweet friend Tallie. Nevertheless, she loved ballet. I felt like a good mom for enrolling my daughter in something other than soccer and basketball like her brothers had done.
Following an enthusiastic welcome and introduction by the studio director, the music blared from the sound system and Jessie entered the stage with her class in a straight (ish) line. Jessie was tall, like Tallie, and they both knew the entire routine- well. They were positioned in the very center. Their dance began, and we rolled the video camera to save the memory of her first recital for all who would ever care to watch it. I smiled at Jess and gave her a little ‘mom wave’, even though her concentration and eyes on instructor prohibited her from seeing me.
She watched her teacher for a moment and then her stressful gaze turned to her classmates. She seemed concerned that there were several who were doing the wrong choreography. She broke form and would assist a fellow classmate in helping her with the right movement and then quickly and seemingly effortlessly return to her position on stage and step in rhythm.
At first, it stressed me out. I heard giggles from the audience and worried that other parents would be offended, or that her teacher would think she was distracting from the performance. But as the dance moved on and she continued to assist her classmates, I realized I was seeing a five-year-old who was more concerned about helping someone else, than being in the spotlight herself.
Six years earlier, when we found out I was pregnant with a girl, I was a little excited but mostly worried. I felt like I barely understood how to be a mom to boys. The weight of raising a girl to be strong and fearless in serving Christ felt like a monumental task that I was completely unqualified for. I felt like I wasn’t the best role model and feared her eyes would look to me too often for guidance and direction.
Throughout the years, I’ve tried to step-up or figure out what that even meant, but it was hard for me. It wasn’t long before I realized how much spiritual strength Jessie was blessed with. I realized I need not worry about setting a perfect example on how to live a Christ-centered life, but rather just humbly keep trying and work to not impede progress as she showed me…
My assessment of five-year-old Jessie continues to be true today. She prefers to work in the trenches. She prefers to lift where she stands. She isn’t interested in glory or awards; only in being true to the responsibilities God has entrusted her with. Seems as though I’m the one blessed with a role model.
As a mother of three children, I felt like I was in a decent rhythm with my family and finally felt like I had some free time. I had just been blessed with a new neighbor who encouraged me to train with her for a sprint (short distance) triathlon.
A few months later I stood at the starting line. I was surrounded by thousands of fellow athletes and in complete awe of my surroundings and the magnitude of this race. I recall the race director leading the next wave of swimmers in a group cheer. She told us that the words of the cheer could serve as a critical crutch if during our race we allowed self-doubt to enter our minds. We repeated the cheer several times as the start of our race drew near:
“I am a swimmer!
I am a cyclist!
I am a runner!
I am a triathlete!”
The significance of the cheer seemed lost amongst the waves of participants. Soon my race began. I darted out into the water fast and confident knowing swimming was my strongest event. Unfortunately, with the surge of adrenalin, combined with pushing and panic, self-doubt filled me as if it were literally trying to sink me. I exerted every bit of energy I could muster as I thrashed in the water, I seemed to progress absolutely nowhere.
My thoughts moved quickly to:
“What am I doing here?
What was I thinking?
I certainly did not train hard enough.
I can’t do this!”
In that moment of despair, I saw my friend and training partner swim next to me. My mind clicked:
“I am a swimmer…”
As I found my rhythmic stroke and breath I repeated in my mind:
“I am a swimmer…”
I finished the race in 747th place. However, I claimed with confidence that I finished the race a champion – simply because I had triumphed over self-doubt.
The adversary wants me to believe that I’m not good enough. A champion understands that they are always good enough with Christ. He delivers us from sin. He mourns with us in heartache. His grace is sufficient for all who choose to take it.
As a mother, I knew I was responsible to help my children understand that although we have weaknesses we can be strong in Christ. We can be a champion over the adversary and all of our fears and heartache in this earthly journey. I realized that my children were turning to me and looking for answers just as I did from my own parents not so long ago… It was my turn to step up. It was necessary for my children to be able to see the strength and light of Christ through me. Perhaps it was also necessary for a new cheer: “You are a daughter of God and you are enough with Christ…”
By the time my oldest son was in third grade, he had attended three elementary schools. For the foreseeable future, our family would be less transient and I think we all felt like we could relax a bit and settle in. The newly built elementary school just down the street from our home was testing a new program called “looping”. Students would have the same teacher for two consecutive grades. There was NOTHING bad about this plan if your child was assigned to Mrs. Wing. Some say she was a great teacher. In my home, she was spoken of as one with super-powers. I would often hear of her kindness, humor and general grandeur in the eyes of Brennen.
Therefore, the following year, when Bryson was assigned to loop with Mrs. Wing, the news seemed to come to him with a host of angels singing along. He was excited and counted down the summer days until it was his turn to go to Mrs. Wing’s classroom and begin to understand for himself the hero and the legend.
Bry began third grade as an authentic soul. He always wore jerseys; mostly NBA, sometimes NFL…always from the clearance rack. He had an unfathomably vast amount of player statistics memorized. So if a professional athlete’s jersey was sold, Bry knew his significance and contribution through numbers. As we watched games on TV, he would keep running totals of all stats for all significant players in his head and be able to discuss them at will. It was perhaps odd… possibly remarkable…. depending on your level of interest…
Each morning as he dressed for school, he picked out a jersey to wear. Whether it was clean or unclean was not of importance to him. His shorts always “matched”. And then he enhanced his look with an obscene amount of wristbands. His frame was stick-skinny. He placed wristbands on his ankles, biceps, and a few token ones on his wrists. He always completed his look with a headband, grabbed his basketball and jetted out the door for school. I often ran after him with his backpack and sack lunch that had mistakenly been left behind.
