tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32302882153092388242024-03-13T19:42:13.338-07:00 Mona's Gospel MusingsPersonal reflections on living gospel principles, meant to support and inspire individuals, marriages and families.Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-57865932482028238942011-09-06T12:33:00.000-07:002011-09-06T14:25:47.603-07:00A Reappraised, Refocused Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K7X40xTyjIK9s-ezc3wolI8ycmRYuybrEQxpk1GOI-363mRnlHWO-gzCFY9SMrkbkZi4Q6qLwL-0ldhbZYLwmKG8bjXrve60kl0s1L2ispM9hs93WImJN2VbWlCR-KbN7bY7wZ7LpBE/s1600/mona-lisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K7X40xTyjIK9s-ezc3wolI8ycmRYuybrEQxpk1GOI-363mRnlHWO-gzCFY9SMrkbkZi4Q6qLwL-0ldhbZYLwmKG8bjXrve60kl0s1L2ispM9hs93WImJN2VbWlCR-KbN7bY7wZ7LpBE/s200/mona-lisa.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> Dear Fellow Musers,<br />
<br />
<b>Musing</b>, to my mind, means more than pondering, certainly more than thinking: we regularly ponder and constantly think. Musing is more purposeful. It is different than self-narrative and more than personal essay. Ruminating, comparing, and analyzing, it brings the Muser to an enlightened conclusion.<br />
<br />
Flexing Musing Muscle takes <b>time, space, and energy</b>, three things I normally have, or make room for. For instance, despite the crazy demands on my life this past year, I've managed to muse and publish weekly -- even multiple musings on multiple sites. However, nature has introduced a completely new factor into my life - unexpectedly, that is affecting the time, space, and energy I have to muse, at least in the pattern I'm accustomed to. In order to live well and live long,<b> I have to step back, even re-invent many foundational aspects...not just of my <i>life</i> - but of ME. </b><br />
<br />
My current bible is a book called <i><b>The First Year -- Rheumatoid Arthritis: An Essential Guide for the Newly Diagnosed.</b> </i>The author, M.E.A. McNeil, has become a trusted mentor and I quote:<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #f9cb9c;">"Lance Armstrong said that if he had to choose between the experiences of disease and winning the Tour de France, he'd choose disease; he says it's made him more human. Fortunately, we are not faced with a life-threatening illness, but we can still be changed by a reappraised, refocused life. The diagnosis motivates us to begin to do things we've always intended to do to take care of ourselves. It changes our angle of vision; it prompts us to educate ourselves and act on what we learn. It can bring families and friends closer. It can be a catalyst for us to simplify our lives and let go of things that are not important." </div><div style="color: #f9cb9c;"><br />
</div>Musing IS important; nothing can keep me from it; even my hands. But in the quest for simplicity, for a stress-less life, for a calm, centered mind, and sweetly-slow body -- crucial to wellness now and far down the road -- I will publish Musings (here and elsewhere) on the timetable of the heart and on the days my thumbs work best. So good-bye '<i>every Sunday</i>' - see you when I see you. I hope you're still there when I need you.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mona<br />
<br />
P.S. Daily Hints of Romance will continue at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/monasmusings"><span style="color: magenta;">Mona's Musings on Facebook</span> </a>and Musings will appear on Monday mornings at <a href="http://www.mormonmommyblogs.com/" style="color: magenta;">Mormon Mommy Blogs</a>. And again, I will publish occassionally at both <b>Gospel Musings </b>and <a href="http://www.monasmusings.com/" style="color: magenta;">Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance</a>. <i>Please keep in touch for a wonderful surprise I have been working on for a long time......</i></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-8111760570876888452011-08-21T11:46:00.000-07:002011-08-21T16:47:28.202-07:00A Daughter Called Abundance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-HwnLnT7_XxjaDIC7sK7hUj27bO1Gyer79wzbn3NzGTzeeKpTrBmJbB9HfHFNSMLaUZ_6tSH7mpOTtRfDd-swIKlxhjH8Y4yvr191GESy5t_tZncfeGsAEyOEkpXw2qZhfuJe72AoEsk/s1600/IMG_7096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-HwnLnT7_XxjaDIC7sK7hUj27bO1Gyer79wzbn3NzGTzeeKpTrBmJbB9HfHFNSMLaUZ_6tSH7mpOTtRfDd-swIKlxhjH8Y4yvr191GESy5t_tZncfeGsAEyOEkpXw2qZhfuJe72AoEsk/s320/IMG_7096.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #9fc5e8; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #cfe2f3; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Take ye wives, and beget sons and daughters; <br />
and take wives for your sons, <br />
and give your daughters to husbands<br />
that they may bear sons and daughters; <br />
that ye may be increased there, <br />
and not diminished. ~Jerimiah 29:6</i></span></div> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Poets may try to describe <b>Abundance</b>, but the essence of rapture, wholeness, blessedness, and security cannot be compressed into a boxful of words, smashed down or unleashed, tied with ribbon, or thrown <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4AkfvLW-N5Q4GN8xSjPYGs3SNEU98_XvB7eRPSVUHnwTqxR74kimnNtYAeMnLzP30cIu4OjkFlThUqUdi4rHMB9WCM5tP-eCipHe2pTCCTAlOixwJhI-JRNZSPAMWizTaY09pYOzUks/s200/crystal+chandelier.jpg" width="200" /></a>to the wind. Abundance will not be portioned by words, which is ironic, since abundance craves to be shared, divided and multiplied. It runs over and spills and diffuses joy like a crystal chandelier, washing everything to a glow and bringing out the vivid colors in a world that ordinarily appears...ordinary.<br />
<br />
My Baby became Bride one week ago. All her life (and the hordes of people who adore her will attest) she has created <b>Abundance</b>: it goes before her, surrounds her, and leaves a wake behind her. She lives like the exuberant child she once was: playful and joyous in a pool filled with <b>Abundance</b>; splashing all the rest of us, drenching all the rest of us, laughing at our surprise. <br />
<br />
Her bridal gown appeared luminous, reflecting the natural sparkle in her countenance. She <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmAhqszfBWp5LKcT5N3c4OcSVN3hKQare372FXnsypLZ7jbsXBE-qYYx-KjPzE-Y0NBjUa3JuWCZPJYA-2rOrgl7aVsgwLb1wpra4Kh1C9eBnlWHmTq52KY0-i_dOsIUMJj-DqzkETok/s200/1+summer+lake.jpg" width="200" /></a>glittered like a summer lake, enticing everyone to dive in and cool off in her. For those of us who have known her the longest and loved her the best, Hannah has long been such a refuge; a mountain retreat where we are refreshed by <b>Abundance</b>.<br />
<br />
Wedding Day became the opportunity for all of us to return the favor. Fans and friends and family threw love and memories and gratitude and talents and hope like kindling into the fire Kenneth and Hannah had ignited, then stood in awe and watched the blaze until we thought it touched the stars. Breathless at the perfect beauty of living, we basked in <b>Unity and Abundance</b> for hours until they were carried off in fairy-tale style. Content in the afterglow, we sat around the fire of friendship after they left us, staying warm by the embers.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ClkHkgRoAlIbLblvBzGoWFMOQoL_I02rHF3WDOg7bFUmBjO4nn1qdZM72r1MRWkTst7p5VaJQkEQ7FO1sxMjimNeX4iHqK8wLXcqc6CbTIMbblMwlC96QlEt2W_ru1sHphhCBE1pKrA/s200/1+butterfly.jpg" width="200" /></a>My baby became Bride one week ago. Just like one of the butterflies on her cake, or in her flowers, or around her neck, she fluttered into the cupped hands of her perfect man. He held her with wonder and tenderness; stunned that such a fine, delicate, thrilling creature had chosen to alight on him and kiss his face forever.<br />
<br />
All the rest of us are delighted that it is <i>his</i> glass jar that she's chosen to live in. We know he will feed and protect and marvel at her and that together, they will transform life as we know it. <br />
<br />
<b>Abundance</b> has a way of enlightening and enlarging everything.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEOIJjdSaEYnzyCGuQZTh5ReDIrT0p7v7WzfL3VDG2KRn2Hb-IyD8xKTZoQWq-zuA-zF8kl8Ytp0HSFZJ41mu0c9XSg6PChhMXQVO-JZ4nC5rBWFVvnnytc3MU39JnX13FBTwOBeealc/s1600/IMG_7025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEOIJjdSaEYnzyCGuQZTh5ReDIrT0p7v7WzfL3VDG2KRn2Hb-IyD8xKTZoQWq-zuA-zF8kl8Ytp0HSFZJ41mu0c9XSg6PChhMXQVO-JZ4nC5rBWFVvnnytc3MU39JnX13FBTwOBeealc/s320/IMG_7025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #cfe2f3; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;">A mother's treasure is her daughter. ~Catherine Pulsifer</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ead1dc; font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><a href="http://www.wow4u.com/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Inspirational Words of Wisdom</a></span></i></span></div><br />