Emerging home from school I was given a complete and thorough accounting of recess…only recess…
I knew from his second-grade marks and the stack of “already read it-twice” Harry Potter books that he was reading above grade level. His math skills seemed to be ahead of par as well. However, paper after paper in his backpack had an empty line where he was supposed to write his name. Every time I inquired about it I received the same response… “I forgot…”
As parent-teacher conferences neared, I became nervous about attending. I wondered if (actually- anticipated that) I would be advised about how I should be parenting him differently for him to conform to the simple classroom etiquette of identifying his work with his name printed clearly at the top of each paper. As I nervously sat in the conference I listened patiently as Mrs. Wing reviewed with me his test scores – all well above average. I listened to her delight in his daily self-selected clothing and “accessories”. The conference neared the close and I braced myself hard for the “However….”
And then she neatly stacked his file in the “conference complete” pile and turned in her chair to get up and walk us out. I couldn’t handle the pressure in my head and I began to blurt…”What about him forgetting to bring his homework back to school?… What about him never writing his name on the top of his paper?…”
She looked at me noting my obvious concern. She paused and calmed me with her eyes. “That isn’t as important as you think. He will figure it out. He’s a very intelligent, happy kid. You’re doing a great job as parents, but don’t worry about it.”
I’m not sure if I doubted her assessment aloud or if I just screamed such in my head. Gratefully, I worked harder to heed her advice. The last thing I wanted to do was squelch my son’s confidence or brilliance by too much focus on what Mrs. Wing articulated as unimportant. After all, she had superpowers…
I look back on Bry’s development and I am extremely grateful for those two years of looping with Mrs. Wing, a master educator with super powers I now understood even as an adult… The opportunity enabled Bry to develop a base of confidence and provided a parameter of perspective for me as a parent.
Expecting my children to “fit-in” became a thought of the past. I realized that if they choose to follow and live the gospel of Jesus Christ, they would always be different than the moral and social expectations that surrounded them. Teaching them to embrace the idea of being authentic and finding confidence and peace in doing so became a primary goal in my parenting. Therefore, each of Bry’s subsequent birthdays included a pack of wristbands… a favorite gift of his… and a reminder for me.
I nearly escaped the dredges of my third round of post-partum depression. It had been the most relentless thus far. My feelings of inadequacy as a mother were multiplied as I felt like a failure with the two older boys, and now again a perfect baby, this time a girl, stared back at me- an unworthy worthless soul. My spiritual heart knew there was no truth to such sentiments. And yet, they were the very thoughts that seemingly swept across me ignoring my microscopic attempts of the fight.
Rebounding and emerging from the grasps of the condition always involved settling back into an exercise routine and avoiding brownies as my primary source of nutrition.
My heart longed for a friend: loyal, kind, without judgment. I was plenty hard in judging myself and super quick to see all of my imperfections. I needed a friend who was a safe place to land: physically and emotionally.
We were blessed to have purchased our home five years prior in an incredible neighborhood. It was down the street from the new elementary school and filled with the most amazing people. Right next door, we were blessed with great neighbors. As the years passed, they all moved on and out of our starter home neighborhood. We added a couple of extra bedrooms and a large family room to the house and thus had plenty of room for our growing family. However, the dynamics of our neighborhood had changed, and I felt a bit lonely.
When the house next door again sported a “For Sale” sign, I returned to the spiritual process that had worked so well as a Junior in high school. I fervently prayed daily for good neighbors that could provide friendships for me and my kids. God smiled largely on us and the most remarkable family moved next door: the Disneys. I have no doubt God was involved in the details of bringing that family next door to us. They were exactly what our family needed at that time in our lives. We would often hear the doorbell ring and answer it to see their oldest daughter with a warm plate of cookies. Her sweet smile and attitude of love as she represented everything her family was- filled and mended my heart and soul. Life seemed momentarily perfect!
Dawn, the mother, was everything in a friend that I felt like I needed and I soon realized she was everything I wanted to be as a person who exhibited Christ-like love to others. I noted how she spoke to her children- and mine with kindness and a gentle tone. I noticed how she served without hesitation or judgment. I noticed how she included everyone around her and yet deferred praise and recognition.
I feel like God blessed me with a friend, but truly so much more. He needed me to refine a bit… And he placed an example of the most Christ-like person I had ever met right next door as a model for goal attainment. My Father in Heaven needed me to try a little harder to understand, believe and therefore become a bit more Christlike. He needed me to understand and see first hand the good and ripple effect that comes as we act as Christ did- and as we love as Christ did. I was extremely blessed to have this incredible woman as my neighbor and blessed beyond belief to call her friend. I knew I needed to pay attention and learn from her how to be a bit more kind, gentle, and charitable.
Over the years, life took us on different courses. We’ve each changed zip codes a half a dozen times in the past 20 years… However, recently, as I sat across the table from her at lunch, we delighted in having both relocated to the same zip code- 1240 miles from where we initially met. I could see God giving me a gentle reminder to refocus my efforts on developing Christlike characteristics. It was as if He was telling me- “I brought her back to you- learn from her.”
As the boys got older and entered middle school, the stakes felt higher in our home for teaching our children. We knew they would hear and see things contrary to the morals and standards we were trying to teach them at home. It was time for our children to decide whether they were going to find out for themselves the truthfulness of the things that they were learning of Christ, or choose another path. We often taught the power of prayer in our home. We wanted our children to know that they have a Father in Heaven who knows them perfectly and would listen and answer as they chose to speak to Him in faith.