</div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-4565966100184653732011-08-07T11:10:00.000-07:002011-08-08T07:53:45.676-07:00What's a Family For?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #f9cb9c; margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Sometimes we want to have growth without challenges and to develop strength without any struggle. But growth cannot come by taking the easy way. We clearly understand that an athlete who resists rigorous training will never become a world-class athlete. We must be careful that we don’t resent the very things that help us put on the divine nature.” <a href="http://lds.org/general-conference/2011/04/more-than-conquerors-through-him-that-loved-us?lang=eng&media=video" style="color: #d5a6bd;">Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy, General Conference, April 2011</a></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBI7Woh2a4eZhH_gRVVN5XNr7Pii_lZnZwNar1T864rdl2OCelOV8Rd4WIeaTJo9AslWvkyXYzrTuF7fUvVYGBhzUNZLV-CRrlygSd_5puP8f8HurkohzH-aisfGD1RcH4GgM-4KReRvE/s1600/DSC03666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBI7Woh2a4eZhH_gRVVN5XNr7Pii_lZnZwNar1T864rdl2OCelOV8Rd4WIeaTJo9AslWvkyXYzrTuF7fUvVYGBhzUNZLV-CRrlygSd_5puP8f8HurkohzH-aisfGD1RcH4GgM-4KReRvE/s320/DSC03666.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;"><br />
His tiny face is dominated by the largest eyes I have ever seen on a baby and the thick shock of shiny yellow hair is a delightful contrast and surprise. His perfect head lay against the pillow on my lap, so that we could interact face to face while we rocked. It was our first opportunity to have a real interview – just Grammy and Little Boy Blue.<br />
<br />
Of course, I had lots of questions and I asked them, but he was reticent to answer just yet. He knew I suppose, that his recollections of the home he’d left a week before were too brilliant for my dull brain; I might explode if he revealed too much. So instead, he kept his intelligence under wraps -- only he couldn’t keep the glow of it from spilling out of those huge, black eyes. I rocked, basked in his glory, and took up the slack in the conversation. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">Grandma banter covers a lot of ground. For instance, Little Boy Blue is now oriented to nearly every Merit Badge. (I think he’s excited about Cubs.) Yet for all the talk, most of our bonding time was spent silently appraising one another; just staring; just considering the possibilities. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQdSZARJJ-utOF-PEp0JU1XNobrUAzK2eHunbXAloQVbzFq2w2XGaVgSNIT9Bm7WS25EGcXOSOsyHPn2h-mrU3EsVYM04RfPWiHlvzHZ21RuBi8P0UZHUO3BDfccDHGX3ZspeJWQiVPQ/s1600/Bri%252CBracken%252CGrant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQdSZARJJ-utOF-PEp0JU1XNobrUAzK2eHunbXAloQVbzFq2w2XGaVgSNIT9Bm7WS25EGcXOSOsyHPn2h-mrU3EsVYM04RfPWiHlvzHZ21RuBi8P0UZHUO3BDfccDHGX3ZspeJWQiVPQ/s200/Bri%252CBracken%252CGrant.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I must admit, when Old meets New like that, the bulk of “possibilities” are on a grand scale: what grandma doesn’t wonder if she is holding a future President of the United States or the genius who may cure cancer? On the other hand, and maybe because I had just attended <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2011/07/tale-of-sir-henry.html" style="color: #ead1dc;">Sir Henry’s</a> memorial and graveside service, I realized with a slight shudder that “the possibilities” also included a great deal of loss and pain.<br />
<br />
All of a sudden, I wanted to protect my Little Boy Blue from real life. And then I wanted to protect his parents. My imaginary umbrella grew and grew until it ballooned big enough to cover an entire group of people – the ones I call “family”. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">What really saddened me momentarily was the thought that my umbrella was not made of some heavy Indian rubber, but was more of a parasol made of paper. <span style="color: #f9cb9c;">Nothing I could do would ever shield my loved ones, especially Little Boy Blue, from the risks associated in the Plan of Salvation, nor would/should I desire such a thing. The prospect of growth, of growth all the way to perfection, over-ruled my natural instinct to squelch trouble and tribulation from having their sway. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6kSbGoHCw-X7bhSIHdkKRocJVHxkRur3dLyGhseC0GcB43e87RQEY6zwzvKbmQmP_Sf212alpLxfFhMG6fDctkjpZlviQhMN8kcppNXjYCtG5Z0d7PwUVSWD9KEs1R6pBxdOeYnBDGY/s1600/IMG_5300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6kSbGoHCw-X7bhSIHdkKRocJVHxkRur3dLyGhseC0GcB43e87RQEY6zwzvKbmQmP_Sf212alpLxfFhMG6fDctkjpZlviQhMN8kcppNXjYCtG5Z0d7PwUVSWD9KEs1R6pBxdOeYnBDGY/s200/IMG_5300.JPG" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">And then there’s my baby girl, who will be married next Saturday. Talk about risk! I envision she and her Little-Boy-Blue-nephew jumping feet-first into very deep water, while I wait, somewhat helplessly, at pool’s edge to see how long before they come up for air. Each of them are surrendering all illusion of control, giving themselves wholly into the hands of others, with no other strategy or defense or protection other than love.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">With that picture, the things I had been studying and musing about recently, finally all came together and sunk deep into my heart. The essence of it is this:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #f9cb9c; margin-bottom: 6pt;">The rain and the sun in Father’s Plan of Happiness, his Plan of Redemption, our tailor-made Plan of Spiritual Maturation, is obviously not about deflecting pain. It’s about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">absorbing </i>pain; greater and greater amounts of it. With each new addition to our family, through marriage or birth, the risks may be increasing, but from where else comes the joy of progress? Family life is not a way of hiding or shading from suffering, but a way of suffering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">purposefully</i>. No family will ever come into being, or become ultimately successful, who doesn’t accept that reality and relinquish control over life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and one another,</i> which, in fact, is precisely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how </i>love wins in the end and fills our lives with the peace and abundance we all crave.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RAf-3sZISwQN9aLnBGXb8IHaHe1kJm4IubnDI62d5RW-2tS2B2Ch7EUb68B8ZvxPCPLotYMigLKvw58jWhvdmnlmfD8IDEQr6Sfi2Jd52n3_tVXzfP06fZ3Vd0jVpma70W32OVT-wg4/s1600/DSC03667.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RAf-3sZISwQN9aLnBGXb8IHaHe1kJm4IubnDI62d5RW-2tS2B2Ch7EUb68B8ZvxPCPLotYMigLKvw58jWhvdmnlmfD8IDEQr6Sfi2Jd52n3_tVXzfP06fZ3Vd0jVpma70W32OVT-wg4/s200/DSC03667.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">I wanted to explain all that to Little Boy Blue as he lay on my lap: I wanted to teach him that instead of fearing “the possibilities”, he should completely and enthusiastically embrace them, even relish them, and that we, his family, would love him through every eventuality. But just as I was formulating the words, those great, dark eyes lit up, a quiver of a smile passed his lips, and I heard a petite voice say, “It’s alright Grammy, I’ll take good care of you. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s gonna be so much fun</i>.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="color: #f9cb9c;">Related Musings: </span><br />
<a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2011/05/imagine-life_29.html" style="color: #ead1dc;">Imagine a Life</a><br style="color: #ead1dc;" /><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/musing-in-marriott.html" style="color: #ead1dc;">What You Don't Have of Have Lost</a></i></span></div><br />