It was a time in my life where I questioned my ability to really convey to my children my own testimony. I knew and believed the words of Christ, but I worried I would fail to completely convey the miracles possible if they turned to Him in faith.
Jessie was in Kindergarten when one morning she came up and said she wanted to wear her favorite puppy shirt to school but couldn’t find it. I went down to her room with her to look for it. Her room was fairly tidy and the shirt was simply not there. I went upstairs to check the laundry, both the clean and dirty piles, but to no avail. There was no puppy shirt to be found that morning. She came upstairs and I explained to her that I could not find the shirt and she would simply need to choose another one to wear to school that day. I urged her to do so quickly and as the time for the bus to arrive was nearing.
Jessie told me she was going to go down to her room to say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to help her find her puppy shirt because that was the one she wanted to wear to school. I felt super nervous. I had already looked for the shirt. It’s hiding spot was not a simple one. My heart raced and thoughts of doubt came quick. What if she prayed and never found her shirt? Would her faith be shaken forever?
A few minutes later she came upstairs wearing her puppy shirt. I actually froze in amazement. Her report was simple.
“Heavenly Father told me where to look.”
She recounted the experience to her dad and brothers that evening over dinner. We all grew a bit taller in faith that day as the youngest among us had shown great courage in testimony and acted upon it.
Truly that day, Jessie was the master teacher. She testified of the exact principles I wanted my boys to understand. Christ taught us to pray to the Father in faith. I had learned by experience myself that it was true. Yet as a mother I worried I hadn’t done enough in teaching my children how real their relationship with God can be. That particular day, I was grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who was generous in answering a child’s plea for help and reassuring me He would bless my children as they turned to Him.
It was a hot July afternoon when I showed up for a suggested parent fundraiser for the high school boys basketball team. My oldest was an incoming freshman with aspirations to play not just high school basketball, but eventually in the NBA. He would often ask me if I thought it was possible. I would always tell him the same thing. “You are going to have to work harder than anyone else and then decide with God if it’s what He would have you do.” At 14, motivated by the pure love of the game, he worked harder than anyone else.
As a parent, I felt like it was my job to do whatever I could to support him. Participating in events that supported the program felt like a fair parental sacrifice. We were a sports-loving family. I was currently training and only four weeks away from competing in my first Elite Division Sprint Triathlon. My early morning workouts gave me time to think and ponder and be grateful for the blessings that filled our lives.
On that particular July afternoon, a handful of parents showed up; most of us were parents of freshman… The task was simple. We were asked to move a hundred cars from a car dealership across the river bridge to a local shopping mall parking lot for an off-site sale. We each drove a car across the bridge, met at the mall, and were shuttled back to the dealership in a van to drive another car over.
The service opportunity extended well over the agreed-upon period of time. I troubled in seeing a job unfinished so I stayed late to help complete the task.
On our last lap to the mall, only a few of us remained. It was now well into rush hour and traffic was heavy. We were about halfway over the four-lane -half a mile long bridge when traffic abruptly stopped. I stopped and immediately looked in my rearview mirror to ensure the vehicle behind me had stopped as well. His head was down and I could tell he was moving quickly. I immediately turned my wheels to maneuver into the adjacent lane when his solid Ford truck struck with great force the small, tin can of a car I had been asked to drive. The force of the crash sent me sailing seemingly in mid-air into the adjacent lane that was miraculously clear of traffic. I managed across the bridge and pulled over. The driver of the truck jumped out iterating a slew of apologies.
I made a phone call and the car dealership sent an employee to pick me up. The car I was driving was totaled. I was in complete shock- physically and mentally. I put on a tough face as the dealership manager told me he was grateful for my help and that this was a “best-case scenario for them financially”. Given my physical pain, it seemed ridiculously harsh.
My husband had just left the day before on a 14 day business trip to Spain. I knew I needed to quickly get home as I was now hours later than I told the kids I would return. I drove home and began to feel ALL of the pain…
In the following year, I racked up well over six figures in medical expenses and a surgery that would hopefully enable me to have a somewhat normal life. However, I was told I would likely never be able to run again. The news wasn’t even that hard to hear given the problems I had. I was a mom of 3 whose husband traveled two weeks of the month. I simply needed to function. I needed to grocery shop, vacuum, walk to the stadium from the car, fold laundry and sit in church with my family. Competing again was not even a remote concern.
A year after the accident at a post-surgery appointment with my orthopedic doctor who was a close family friend, he explained the limitations I would face moving forward. He apologized that “this” happened to me. With absolute surety, I told him I would do it all over again to keep the lessons I learned and the resulting refining spiritual growth. He was surprised by my response and asked me if I would perhaps later share my thoughts. I agreed.
I felt the lessons were simple. I needed to not lose sight of my footings on the covenant path. There are many amazing opportunities in the world today. And I needed to re-focus my efforts on what mattered most. What were my core values and goals? As I did the spiritual work to better identify what was important and what was not, personal truths emerged clearly.
As I journeyed through trials in the past, I often wondered if I quickly learned all I needed to, could I shorten the time-table of the struggle?
I am certainly NOT going to say that I believe that this is how God works. But it IS how I work. Peace in my struggle comes more quickly as I assess what I can learn from the climb up the mountain God has entrusted me to ascend.
The seasons were passing quickly. In our home, they were referenced by soccer, football, basketball, and baseball. It was busy, challenging and super rewarding to see the kids take on the rigors of playing sports, adjusting to disappointment, and savoring every little success whether measured in statistics or toughness.
I missed competing myself but was grateful for the re-focus I felt was part of my journey through my injury.