</div></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-35044554092010024052011-07-31T22:48:00.000-07:002011-08-01T08:10:50.835-07:00Every Plan (and Parent) Has a Dream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHmAb8Q9lC4eO4Q4lCCZilPX9kKuLup9WywgABRj7E7Mz3p7SGDMFgDJdV3kNkiW9Ohf_Y5hpcAfSf4uJ4IVrHhwcjcMnm1mEyid83PGi7fVQC5-epX6JFA1vsK5pb2iiOeOskVD_Ke4/s1600/Bri%252CBracken%252CGrant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHmAb8Q9lC4eO4Q4lCCZilPX9kKuLup9WywgABRj7E7Mz3p7SGDMFgDJdV3kNkiW9Ohf_Y5hpcAfSf4uJ4IVrHhwcjcMnm1mEyid83PGi7fVQC5-epX6JFA1vsK5pb2iiOeOskVD_Ke4/s320/Bri%252CBracken%252CGrant.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #f9cb9c;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #f9cb9c;"><i><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Our Number-Two-Grandson was born this week: Number One to Number-Three (our son) and Number-Three-Plus-One (our daughter-in-law). I dug through <b>my journal </b>to find something I could share tonight as gift to them. I finally found this entry. My husband calls it "prophecy" because it was written on:</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif";">Friday, June 16, 2000</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> "My own children have asked me: <i>how did you and Dad turn out such good kids as us? </i>(smile) I've never had a really good answer, but as I've pondered lately, the spirit has led me to recognize one point in particular.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> . <b> </b><b>It is: <i>Planning Ahead.</i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b><i> </i></b> <b>I don't mean just planning ahead to tomorrow, or next week, or even next year. I mean - REALLY planning ahead: like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lifetime</i> ahead.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Even as a teen I was concerned about my future family. I worried over how I would EVER know how to handle each child and every circumstance? Even at 13, 15, or 17, I realized that life was a parade of endless scenarios and unique personalities. There couldn't be enough how-to books in the world to cover every possibility. And I worried about that. No amount of preparation could possibly be sufficient.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> I was relieved when the answer gradually dawned on me: <b>cultivate the gifts of the Spirit. </b>Learn to recognize and utilize promptings. The Spirit will customize revelation to fit any circumstance you might face as a parent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Of course! So that is what I did. I learned to listen to and trust this constant companion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Then I met my Honey. As the reality of parenthood loomed before me, I worried again: surely the Lord expected me to gain practical knowledge. So, I looked for opportunities to work and play with children. While socializing, I observed and actually studied the parents and kids. Everything I saw, questioned, or reasoned, I would bounce off my new husband. He enjoyed it as much as I did. I took family life classes at college and read many books on the practical side of parenting. I learned about child development, effective communication, natural consequences and discipline. I learned about keeping a clean and organized home. I learned and learned and learned and learned! <b>It seemed wrong to me that the world invested so much of time and energy into preparing for a profession outside of the home, and yet ANYONE could "make people" with practically NO training! </b> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dale and I talked and talked and planned and planned.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> The irony, or blessing of it all, is that our firstborn was severely disabled and our self-imposed education came to a new crossroads. We set out on a whole new avenue of exploration as we passed through an intensive formal course in the treatment of brain injury and the raising a very <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">special</i> human being.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Nevertheless, in one of the photos of Ashley and me in our very first days together on this earth (and before we knew of her challenges), one element now leaps out. I am cradling my six pound daughter in my hands, holding her tiny face up to my lips. We are in her "nursery", which gave me so much joy to design. Behind us is a bulletin board with carefully arranged pictures representing basic gospel principles like scripture study, families, church going, tithing, the Savior, and even the temple --in a nursery!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> <b> </b><b>And that’s the key: I had already planned for my infant going to the temple. I was already treating her like the old, intelligent spirit that she really was, capable from the first moment of life to absorb truth. I believed that she was very, very GOOD. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> As three more children joined our family, I was forever thinking ahead. One foot was always in the present and the other in the future. <i><b>My visualizations knew no bounds</b>.</i> Some were of everyday choices and routines. Others were on a grander scale. The realization of some were only a few years away, others decades away. I was seeing my children's future when I still had only myself to converse with during the days. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> And through it all, there has been plenty of room for their own dreams<b>. I never went so far as to "plan" their careers, interests, talents, or friendships. I have relished in the passing years, a sense of wonder and surprise at their choices and creations, all within the context of goodness.</b> <i><b>Their independence from me and their father is my "ultimate" plan.</b></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Now, a note about "wishes" verses "desire" should be inserted here: these were not just pretty pictures I painted in my daydreams, nor were they set forth on a piece of paper that might someday be lost or obsolete. <b><i>These were LIVING goals, burned into my heart, my very being! The images were so real, that if there were some way to navigate time, I could have reached out and touched them.</i></b> It felt (and feels) like they already DO exist, just in some other dimension that I will eventually and inevitably catch up with. I didn't just "want" these things to come to pass, like "it would be nice if...". My <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">desire</i> was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> keen. I had absolute faith that they would happen. The Lord speaks of "desire" as in "desiring the things of righteousness." It is very clear that he did not mean fantasizing to be sufficient. True faith and desire motivates to action and a reliance on the Lord Jesus Christ. This is what I had.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> In consideration of the principle of "action," I believe <b>I can say without exaggeration that in my adult life, <u>every single choice</u>, whether very tiny or very great, has been based on a single criterion: how will this bless or harm my children?</b> Will this support or detract from the vision? As an example, I am, in fact, writing even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">these</i> thoughts primarily for my children as parents. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i> myself making a gift of this little book of counsel and experience to my daughter or daughter-in-law, as preparations are made for her new baby.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b><i>Living within this paradigm is not to say that I have no life, or ambitions, or talents of my own. </i></b>As I grow old, I will be able to rejoice in a rich assortment of happy personal accomplishments that are dear to me, but none were realized at a price to my children. Any assignment or pursuit was only undertaken when I was satisfied through personal revelation that it would actually enrich my family. And the Lord has never disappointed me. Each of my own experiences has truly, truly blessed my children in some way. And in return has blessed me!<b><i> I have never felt "sacrificed" in any way. The resulting sense of "fulfillment" and gratitude and joy and personal growth is beyond expression</i></b> as any "professional" mother will tell you. These precious feelings of the heart and mind are far, far, away, and superior to the glitter of worldly attainment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> I know that someday, such a keen awareness of my every move will not be of necessity, omnipresent in my thoughts. My children will have lives and families of their own:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> good</i> lives, I might add. I know, because I have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seen</i> them! In that same vision, I see myself as a grandmother, matriarch of a marvelous extended family who enjoy and support one another and celebrate life together! Yet even as the children will no longer be under my direct care, and my husband and I will be "free" to devote ourselves to other forms of service in the Lord's kingdom on earth and in heaven, I see clearly that my "motherhood" will never end.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I believe in family for all eternity, and already -- I am planning ahead."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><i style="color: #f6b26b;"><b>Muse with me:</b> What kind of "plans" (or dreams) do you have for your family? Which of your dreams have come to pass? </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif";">Related Musings: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif";"><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/02/tossing-pennies-and-wishing-on-stars.html"><i>Wish List </i></a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><i style="color: #f4cccc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2011/06/galaxy-quest-advice-for-parents-who.html">Galaxy Quest: Advice for Parents Who Want to Know</a></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "CG Times","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><i style="color: #f4cccc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/old-beginnings.html">Old Beginnings</a></span></i></span></div></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-75285352244986833662011-07-24T18:59:00.000-07:002011-07-27T14:45:47.145-07:00The Tale of Sir Henry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="color: #f9cb9c; text-align: center;"><i>This is for Brent and Emily,</i><br />