At age 9, Jess informed me she was retiring from the swim team after two extremely successful summer seasons. I giggled at her assertiveness in choosing for herself what she wanted and clearly didn’t want to do. Her practices were early every summer morning. I was NOT disappointed that I didn’t have to shuttle her at 6 am.
One summer morning, I was organizing the garage and noted the thick layer of dust on my road bike that I had used for my triathlon competitions. I momentarily wished I could compete again, despite my spiritual efforts to trust that God was in the details of my life: moments of glory and moments of seemingly stalled progression.
I shook off the regret as I decided maybe Jess would be interested in competing in the kids’ triathlon held every August along the river walk in town. I put the idea “out there” and told her to think about it. I was giddy with excitement when she agreed to give the tri a try!!
Competition day in August arrived and I had enough butterflies for both of us. She didn’t seem nervous at all. She had practiced swimming in the river, transitioning into the bike and eventually the run. The starting horn went off and I cheered loudly even though I knew she couldn’t hear me through her swim cap and water! She was quick out of the water and despite my urging otherwise, she meticulously took time to dry her feet and put socks on before lacing up her shoes. She decisively told me socks should always be worn with running shoes! Absolutely no parents were allowed in the transition area, so we shrugged from afar as many kids passed her during this lengthy transition.
I was a couple of hundred yards up the sidewalk from the crowds as I saw Jess coming toward me on my old oversized bike. I delighted in the new rider. The bike course was only a 4-mile out and back route. It wasn’t long before we began to see kids returning back to the transition area and begin their 1-mile run. My heart raced as I saw my old bike descending quickly into the transition area. I couldn’t believe Jess was back already!
I quickly recalled how many runners were already on the course and challenged Jess to catch as many as she could! Her cheering section (family) spotted the course offering encouragement along the route! I grinned in disbelief as I saw her cross the finish line having placed in the top group!
Turns out God knows and loves me perfectly… something I always believed in faith… I felt His law of compensation returned a greater joy that day than had I been in an afar off elite competition myself. I felt grateful. I felt my faith grow.
There had been many days in the previous several years where I was frustrated with not understanding God’s ways or the lessons He was providing me opportunities to learn. However, on a warm August day, on a bike path along the Columbia River, I was granted a window into the joy possible when I trust in my Heavenly Father and allow the Atonement of Jesus Christ to ease my sorrow. I was motivated to commit to try a little harder to more completely trust God.
Brennen loved to play football. Both boys had received football playsets for Christmas when they were young. Gearing up with uniforms, shoulder pads, and helmets and playing football with his brother was one of Brennen‘s favorite pastimes. He learned very quickly that I would whistle the game over if I heard Bryson crying – If Brennen wanted to play football, he would have to give his brother plenty of opportunities to be on top of the two-man pile.
As a Junior in high school, Brennen had been given a few opportunities to play on the Varsity team. He wanted much more for his Senior year and worked overtime in the summer to be in top physical condition. He soundly believed that he needed to do his duty to God so that he would be able to receive all the blessings that God would grant him during his football season. The first game of his Senior year was met with much anticipation. I arrived early. Brennen was already there and dressed. I saw him over by his car seemingly retrieving something. I parked with the intentions of sneaking up on him with a nerdy mom “Boo!” As I turned the corner, I saw him reading his scriptures. (He learned to love his scriptures by learning to love the candy bar his church teacher gave him each Sunday if he had read that week. Years later, we were seeing results from that developed habit!) I gave him a soft knuckle to the arm and told him “Way to put your trust in the Lord” and then walked away truly grateful for what I had seen, and wondering if his commitment to God would be rewarded on the field…
The season was soon underway and there was much excitement and chatter about how much Brennen had improved. He was having a lot of fun playing the game he loved. On the third play of the third game, he was blocking for the running back. A sharp pain shot up his arm and into his neck. The pain didn’t go away for the rest of the game and he was losing the ability to move his arm. By the end of the game, he physically could not lift it. The team trainer thought it was a stinger but such diagnosis proved to be wrong. The orthopedic doctor believed Brennen had severely stretched some of the nerves in his shoulder and neck and perhaps even partially tore them. The doctor told us that depending on the severity of the injury, Brennen might be able to play again in a couple of weeks. A week at a time the doctor continued to say “Perhaps one more week.”
Without significant change, there were no more weeks and football season ended. The disappointment was replaced with excitement for basketball to begin. Brennen’s shoulder injury seemed to heal fairly well, however, he was having pain in his hip. A quick trip to the doctor for final clearance on his shoulder resulted in an x-ray of his hip. The picture of the hip resulted in further MRIs, CT and bone scans. We learned from the radiologist that there was a five-inch tumor in Brennen’s thigh. We were told it was two possibilities: either cancer of the bone or a healing fracture. There was no Senior basketball season. The next couple of weeks were met with preparations to travel to a cancer center in Spokane, WA to have more tests done. A risky surgical biopsy procedure with a 10% mortality rate was scheduled for the day following the initial appointment with the oncologist.
I felt emotionally exhausted. I had tried to mentally prepare for the worst. One chilly night with beautiful bright stars, I found some time and space alone outside. I looked up into the heavens and began to speak with God. I felt like this was a test and I knew the right answers and so I told them to God, trying to believe in them myself. I told Him I would do my best to be strong. I asked God if he was going to take Brennen early from our family. I told Him that I would love to have Brennen stay with us for a while longer, but would understand if He had a different course for my son. I knew I needed to be strong and continue in faith…but I didn’t know if I actually could. That night I chose to bask in the peace and love I felt instead of interrupting it with my fears of the unknown…
Brennen was dealing with his own emotional and spiritual journey. He said on the drive to Spokane he wondered what life would be like the next week if he had cancer and how different things would be. He also said he had an overwhelming feeling that everything would be okay no matter what the diagnosis. He said “I have to put my trust in the Lord and know this is happening for a reason on God’s timeline. I know my job is to have humility and accept His will.”
The appointment with the oncologist ended unexpectedly. He came into the exam room having previously reviewed Brennen‘s chart and pictures. He said without question “This is not cancer. It looks like someone just beat up your leg.” Brennen told him he played football and it had hurt a couple of times throughout the season but his shoulder hurt worse…
Brennen says a big part of his own conversion had to do with the struggles of his senior football season and tumor. It was unexpected and hard to not be able to participate in sports during his senior year. He felt like trials small and hard from high school classrooms and social expectations to the playing field seemed to come non-stop. But there was a hush of those frustrations knowing he had dodged cancer… His life legitimately felt like it was not his own. He knew God was calling the plays…
He summarized his experiences with a simple phrase: “Those things were not in any script I would have written for myself but they helped me with my conversion to Christ”.
These experiences were certainly tests of faith. However, I feel like we got off easy… Perhaps it’s all God needed from us at the time. My son seemed resolved and committed to Heavenly Father moving forward with faith in Christ. He felt like he had been given a second chance and we saw the light of Christ in the things he said and did. Truth is: we were grateful it was a seemingly small trial…this time…
Bryson was known for his outgoing cheerful countenance. He claims he learned to be happy by playing sports in high school. He now stands tall- at over 6‘3“. But when Bryson entered high school he was a slight 5‘1“.
His greatest love of sports was and still is basketball. Like his brother, he always had dreams of making it to the NBA and his dedication and practice mirrored such goals. He was granted a spot at the end of the bench on the Freshman B basketball team. He even squeaked out a spot on the Sophomore team. Following that season of basketball, his friend and he decided to play for the tennis team. Kids from previous years had reported it was a no-cut program and super fun.
In the spring of 2010, Bryson made history at Richland High School as the first person ever cut from the tennis program. Unfortunately, the same result followed with his tryouts for the summer basketball team; he was cut. Determined to not let these cuts define him, he joined the football team as a wide receiver the following fall. Throughout the season, a similar post-game report emerged each week -very little opportunity on the gridiron.
One particular game deep in the season our team had a commanding lead heading into the fourth quarter. As parents, we were delighted for the inevitable opportunity to see our number 20 hit the field. With 8:36 seconds to go in the game we saw Bryson on the sidelines warming up with his quarterback. This was the quarterback Bryson said he made look good in practice by catching all of his passes. Bryson would often replay those one-handed catches in the kitchen while I made dinner. Soon the quarterback ran onto the field. Bryson hit his helmet in support while standing there holding the football waiting for his number to be called. And that is where Bryson finished the game- where he began- on the sidelines.
We left for home as Bryson headed to the locker room with his teammates. A while later, I saw the lights of the old 4-runner that Bryson inherited when Brennen left for college coming down the driveway. My anger toward the entire football program and everyone involved intensified. It was raw momma bear anger! Bry came into the kitchen and I try to play it cool…
I failed… It went something like this:
I asked Bry if he wanted to hit something?
He said “No”.
“Throw something?”
He said “No”.
“Slit someone’s tires?”
With a smirk, knowing I was exaggerating my point, Bryson said “No. Mom, I’ve got homework to do.”
“You’re not angry?” I asked in near disbelief.
He said “No,” reveled in my shock and added, “It sucked not getting an opportunity but I’m not angry.” He paused and coyly added, “If it’ll make you feel better, you can make me something to eat.” A full grin emerged as he was proud of his sly request for food knowing my momma heart would compensate in the kitchen for all of the injustices of high school.
In the following years, we talked more about his journey through high school sports. He explained to me that through the experiences of trying to play sports in high school he learned not to put his happiness in the hands of teammates and coaches who rarely had a kind or encouraging word. He told me instead he put his faith in the simple things- the everyday things- like prayer, scriptures, and God‘s counsel. He said the simple everyday things allowed him to be happy- every day. He had figured out the choice to be happy was his own.
Bryson’s high school sports experiences cannot be summarized with one defining moment but rather countless little ones. Each decision sent him on a path away from or towards Christ. Sometimes the path seemed well marked and seemingly easy to follow and other times more difficult where steps to proceed were small yet well defined.
He explained the simple truth he chose to live by, “The happiest person in the room is the one who best understands and applies Christ’s Atonement to their life. For that person has learned to place their sins as well as their burdens at Christ’s feet. That person knows that true peace and happiness come when we choose to give our pains and afflictions of all kinds to Christ.“
In sixth grade, Jessie came home from school one day wearing a tiara. She sat on a kitchen bar stool eating a peanut butter and pretzel snack like nothing was out of the ordinary… even though she was wearing a tiara. Bryson walked in and asked, “Where did you get that crown?””
“P.E.” Jessie replied.
Bryson, having had the same teacher in sixth grade knew exactly why she was wearing a tiara. I was still incredibly confused. Jessie acted coy regarding her sparkly head-piece. I asked Bryson to please explain the bling adorning my daughter’s head.
He simply said, “She’s the Dancing Queen!”
I was amazed that my daughter could be the Dancing Queen as my own dancing talent mirrored my singing talent. Jessie filled in the gaps of information and even did a little demonstration of her dance that won her the title. I delighted in her humility, kindness and pleasant demeanor. I hoped she would forever carry herself with such confidence.