<i> who's precious preemie, </i><br />
<i><b>Henry</b>, </i><br />
<i>has won my heart forever. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">********************************</div><br />
Sir Henry began life at an extraordinary pace, because he was after all, an extraordinary person. His title gave him away as remarkable; for few people gain the right to be called “Sir” in preamble style, as if greatness is expected before the fact. In this premonition and pre-queathing however, his admirers were justified, for, in fact, he racked up preposterous escapades at an astonishing rate. <br />
<br />
For instance, no sooner did Sir Henry receive his Hero Certification, but he went face to face with a dragon.<br />
<br />
Fire-breathing and smelly, no one had ever stood up to the creature that barricaded a village of poor peasants from reaching a cave made of solid gold rock. Once Henry had slayed said-dragon, the peasants honored his bravery with a heavy bag of gold coins mined and minted from the cavern, along with a flask of their most famous port: Rootbeeria (made from the roots of the beeria tree). Of course, Henry accepted these tokens, and then waved his sword so that it glistened in the sun, and while the village chanted his name: “Henry O Henry!” rode away to seek other adventures. <br />
<br />
No sooner had he passed over the hill, but Sir Henry came upon his first damsel in distress. Her muffled squeal came from behind a suspiciously large tree trunk: the hiding place of an unruly band of gypsies. They had long taken refuge in that place; so sure of being undiscovered that they frequently stole girls and things from hard-working farmers. Henry determined to end the scourge right then and there, despite his lack of experience with women or organized crime. <br />
<br />
Riding his stalwart stallion like an arrow, Henry darted through the forest toward the damsel's wailing; one hand on the reins, the other gripping his broadsword. He never had the chance to brandish it though, for as soon as he reached his target, he was surrounded by at least forty-six weapons just like his own, each one held by a dirty-faced tramp with ugly teeth. For any other hero, this kind of ambush spelled demise, but not for one as ingenious as Sir Henry.<br />
<br />
Atop his restless steed, Henry purposefully let the bag of magic coins, which was tied to the belt at his waist, clink noisily. All his captors instantly raised their brows, pricked up their ears, and then rushed upon him with the very greediness Henry had banked upon. <br />
<br />
With an expert fling, Henry tossed the coins behind him so they scattered throughout thickets of blackberry and stinging nettle, and while the scroungers yelped their curses, Henry and his horse swept the poor maiden off her feet, saving her from fainting and hitting her head on a hard tree-root, or something far, far worse. After taking his prize home to her parents, and accepting their stinkiest brick of Limburger cheese for later nourishment, Henry set off once more to see how else he might serve man(or woman)kind. <br />
<br />
No sooner had he galloped over the river which separated woods from plain, but Henry was accosted by his third and most lethal challenge: a gigantic gila monster that only came out at sunset, which it now was. His fangs had made short order of many a tall rider trying to cross the desert on the only road available between Twinkenbacon and Stainesabury. Hiding behind rocky cliffs, the creature waited patiently for unsuspecting victims with poor night vision, then launched his flicking tongue with a dead-reckoning made possible by an uncanny sense of smell. <br />
<br />
Henry himself possessed exceptional senses, however, as do all born-heroes, and he heard the gila slithering through the sand before it could reach him. With the sort of lightning-fast strategic-thinking Sir Henry was celebrated for, he reached into his saddlebag and extricated a chunk of Limburger. Tying it up to the end of a rope, he signaled his horse to move forward at a slow trot, dragging the cheese behind them. (There was no real hurry since gilas are as sluggish as they are poisonous.) Even in the pitch black, Henry could sense that the monster was on their trail and he picked up the pace until he and his horse were well ahead of their predator.<br />
<br />
With nowhere to hide, but with the few moments he had bought himself, Sir Henry buried the cheese in a shallow dune, along with the flask of Rootbeeria given him by the poor peasants. Tiptoeing to a safe distance, he and his horse had barely crouched in the darkness when Henry perceived that the gila was gliding right past them, heading straight into the trap. Seconds later, after a loud crunch and an even louder gulp, the monster roared and groaned and burped so big, a stinky cloud lit up the sky, revealing a prone gila monster, claws up. Sir Henry, the instinctive master of hard science as well as the defensive arts, knew that when combined with reptilian venom, Rootbeeria was toxic. <br />
<br />
Henry took a few moments to relish his victory and eat the rest of the Limburger before continuing down the road to Stainesabury. His reputation (which preceded his birth, remember) had already spread throughout the region and thus he was greeted the next morning as he rode into town with cheers and banners that read: “WE LOVE YOU SIR HENRY!”<br />
<br />
After that, our gallant knight received requests aplenty from every corner of the land: <i>‘come stop the flood that is ruining our potato crops’; ‘come save our ranch from the evil gang who chased the sheriff out of town’; ‘come catch the runaway train with women and children that is about to plunge into the canyon because the old bridge washed out’</i> and so forth.<br />
<br />
Of course, Henry did. <br />
<br />
These accomplishments would be enough to assure any sort of hero veneration for generations but in Henry’s case, the compilation of exploits excelled all others in one rather significant way -- so significant in fact, that the people built the most splendid castle on the highest peak and named it “The Palace of Sir Henry”, and there, by the wish of Sir Henry himself, old heroes, when they had passed their prime and could no longer dash and lift and bound with abandon, were sympathetically housed and clothed and fed Limburger cheese and Rootbeeria. <br />
<br />
So what, you ask, made Henry sooooo special?<br />
<br />
Just this: <i>all of his feats were done in two weeks.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">******************************** </div><div style="color: #f9cb9c; text-align: center;"><b><i>Sir Henry </i></b></div><div style="color: #f9cb9c; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>July 5, 2011 - July 20, 2011</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJesAUxBMMumurRKH8SQ43dh_GrhXJ1W1jSOmI1VncajAPuG0UdgYgA2Y9MM5YuNrRNbAQMf2O_HxVMDoEISZv3M2DvOmGAkimkA5KCXnHIoWFsuRBG00eC8xFlX6E756BH-4uRWe8ETg/s1600/Brent%252C+Emily+and+Henry+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJesAUxBMMumurRKH8SQ43dh_GrhXJ1W1jSOmI1VncajAPuG0UdgYgA2Y9MM5YuNrRNbAQMf2O_HxVMDoEISZv3M2DvOmGAkimkA5KCXnHIoWFsuRBG00eC8xFlX6E756BH-4uRWe8ETg/s200/Brent%252C+Emily+and+Henry+.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Emily's sister has written an amazingly </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">beautiful explanation of loss at</span><br />
<div style="background-color: black; color: magenta;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://cami-lu.blogspot.com/2011/07/families-are-forever-my-testimony_8962.html">Roses for Henry</a></span></div><br />
</div></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-2444868624413136382011-07-17T22:33:00.000-07:002011-07-18T22:31:21.379-07:00Love With a Focus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6oueH1hrp2oCJjkZy181EUs9VQbnNxpka_09sLt4NNj6r6Ig9g0YqzYfN_Ltc-qDxxrZ2zaJBamlhjUvEjPdWacP16s7c20_dsMrJ4GiMAJGHrupzY2TzrX4-ztLUGi8hJnkLCH2Mew/s1600/hands+in+heart+shape+around+family.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630574628872595026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6oueH1hrp2oCJjkZy181EUs9VQbnNxpka_09sLt4NNj6r6Ig9g0YqzYfN_Ltc-qDxxrZ2zaJBamlhjUvEjPdWacP16s7c20_dsMrJ4GiMAJGHrupzY2TzrX4-ztLUGi8hJnkLCH2Mew/s200/hands+in+heart+shape+around+family.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 134px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ffcc99; font-style: italic;">"<span style="font-size: 85%;">For love is not a river, confined between two banks.</span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #ffcc99; font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Its essence is to overflow.”</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ffcc99; font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Mike Mason</span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mystery-Marriage-Meditations-Miracle/dp/1576737799" style="color: #ffcccc; font-style: italic;">The Mystery</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mystery-Marriage-Meditations-Miracle/dp/1576737799" style="color: #ffcccc; font-style: italic;">of Marriage</a><br />