As Jessie prepared to enter high school our lives changed dramatically. Both of her brothers had graduated high school and left home to progress with their goals and ambitions. Our family had packed all of our possessions into a U-Haul truck with a destination of two states away. We felt like we were on God’s errand, following His will, but it was hard. Jessie says, “I distinctly remember praying for the same confirmation my parents had received about our move. I felt an overwhelming peace. This peaceful feeling continued as I said goodbye to my friends and I felt a great excitement to meet new people and have new experiences.”
However, hard days, being a victim of bullying, and intense loneliness followed. My momma’s heart broke for her. She recalls the first few weeks of her Freshman year feeling sad and completely alone. She says, “I had let Satan convince me that there was no one who knew what I was going through and that no one could help me. Satan did not want me to know that I was loved and that Christ’s Atonement could give me strength.”
Jessie said her desire to be happier sent her on a search to know if Christ was really always there for her and loved her as she had been taught. She studied the strengthening power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. She continued to pray and was blessed with peace and reassurance that Christ was there for her in times when she needed Him and even in times where she didn’t realize how much she needed His help. She felt comforted and her burdens lifted acquiring a sure knowledge that she was not alone.
Two years later, our family moved again. Jessie possessed incredible warrior-like courage. This move was different. Tough times were still aplenty, however, her resolve was unshaken. I could see that her source of strength was not her own; for she had truly learned that her strength comes from Christ. She carried herself with confidence and held her head up as if she were wearing an invisible tiara. Not earned because of a great dance move, but rather because of her knowledge that her Heavenly Father and Savior Jesus Christ know and love her. Jessie is strong, beautiful, and fearless because she truly understands the enabling power that is accessible to us all through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
I reserved a twenty-six foot Uhaul truck and purchased my first stack of moving boxes. The transactions seemed like I had stepped into someone else’s life. It had been a six-month process to get to this point and yet just then, it finally felt real. We were leaving our home, our extended family, my children’s hometown- to follow a prompting we didn’t understand…
Through the years, I had tried to understand God’s will for me. It usually took a simple direction of baking treats for a neighbor, reaching out with a friendly text or doorstep visit. I tried to teach my kids of the peace that comes from choosing to dedicate your life to being an instrument in God’s hands; in doing His work. I relayed to them the simplicity in loving as Christ did and the joy and peace that come as we unselfishly show true charity.
However, THIS seemed too far beyond what I ever expected God to ask us to do.
Six months prior I sat in the Denver, Colorado airport during a layover. I had just spent a delightful weekend with my sisters and parents and was heading back home to my family on a Sunday afternoon. I had my headphones in and was listening to talks from a worldwide conference The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was broadcasting that weekend. Elder Eyring began his address and before long I found myself physically turning to see who was talking to me in the airport. I saw no one but the urgency of the message pressed on.
I returned home in time to exchange the parenting torch with my husband. He was headed out of town on a business trip shortly after I returned. I spent much time that week re-listening to the messages shared at the conference the previous weekend, searching for a inkling of the returning feeling I had at the airport. I relistened to Elder Eyring’s account of a potential job change following an offer he received years prior. It was simple in my mind. That message didn’t apply to us because Whit hadn’t even applied to a new job- let alone received an offer.
In an effort to rid myself of the responsibility to talk over with Whit a potential prompting- I told him of my experience as we chatted over the phone while he was away on his trip. He felt that we were definitely on the right track in life and that where we were was exactly where God needed us to be. I was completely relieved.
Weeks later while on another trip to Washington DC for work, Whit called and told me he knew we needed to change employment and zip code. Despite my initial thoughts regarding the possible change, I felt blindsided. Neither of us wanted change. We were happy. Our family was happy. We loved our home and community and especially the proximity to extended family.
The first steps in faith opened doors of seeming miracles on a direct path of incredibly uncomfortable change. I prayed that I could have the fortitude of faith required to take one step with no knowledge of the distant scene ahead. It was physically exhausting in packing up our lives of living in the same town for 20 years and preparing to start anew in a place completely foreign to us. Moreso, it was emotionally exhausting to think of impossible goodbyes in the immediate future.
With the final box taped and the garage contents filling the moving truck, I was numb. I knew our lives were changing; tough days would certainly lie ahead and yet- constant peace served as my companion. I would not have been able to say goodbye to a place I loved and people I held dear had I not known that the purpose was in God’s hands and His perfect knowledge.
I felt it was the ultimate test. Would I follow Christ as a true disciple in doing ALL God asked of me? Or was my faith conditional upon me understanding the purpose?
I feared disappointing God more than I feared the unknown so I tried to stay focused on the seemingly washed away footprints in the sand of Christ carrying the load and laying out the course ahead of me of true discipleship. Tears clouded my sight as I tried to find peace in just one step at a time…
That was my goal.
Nothing more…
Nothing less…
Just one step in faith…
And then another…
Twenty-six years ago, as a new mother, I entered into this role with no idea of how to succeed. It was hard. Were there times of incomprehensible joy? Absolutely!! There were also times of immense doubt and incredible exhaustion with a hefty dose of insecurity. There were many days where my efforts can only be tagged as “Complete Fail…”Gratefully, there were also many days where I turned to my Savior and my Heavenly Father for help.
As a young tired mom in moments of desperation, I would simply pray to my Father in Heaven and ask “Are you really there?”
It was a simple prayer, where I would be blessed with a simple reassurance motivating me to keep trying.
Progressing to the next season of parenting, my prayers as a mother changed. I would pray for the safety and protection of my children, or even that they would have help in making a free throw at the end of a tight basketball game.
As seasons continued to change, my momma prayers changed again. I had learned that fear is the absence of faith. I knew my children couldn’t survive in the world today solely with miracles that I had prayed for on their behalf. But rather they needed to learn to pray with their own faith.
My journey as a mother thus far?… It’s been a crazy roller-coaster type ride. Here’s what I know today-
We grow and progress as we faithfully accept challenges. Life is hard. It’s God’s plan for our progression. And although it seems momma-bear instinctive to want to protect my family from the difficulties of life, it’s okay that life brings hard days for my children. I didn’t see tender mercies and feel God’s love and Christ’s grace with the greatest intensity on the easy days…And neither did my children…
My truest desire is for my children to independently come to know Christ. I want them to follow Him in faith and partake of salvation through Him. I want them to turn to Christ in their moments of struggles and again in gratitude for strength received beyond their own. I want my children to be drawn to Christ’s light and emulate it back into the world around them. I want them to experience true joy that can only be found when we forget about ourselves and go about busy in Christ’s work in fulfilling the will of our Heavenly Father.
Throughout the years, I would often head out for a run… just to think… One warm fall afternoon, I set out for a quick run along the easement road next to the irrigation canal near our home. As I relaxed into a cadence and let my mind begin to unwind, I noticed a duck swimming in the canal next to me. He seemed to keep turning his head over and looking at me as if to chart my speed and match it. I can be ridiculously competitive at times… I guess this was one of those days because I challenged the duck to a race… I quickened my pace and laughed to myself as the duck began to swim faster. Again I turned up my intensity and the duck followed suit. I was running at a great pace as we neared the first crossroad. Without even as much as a nod, The duck took off flying.
“Cheater!” I gasped.
Throughout the rest of my ‘race’ he was a hundred feet in front of me and would often take flight. I had to surrender the win to the duck and took the time to ponder my initial assessment. Did he cheat by taking flight? Or was he simply using his resources? After all, he had wings….
I am committed to live a life with my Savior Jesus Christ as my wings. He is my most valuable resource as I sojourn through life. Through Him and because of Him, all things are possible.
My conversion to Christ is a story filled with ups and downs: shortcomings and moments of success. But mostly, it is a story of hope. I hope I continue to recognize Christ’s light in the people around me. I hope I follow Christ’s example in seeking out the will of my Father in Heaven and trust in Him. I hope I replace fear with faith in times where life’s burdens are seemingly unbearable and unjust. I hope I push aside the adversary who works to create doubts and a divide to convince me efforts towards a testimony of and a relationship with Christ are worthless or impossible. Above all, I hope that I recognize it is in and through the greatest resource God has blessed me with- my Redeemer, my Advocate, my Savior Jesus Christ that I can be strengthened to not quit… to keep trying and keep believing in a brighter tomorrow. For truly Christ is the hope and light of the world.
I arrived at the emergency room with a warm BBQ brisket sandwich, a box of crackers and a few cookies stashed in my large purse. I wasn’t sure what to bring.
I felt a bit panicked as I received the call 30 minutes prior from Bry that he was taking his sweet wife, Jodi, to the emergency room with stroke-like symptoms. I looked around the kitchen for the requested “low-key” food. I fumbled. My daughter-in-law, Katie suggested a brisket sandwich and took over the kitchen clean up as I hurried out the door.
The 25-minute drive was filled with reflection of how blessed I felt to live near my sons and their wives. They impress me, motivate me and generously include me in their lives. I thought of my dreams for the future with them, and their families. My thoughts were interrupted by a call from Bry. It was a quick update. His voice was calm. I told him I was almost there and he told me he wasn’t sure they would let me back in the room but was grateful for me coming.
Moments later I authoritatively “mommed” my way into the emergency exam room. I arrived to see this beautiful couple I am blessed to call family. I could see the pain in Jodi’s eyes and yet she smiled and welcomed me. Bry was generous with his gratitude for the snacks and assertively informed me of Jodi’s status- and diagnosis of a mini-stroke. I was impressed with his unwavering fortitude and understanding of the medical terms and conditions, having spent the semester taking a graduate-level neurology class.
Over the next several hours as ER personnel came in and out of the room, reporting on test results, drawing blood, and ordering more tests, I observed the mood of the room. Bry emanated peace, strength, and courage. Jodi was candid and strong with her sense of humor regarding the barrage of questions. At one point, the nurse asked the required questions to complete the chart.
“What year is it?”
“Where are you?”
“Why are you here?”
Simple complete answers were given to the first two questions.
The third question, Jodi paused and quipped…”Oh… you want to talk about the purpose of life…”
I was amused, humbled, impressed, and then deep in thought. Certainly, THIS was the purpose. Easy days mixed with hard days… Times of joy and times of sorrow… Thoughts of certainty mingled with questions of uncertainty…
And through it all, I have a choice- Journey alone, succeeding or failing as per my own merit, or take Christ by the hand.
On this particular hard day, as I observed a loving son warmly smile as he looked at his wife, who lay in obvious discomfort with cold toes and a bit weary from unanswered questions, I couldn’t help but be grateful. My own journey to testimony and Christ was enunciated during hard days where I seemingly was at a crossroads of faith.
My son and his wife were growing in their Savior’s light and grace. God was entrusting them with this trial. I saw their faith…their resolve…and Christ’s light as it filled a cramped hospital room. Two young people, stepping in faith, choosing to trust in God and believing in strength beyond their own made possible through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I felt my own resolve strengthen, and gratitude that there is a way to ease life’s burdens and feel the peace and joy that come as I choose to trust and believe in Christ’s ways, even on hard days.