</span><br />
<br />
</div>If you follow <a href="http://www.facebook.com/monasmusings" style="color: #ffcccc;">Mona’s</a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/monasmusings" style="color: #ffcccc;"> Musings on Facebook</a>, you know the daily ‘Hint of Romance’ often comes from the amazing little book quoted above. It is full of pure inspiration, by which I mean the author clearly wrote the book by the Spirit. Instead of approaching his subject from a “how-to” perspective, this treatise explores the “why”s of marriage -- making the most remarkable case for its Christian purposes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZclGVi6OX9uXmCJLdkFxrbSMsZqy7MooP760MB-C2MLo5F9ht84WMXHsVZRm-A69KoJGbi6cGzQYUsG5lvpFEo8ubyhAjua22eoNmzaz2hiYZvFXuQWUQ7DAPFRjkiDiqLGq32BzDxII/s1600/jesus-with-children.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630576749130241714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZclGVi6OX9uXmCJLdkFxrbSMsZqy7MooP760MB-C2MLo5F9ht84WMXHsVZRm-A69KoJGbi6cGzQYUsG5lvpFEo8ubyhAjua22eoNmzaz2hiYZvFXuQWUQ7DAPFRjkiDiqLGq32BzDxII/s200/jesus-with-children.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 149px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 140px;" /></a>The chapter I am currently digesting—for it so rich you have to eat it a few bites at a time, like a heavy piece of cheesecake – is called “<span style="color: #ffcc99;">Love With a Focus</span>”. An illustration of Jesus looking solely into the eyes of ONE child on our Sunday ward bulletin today, perfectly illustrated this theme.<br />
<br />
Here is the concept, as beautifully articulated in “The Mystery of Marriage”:<br />
<div style="color: #f6b26b;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;">“Why was it, in the great history of salvation, that the Lord Himself chose to concentrate His efforts on the special covenanted love of one chosen people, declaring to them that “you of all nations shall be my very own” (Exodus 19:5)? Was it because God had only enough love to spare for one small group of people? Far from it! </div><div style="color: #f6b26b;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;">"Rather, it was because love is only love when it is particular, and when the person receiving it is the object of special extremities of attention.</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;">"Even Jesus hesitated to help a Canaanite woman, saying: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel” (Matthew 15:24). But it was precisely because of His ministry was to a select group that it became capable of spilling over into the whole world. There was nothing vague or hazily defined about Jesus’ love. It was not the sort of mushy, universalist sentiment that claims in theory to love everyone but in practice loves no one. No, Jesus’ love had a practical focus, and for that very reason it was able to overflow to all those outside that immediate focus.</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;">"It was a focus trained not only on the people of Israel but more especially on one small ragged band of those people, and indeed even on one particular person within that small group, “the disciple whom Jesus loved.”</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7NytdRyqM7dtj042QPIdkPfa4v5x-Bht6b03ZEgMfvMmYMNMuGxsMO0I1WxMfDDEHgAsAvYiMH9FB7EU4kHx3Du8BeeJZ7J6ZWlruxRNvksJQEOeejKpeFH8eBZc66DkFoHzUQBWeHE/s1600/hands+and+butterflies.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630569882080493570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7NytdRyqM7dtj042QPIdkPfa4v5x-Bht6b03ZEgMfvMmYMNMuGxsMO0I1WxMfDDEHgAsAvYiMH9FB7EU4kHx3Du8BeeJZ7J6ZWlruxRNvksJQEOeejKpeFH8eBZc66DkFoHzUQBWeHE/s200/hands+and+butterflies.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 150px;" /></a>Mason goes on to call this the Lord’s<span style="color: #ffcc99;"> “strategy of concentrated love”</span> which provides a pattern for married couples, who make vows to focus on one special person. This, he claims, <span style="color: #ffcc99;">“is intended to fill us up to the</span><span style="color: #ffcc99;"> brim with love, to train us in the very depths of love and so to free us to have more love for others then ever before.”</span><br />
<br />
This idea really makes sense with his next point: <span style="color: #ffcc99;">“For it is not really the love in a home that eats up time and energy but rather the lack of love. That is what really wreaks havoc in the in our married life, ensnaring us in never-ending self-analysis and robbing us of the energy to love others.”</span><br />
<br />
Several months ago, at my <a href="http://www.monasmusings.com/jerusalem-jerusalem/" style="color: #ffcccc;">‘Romance’ Musings</a>, I penned a variation of this idea after exploring Jerusalem in all its diversity: <span style="color: #ffcc99; font-style: italic;">“The security one feels from a solid marriage gives the heart space to love others — lots of others.”</span><br />
<br />
It just so happens that I needed to be reminded of this principle -- <i>the expansive power that comes from “love with a focus”</i> -- this weekend, as I took, what was for me, a major plunge: diving headfirst into the world called “<b>Facebook</b>”. For a very long time, and at the frustration of friends and family, <span style="color: #ffcc99;">I avoided creating a “personal” page, fearing burial in an avalanche of relationships.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Knowing well my mortality and therefore, limitations, I knew I could not personally take care of everyone who called me “friend”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83n8mWhloAFn6p_MYsXEWrMzchTQjQbcgB3v4ulS2muCSDQWH0u6zK_RnXrY6ZCIkJida2nvsGY5N6l6cWdyTE_fbwRgMFAXDhsWHOcAEOOeZ0M0GPH-HOcCJ5MUNZxhas9mLMjoNq54/s1600/holding+world.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630567469831990034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83n8mWhloAFn6p_MYsXEWrMzchTQjQbcgB3v4ulS2muCSDQWH0u6zK_RnXrY6ZCIkJida2nvsGY5N6l6cWdyTE_fbwRgMFAXDhsWHOcAEOOeZ0M0GPH-HOcCJ5MUNZxhas9mLMjoNq54/s200/holding+world.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 134px;" /></a><br />
Of course, came the dawn (and the decision to move forward) when I comprehended that <i>the real function of social networking is to connect: that is, to draw lines, not thick ropes, between individuals; to serve as a touchstone, not a foundation</i>; for<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="color: #ffcc99;">it is not possible to forge in mass the same kind of relationships we are called on to cultivate with the people closest (literally) to us. Nor should we try. Our husbands, our wives, our children and grandchildren, by virtue of vows, covenants, and blood deserve unquestionable priority over all other ties.</span><br />
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As Mason puts it: <span style="color: #ffcc99;">“It is the one person who wins over the many, the humble cause of the home that prevails over every other worthy cause in the world.”</span><br />
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I must admit though, i<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwuKtF5MLAZ6A30mXSI0squgtujNmUVVrlVP-2IqezP0rnlzQhEVAHbc40QGxUjBXRBb3QbdlfT7eCom0IAXwVpO1L-BOEwNlADCJWsbImJ30WjT0PM4TvEDFiZQjUIqJrSPJZZRSYuZA/s1600/holding+family+in+hands.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630568055874790066" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwuKtF5MLAZ6A30mXSI0squgtujNmUVVrlVP-2IqezP0rnlzQhEVAHbc40QGxUjBXRBb3QbdlfT7eCom0IAXwVpO1L-BOEwNlADCJWsbImJ30WjT0PM4TvEDFiZQjUIqJrSPJZZRSYuZA/s200/holding+family+in+hands.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 134px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a>t is comforting to the piece of me that wants to “save the world” on some grand scale, that, in fact, <span style="color: #ffcc99;">giving preeminence to my honey and my kiddos, indulging them with all my love, time and attention -- especially my honey -- will bring me closer to the ideal of loving and inspiring the rest of mankind</span><span style="color: #ffcc99; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style="color: #ffcc99; font-style: italic;">than any other pursuit</span>: hence, my tardiness in getting this Musing scratched out today and neglecting the sweet people who are waiting to be Facebook friends...<br />