Over the years, my prayers as a mother have included exhausted utterances while drifting off to sleep, simple statements of regret and remorse, and intense pleas begging for the heavens to open and send blessings and angels to comfort my children. I know God hears me… His wisdom is perfect and complete, whereas mine is not. I know I am His daughter. His love for me is perfect. In Him, I am enough. I pray my children will understand these truths for themselves.
I pray that my children will intentionally seek their Heavenly Father and His Son, their Savior. I pray they seek to gain their own complete knowledge of the existence of a loving God who prepared the world and plan of personal experience for each of us. I pray they seek Jesus Christ. I pray they work to pattern their life after His teachings and His continued and sustaining love. I pray they work to feel God‘s love and mercy despite the seeming darkness amidst trials, unfairness, and struggles.
I pray they authentically surrender their will to the Father’s and trust and fight here on earth as they fought to come here to gain a body and experiences. I pray they recognize the familiar feeling as they pray to their Heavenly Father, of a time where they were in His presence. I pray these feelings will sustain them as they work to return to Him to live again with God and Christ, their Savior, in a state of peace, and love and with the families they choose to grow in faith.
I pray they find love, work to grow it, and emulate Christ’s love back into the world around them. I pray they receive the angels, seen and unseen who worked tirelessly to minister unto them and cheer for them in this cause.
I pray they understand it’s OK to sometimes feel broken; that they see in their brokenness, that they can be taught. God and His Son love them where they are and in so doing- teach them how to love others.
I pray they choose to come to know themselves as God knows them. – That they tirelessly work to become the son or daughter that God sees in them.
I pray they truly understand that Christ’s Atonement reaches them – always – no matter what… And that salvation through it is a personal experience.
I pray they choose to dedicate their life to testifying of Christ through all they do and say, believing that together they can and will change the world, one person at a time -beginning with the choice one who gazes back at them in the mirror.
Because I know that every effort is recognized and loved by God, and every footstep in faith is accompanied by Jesus Christ. I pray that when the climb seems too difficult when blessings seem to go unrecognized, and when life seems to be filled with more disappointments and devastation than joy… that they don’t quit… I pray that they will forever keep trying, keep believing, and keep growing their faith in Jesus Christ, their Savior, Advocate and Eternal Friend.
I’m still trying to figure “it” out…
The past several years are filled with countless failed attempts… And yet each day is part of the story I write for myself- through choice.
A few months ago I returned to Richland, Washington. It’s the place we lived and raised our family for 20 years. I saw many familiar faces and reconnected with dear friends and family. The week was packed with people I love and experiences I hope to not soon forget. I was blessed to experience meaningful mixed with seemingly meaningless long talks well into the night, cartwheeling off the boat dock of a lake with amazing women (despite the minimal coordination I have left), giggles of delight from nieces and nephews playing with our dog, proudly observing personal progression of loved ones and the peace and joy it brings, the best pedicure with the best people, and attending church… Where I once grew in my own testimony, and my family came to worship each week as they grew in their own.
Along the roads in this town, I reminisced of the years where I tasked imperfectly… Loved imperfectly… And grew imperfectly as a mother and as a steward in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I delighted in assignments to help in my church congregation and teaching strong youth sent to earth in these days as we near the second coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I feel like I was able to have a glimpse of this next generation as their loving Father in Heaven sees them- as warriors who fought with great strength for the opportunity to come to earth and are now fighting to understand their Heavenly Father‘s love and their purpose in His plan.
Nothing- and yet everything was perfect… It was home…
Years later as I drove through familiar streets that had since experienced new growth, I reflected on where my journey has taken me, and how I fit into God’s plan…
My recent roads have led me to being blessed to meet amazing new friends and strengthen family bonds that were more like casual acquaintances than cherished loved ones. I’ve had opportunities to serve, love, and grow in my discipleship of Christ. I’ve felt loved and welcomed and trusted with friendship.
And yet, with another new zip code change- I sit amongst my “stuff”. My furniture, clothes, and knick-knacks are in different rooms with different configurations. I am the same person but I often feel misplaced… I’ve tried to invest my heart and soul in creating a home where all feel welcome and yet I often feel like a stranger here…
Some say “Home is where the heart is…”
My heart and purpose feel a bit lost…
So how do I let go of my own expectations and seemingly clouded visions for my future and learn how to help my heart find the road that leads me home? How do I find the strength to fight like the warrior I know I am as a daughter of God? How do I proceed with authenticity in trying to connect to my spiritual knowledge of home…?
I’m still trying to figure it out… And yet I believe I know how to… The feeling is familiar…
Perhaps I am at yet another crossroads of faith. Some have questioned my decisions. I’ve questioned them myself… But I know where that path leads… Doubts, fears, and frustrations are some of the adversary’s favorite tools.
If I slow and observe the world around me, I see many walking the paths Christ walked, serving and loving as He did…Teaching of His ways in word and deed…And stepping in faith allowing the enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ to provide a way home.
As I seek Him, I find motivation-
– To search for eternal perspective in my purpose.
-To try a little harder to trust in God’s plan for me.
-To not quit or give up when times get tough and pleas for specific blessings seem to go unanswered.
-To keep working, keep believing, keep walking in faith.
-To recognize that God is there. He is certainly there. He is here.
-And He sends a host of angels to cheer me on!
In and through choosing Christ, my Savior, – is strength… and healing… Even for my heart still searching for the perfectly imperfect road that leads me home.
-JC
Cookies and Christ 