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I’ve been making a special Sunday dinner for my special everyday family.Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-79552042440888840252011-07-10T19:23:00.001-07:002011-07-10T23:39:06.290-07:00First Days in the Temple<div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Escort: accompanying another for protection, guidance, or courtesy.<br /></div><br />When Funke called me yesterday, I first cried in surprise and joy, and then I cried in longing. Originally from Nigeria, Funke now lives in Hounslow, a suburb of London, near Heathrow airport, and I have been in her flat a number of times, as she was often in mine during our thirteen months there.<br /><br />The home that ho<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8eH4KwOqzd32QALkLJHHvotNwQnINcuQWhHETl-4yCoylLdDfvA-0DnNyBgego2oisRUxNkA7jwsYCS7qKIeJsnABKCVk0-MQGr4wh29cyAnBPiVPmMZNJUGPdE_E12_a0ZIS-v9TGk/s1600/templelondonlds.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8eH4KwOqzd32QALkLJHHvotNwQnINcuQWhHETl-4yCoylLdDfvA-0DnNyBgego2oisRUxNkA7jwsYCS7qKIeJsnABKCVk0-MQGr4wh29cyAnBPiVPmMZNJUGPdE_E12_a0ZIS-v9TGk/s200/templelondonlds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627917919428383682" border="0" /></a>lds the most cherished memories for both of us though, is the House that belongs to the Lord. It was in the London England Temple, just a few weeks ago, that we held hands while Funke received her endowments. As her escort, it was my privilege to prepare her and then stay beside her throughout the experience, explaining as necessary, bolstering her confidence with smiles and squeezes. Pure joy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6eRGbKapiYRlt9J3hEWbMDzIuCmZAliuc2B_WZJrCs2ECGbEfGkGYuvIe7IydYJ2v_wTfI7hGOK7ZcuDQW4-nf8U4JNxj3ZvUw9uoIQabNQxpZclwxN_R9of5F9qnWwkVne2ZVWdV-w/s1600/portland-mormon-temple.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6eRGbKapiYRlt9J3hEWbMDzIuCmZAliuc2B_WZJrCs2ECGbEfGkGYuvIe7IydYJ2v_wTfI7hGOK7ZcuDQW4-nf8U4JNxj3ZvUw9uoIQabNQxpZclwxN_R9of5F9qnWwkVne2ZVWdV-w/s200/portland-mormon-temple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627918236916108194" border="0" /></a>This sacred honor came to me again just this week. I received another invitation to escort a new temple patron: my very own daughter, the only birth-daughter I will ever share the holy temple with. After a lifetime of loving the gospel, she took to it like a fish to water: completely at home amid scripture and symbolism, requiring a minimum of hand-holding.<br /><br />As an eighteen-yea<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-BobV2FtinBjGUuyAeoZBE4q1GGM_K-x4kdnt_3aziF_HRiFnfw_nFbNMs3TPr1lGcyIgLQpArHELQ_4dO65DEuys5HLlbdcKD-DHPRQjgp0mDWss7YQ1DFFmekwiVvrFlAqd1luWQY/s1600/provo-mormon-temple.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-BobV2FtinBjGUuyAeoZBE4q1GGM_K-x4kdnt_3aziF_HRiFnfw_nFbNMs3TPr1lGcyIgLQpArHELQ_4dO65DEuys5HLlbdcKD-DHPRQjgp0mDWss7YQ1DFFmekwiVvrFlAqd1luWQY/s200/provo-mormon-temple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627918638720367858" border="0" /></a>r-old raised in a less-active family, I needed far more support during my first visit to the temple. The sister who acted as my escort knew this and tenderly draped my arm through hers.<br /><br />She exuded loving confidence throughout, both in me and in the proceedings, so that I relaxed into her testimony, resting my head on her faithful shoulder at every opportunity.<br /><br />Two hours later, I was sealed for time and all eternity to her son.<br /><br />When Funke and I went to the temple, she sweetly mimicked everything I said or did, like a younger sibling with an admired elder. Hannah was a little more independent, but still asked lots of questions. The Child-Bride-Me did a ton of both.<br /><br />My poor mother-in-law was watched like a hawk and peppered with "<span style="font-style: italic;">why"</span> and "<span style="font-style: italic;">what does that mean"</span> and "<span style="font-style: italic;">how do I...'s</span>"' until she almost ran out of answers. It was at that moment when she gave me the instruction which I swore (to myself) to never forget:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">"Safety pin your locker key to the inside of your stocking."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Say what? </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">"That way it won't jingle in your pocket when you walk."</span><br /><br />She watched me while I followed through. Satisfied I had mastered this important little rite, she took my hand and led me to the chapel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNotergrDDdyD6HcoPB21AS7eUHBY3mjR8wt_ZUkxaLBWq70fG3l5tlTvhNzU6wmW1TuoUJXZXNlYWzOxbrX2LU84vTUwLa8cwczcEt9lHm_2WN8sYAPRINaXMnRtToM4v1uzix3AXbk/s1600/orlando-mormon-temple.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNotergrDDdyD6HcoPB21AS7eUHBY3mjR8wt_ZUkxaLBWq70fG3l5tlTvhNzU6wmW1TuoUJXZXNlYWzOxbrX2LU84vTUwLa8cwczcEt9lHm_2WN8sYAPRINaXMnRtToM4v1uzix3AXbk/s200/orlando-mormon-temple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627919579190126770" border="0" /></a>Hundreds of temple visits later, she and I found ourselves together in the locker room of the Orlando, Florida Temple, where she was now serving with my Temple President father-in-law as the Temple Matron.<br /><br />We cheerfully chatted in whispers while I changed and hung my clothes. With everything in the locker, I twisted the tiny key and raised my dress to expose the top of my knee-high stocking. Then -- as I popped open the safety pin attached to the key -- and while bending over to carefully complete the procedure <span style="font-style: italic;">I had followed for twenty-plus years</span> --<br /><br />she said the most astounding thing:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">"What are you doing THAT for?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Say what?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">"Why are you pinning the key inside your stocking?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Ahhhh...you told me to?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">(Shaking of the head.) "That's the silliest thing I ever heard of."</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">****************************</span><br /></div><br />I must admit, it was awfully fun being Sage-for-a-Day; so fun, that as an escort, I couldn't resist passing on my own personal profundities:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Don't forget the Kleenex.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><br />Only wash whites with whites.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><br />Clip the hem of your dress to a skirt hanger when you store it in a hanging bag.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><br />(and last but not least)</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><br />A pocket is THE best place to stash your locker key.</span><br /><br /></div>Of course since the temple is all about relationships, information, and <span style="font-style: italic;">forever</span>, it seems perfectly appropriate for Hannah and Funke to cherish my advice like doctrine for the rest of their lives.<br />At least until they figure out a better way.<br />Or until<span style="font-style: italic;"> I</span> forget it.<br /><br />Whichever comes first.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Muse with me: What advice do you remember from your first visit to the temple?</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">More musing on my relationship </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">with my beloved mother-in-law:</span><br /><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/05/imitating-mother.html">Imitating Mother</a><br /><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/cherry-ty-over-chocolate-never-faileth.html">Cherry-ty (Over-Chocolate) Never Faileth</a><br /><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/whose-body-is-it-anyway.htmlhttp://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/whose-body-is-it-anyway.html">Whose Body is it Anyway?</a></span><br /></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-68962353458060043712011-07-03T07:39:00.000-07:002011-07-19T07:38:10.836-07:00The Windows of Heaven<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkPg9kxYxwELPJ8H4QIQEIqURdqV5E5ka1OSsDFzkMi7rh1Twe1U4rSD_UNzO1YL87ftnEU4dxohR9mgaQ_U5-HwCBNig0Tl8RFBThhmIWm8gPeNGD3POvXVtUZwfuRMhrUGGXmAsYjQ/s1600/tithing.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625189907632492162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkPg9kxYxwELPJ8H4QIQEIqURdqV5E5ka1OSsDFzkMi7rh1Twe1U4rSD_UNzO1YL87ftnEU4dxohR9mgaQ_U5-HwCBNig0Tl8RFBThhmIWm8gPeNGD3POvXVtUZwfuRMhrUGGXmAsYjQ/s320/tithing.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: white; font-style: italic;">"Tithing is an ancient law from God. He made a promise to His children that He would open the windows of heaven, and pour...out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it." </span><span style="color: white; font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"><a href="http://lds.org/general-conference/2011/04/face-the-future-with-faith?lang=eng" style="color: #ffcccc;">Face the Future with Faith</a><span style="font-size: 100%;">, Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />
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The <a href="http://coinmill.com/GBP_USD.html" style="color: #ffcccc;">United States Dollar</a> (USD) and the <a href="http://coinmill.com/GBP_USD.html" style="color: #ffcccc;">Great British Pound</a> (GDP) used to be on friendly terms. Times, as they are however, have strained the relationship, so that Mr. Dollar taps rather weakly at the door of Sir Pound. During our thirteen months in London, I gave up converting the difference in my head with every purchase - it became too depressing. I liked to imagine they were on a level playing field, but the truth knocked us about with every visit to the bank. Living in London is one of the most expensive propositions in the world!<br />
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Besides straddling households on two continents (with three trips back and forth "across the pond"), we had two-plus-one in their senior year of college, and another marrying and buying his first house. When I think of the impact of our European travel on the family balance sheet, I have to use self-talk like smelling salts:<span style="font-style: italic;"> 'It was worth it.'...'once-in-a-lifetime'...'think of the memories!'</span>. However, the best antidote to sticker shock I've found yet is to "remember, remember"...<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 78%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="http://lds.org/scriptures/bofm/alma/5?lang=eng">(<span style="color: #ffcccc;">Alma 5:5-7 </span></a>and <a href="http://lds.org/general-conference/2007/10/o-remember-remember?lang=eng&query=remember+remember" style="color: #ffcccc;">Pres. Henry B. Eyring</a>)</span><br />
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One of my jobs as a young mom was the household budget. I kept it and I spent it and I sweated over it (my husband sweated <span style="font-style: italic;">for</span> it). Paying the rent, the car, the credit cards, the utilities, etc. was never a piece-of-cake -- it was more like eating mushy peas and liver -- but the hardest check to write each month was the one to the church. Neither of us had grown up in active families, so we weren't accustomed by experience or example to paying our tithing.<br />
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<span style="color: #ffcc99;">I can recall a couple of miraculous episodes -- obviously orchestrated by angels to bolster my faith -- when immediate blessings popped up after a squaring of the shoulders, a squeezing of the eyes, and a thrust of tithing into the hands of bishop. </span><br />
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One of those times left us short $200 for an upcoming trip to Philadelphia for Ashley's therapy program. Another meant we had $100 less for desperately needed groceries and baby supplies. In the first instance, we learned the next day that a group of our friends (who were oblivious to our predicament) had taken up a collection for us covering the deficit exactly. In the second trial, believe it or not, I found $100 wedged into the pages of my Old Testament! <span style="color: #ffcc99;">But those kind of Red Sea Partings, though absolutely true, are not typical testimonies.</span><br />
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What IS typical happened years later when our little kids were a little older.<br />
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In consternation I had wrestled over the bills for hours, finding no way out of the basic fact that we could not cut everyone a piece of the action. Like the proverbial elephant in the room, I was also cognizant of the fact that our tithing went unpaid. The check was written, the envelope stuffed, and the stamp affixed, but it had sat in "outgoing" for weeks.<br />
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With calculator-blisters festering on my fingers and wads of paper piling up at my feet, I sat at the kitchen table and bawled for a good fifteen minutes. Then -- with just a drop of resolve left -- like the stricken boxer who can barely manage to crawl back to his corner, I picked up the tithing envelope, opened the front door, walked down the driveway, and stood in front of the mailbox. <span style="color: #ffcc99;">It might as well have been Abraham standing there, looking at Issac on top of the alter: the incomprehensible thing I was about to do would either kill me and my family, or save us from annihilation. Believe me, it felt just that dramatic.</span><br />
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I left it there and went back inside. The mailman came and went and so did the days and weeks to follow. I can't even remember how we survived the crisis. What I do remember is that we never missed another opportunity to pay our tithing. It got easier and easier over the years, even though our contribution, by virtue of the 10% standard, got bigger and bigger. And that's the whole point, isn't it? <span style="color: #ffcc99;">The family prosperity-index climbed steadily up and up and up until today our grown children are virtually independent (three graduating from their university studies without any debt) and we can afford a credit-free year overseas and a big-fat Mormon wedding this summer.</span><br />
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Tithing is a spiritual, not a financial principle. Our maturity in the gospel has increased in direct proportion to our obedience. Growth however, has made us deeper, not taller. <span style="color: #ffcc99;">We still find the windows of heaven too high to see through, but we know now that they are positioned just that way so that blessings can flow from them with all the more force.</span><br />
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</div><div style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"To develop enduring faith, an enduring commitment to be a full-tithe payer is essential. Initially it takes faith to tithe. Then the tithe payer develops more faith to the point that tithing becomes a precious privilege." (Ibid.)</span></div><br />
<span style="color: #ffcc99; font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Muse with me: What blessings have you received from paying tithes?</span></span>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-75352178088492177662011-06-26T05:11:00.000-07:002011-06-30T20:47:37.956-07:00Galaxy Quest: Advice for Parents Who Want to Know<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1wHkU8iUSrpieI2HH0Qc81pTCLhkbes4m4KybTkjgBYxiOcUgj8BGfwFChqoFJ-flRN8zW5XDnv5YB6ln8pq5XMZAVQ7NBmu2kkd14g8s81tlEEwWfUeAAlXILyXRja7E4xw_Wv84ns/s1600/Galaxy+Quest+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1wHkU8iUSrpieI2HH0Qc81pTCLhkbes4m4KybTkjgBYxiOcUgj8BGfwFChqoFJ-flRN8zW5XDnv5YB6ln8pq5XMZAVQ7NBmu2kkd14g8s81tlEEwWfUeAAlXILyXRja7E4xw_Wv84ns/s320/Galaxy+Quest+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622520667145461586" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;">It feels so good to be with my grown children back in the USA this week. My oldest son and his family have been spoiling me rotten, and as I was wrestling this morning with a title for this musing, I remembered our perfectly American<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> Saturday night last night: a mega bowl of</span></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> popcorn and a popular movie silly. "Galaxy Quest.</span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">My son gave me a stack of photos yesterday – you know, the old fashioned kind, the ones you have to hold in your hand or paste in a scrapbook to look at. He had come across a roll of film and, curious about the contents, had it developed. The pictures were from Christmas 1992. What struck and relieved me most, as I sorted through these hard-copy memories, was that no one posed with their new toy like a fishermen beside his trophy tuna. Instead, in every picture, my children were hugging somebody. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">To have physical evidence that my kids really loved and appreciated each other as children, and that we -- all the adults in their lives -- found joy in their childhood, meant a lot to me, for my memory is aging and I am well aware that I cannot trust it completely anymore: either I get little too rose-colored, like an old love-letter curling slightly at the edges, or I become critical of my past, like an old epistle, read so often it takes on too much meaning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">There are some things, however, I remember with absolute clarity. This is the biggest: I LOVED being a mommy. </span>I loved every stage of being a mommy: infants, toddlers, elementary school, tweens, teens, young adults: bring it on. However, I am sure <span style="font-style: italic;">now </span>that I am different <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>. That is what going through all those stages does to a woman. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Grandma’s hair turns silver so that her children will know she is different; so that, as adults, they will forgive and revere her.</span> The wiry head is a lopsided crown proclaiming: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I did it. I was imperfect, but I did it. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two-Plus (today's name for the precious person who married my second son), is about to give birth to her first baby. Evidently, at her recent baby shower, a well-meaning mommy-peer, who is also new to the ranks, gave her this earnest piece of advice: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Do not listen to anyone else’s ideas about parenting. It’s your baby, and no one else can tell you how to parent.</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My darling Two-Plus was amazed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her friend’s green-counsel reminds me of a <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://jerryseinfeld.com/">Jerry Seinfeld</a> routine about helpful aliens parking their spaceship in the yard just as Dad is putting everything in the car for a family road-trip. Surrounded by too much luggage for the trunk, Dad says: ‘EVERYBODY STAND BACK. IT GOES IN A WAY ONLY I UNDERSTAND.’<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><i style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">‘But Dad,’</i><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> you whisper, </span><i style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">‘they came from another galaxy!</i><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><i style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I think they know how to pack.’</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I admit I am increasingly wrinkled, shrinking, and poofy, but I am not an alien. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Whatever worthy advice I can offer younger mommies and daddies is because I am human too.</span> It’s not because I was Mother-Extraordinaire, but because I was Mother-Pulling-Hair. I over-extended, over-expended, and over-expected. Most of my mistakes, the kids and I grew through, but some of them had consequences that echo in our lives today.... <span style="font-style: italic;">Buuuut</span> if you aren’t interested in becoming the <span style="font-style: italic;">wiser-then-I-was</span> (because the only “how-to” you trust is the book you wrote yourself) then all I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">can </i>tell you is how it feels to live with the consequences.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have, and will continue, to share my parenting experience (good and bad) at Musings and in other ways with younger mums and dads who want to know.<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> B</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">ut for today, standing here in the driveway, surmising all the bags and equipment you have yet to pack, my best advice is to </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">go get some more</span>. </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">ADVICE that is. The parents who have earned their silver crown have a wealth of valuable information.</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Toss the “feed-Baby-pureed-liver” prattle if you want (I'm not talking about heeding Know-It-Alls) , but <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">listen for the meaningful stuff from meaningful people. Ask ‘em ('cuz the worthy ones won't necessarily tell you unless you ask) how they got across the galaxy</span>, make notes, and then -- if I were you -- take a picture together. When younger people come to you for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">your</i> experience someday, you’ll need proof that the kids were once short; natural color hair was normal; <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> -- though they have long since returned to the stars -- it was wizened, generous aliens who helped you sort the car for that family trip.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMjVjU55wfGnbi5KWHjlVSY8FXnWEvbI6fKnpoN7g6iYyuYvQBUURolqmGUz4XW0pNnEo_6nmRzLfcCUPv0gucI2rur80or63OAX24GZ2fFFDG9igSmOB2ekTyl0skePZ2c9oU6PDoQk/s1600/Galaxy+Quest.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMjVjU55wfGnbi5KWHjlVSY8FXnWEvbI6fKnpoN7g6iYyuYvQBUURolqmGUz4XW0pNnEo_6nmRzLfcCUPv0gucI2rur80or63OAX24GZ2fFFDG9igSmOB2ekTyl0skePZ2c9oU6PDoQk/s320/Galaxy+Quest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622523604246597618" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Muse with me: What's the best parenting advice you have ever received?</span></span></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Related Musings:<br />everything under<br />Musings On Our Relationships with Kiddos<br />(left side bar)<br /></span></span></p>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-37046877828677133602011-06-19T00:18:00.000-07:002011-06-20T01:45:19.580-07:00Father's Day DetourThirty-four years ago, a boy who made me laugh, promised to make me laugh forever. We both knew he had no idea how to deliver, but at 19, laughter cannot be supplanted by practicality.<br /><br />To see what has become of us, or rather, what has become of HIM, please visit my Father's Day musing at <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.monasmusings.com/let-me-look-up-at-you/">Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance</a>.<br /><br />Happy Father's Day my Friend, my Friends, my Brothers, my Priesthood Brothers, my biological Fathers and Sons, and my Fathers and Sons in spirit!<br /><br />May the women in your life appreciate and respect you.Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-76823272237264436292011-06-12T00:00:00.000-07:002011-06-12T00:56:41.950-07:00You're Home Now<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_TZoNshxGMmmAwBfnLbCCQv-EaHVmPN8sWTa7WI3S0taFleBR6xrzj-fy6UYOdNHZioLLqStPT7z9aGjLjbHgTpv6TI02zRqIagsCcwF5mNUUgcIniNx8eyVRI93Of3lOH2Wr5wlPWk/s1600/Dorothy+wishing+to+go+home.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_TZoNshxGMmmAwBfnLbCCQv-EaHVmPN8sWTa7WI3S0taFleBR6xrzj-fy6UYOdNHZioLLqStPT7z9aGjLjbHgTpv6TI02zRqIagsCcwF5mNUUgcIniNx8eyVRI93Of3lOH2Wr5wlPWk/s320/Dorothy+wishing+to+go+home.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617084988071997394" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >“This was a real, truly live place….I remember that some of it wasn’t very nice…but most of</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" > it was beautiful. But just the same, all I kept saying to everybody was, I want to go home. And they sent me home… And this is my room – and you’re all here! And I’m not going to leave here ever, ever again, because I love you all! And – on Auntie Em! – there’s no place lik</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >e home.” <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oto0oBbbn3A&feature=share_email&ytsession=ZCdiPGyzC7lTg8Zu3PUQ6JjhZczdI9XTyUovLmXvfcmtPtK-fPry7YL_Vr7ILwc-3oy1Fgmw5INDChESZcQ4IC4H1gmD5WQGszg934lDwK4bHouvx1xFGxx1g4izJa7Qf-zcj6CBwwTNU9UJnzUuKxXz2dpEXWd9FSICDUXTITNGrDNf7Tq4gVblF4MI9EL97mOtVrwWv8fnmeHxJK9J64PSt5LIGzWyEnQA_c2G7JMJ14psiYayQU2Nagez6w0KSCL2LT3r28F2QOLNYMesIKI3wG12sbK8t3zENLUzzJU">Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz</a></span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oto0oBbbn3A&feature=share_email&ytsession=ZCdiPGyzC7lTg8Zu3PUQ6JjhZczdI9XTyUovLmXvfcmtPtK-fPry7YL_Vr7ILwc-3oy1Fgmw5INDChESZcQ4IC4H1gmD5WQGszg934lDwK4bHouvx1xFGxx1g4izJa7Qf-zcj6CBwwTNU9UJnzUuKxXz2dpEXWd9FSICDUXTITNGrDNf7Tq4gVblF4MI9EL97mOtVrwWv8fnmeHxJK9J64PSt5LIGzWyEnQA_c2G7JMJ14psiYayQU2Nagez6w0KSCL2LT3r28F2QOLNYMesIKI3wG12sbK8t3zENLUzzJU"><br /></a></div><br /></div>Raising children in one corner of the United States, when everything I knew and loved best was 3,000 miles diagonally in the other corner was hard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5rB-wSC6g2zEZ-U0CD_MZh1lizhAXuQyg6n5ZnNQjox5fmJXq3rIvdsGfQFT-Z_fX0N9TyS-7_8S-3fFX5mMMmBM2tsbRk_sJFZdM6dyPiRkiawWhcN6Cc6fvGtNGKRJG7AHwz5zLiGw/s1600/Wizard-of-Oz-Emerald-City.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5rB-wSC6g2zEZ-U0CD_MZh1lizhAXuQyg6n5ZnNQjox5fmJXq3rIvdsGfQFT-Z_fX0N9TyS-7_8S-3fFX5mMMmBM2tsbRk_sJFZdM6dyPiRkiawWhcN6Cc6fvGtNGKRJG7AHwz5zLiGw/s200/Wizard-of-Oz-Emerald-City.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617086038361468962" border="0" /></a>When parenthood overwhelmed me, I needed my mommy but this was before MMB, FB, AOL or IM (“long-distance” meant an expensive phone call and “leavin’ on a jet plane” was still exotic enough that the radio played songs about it).<br /><br />And where were my friends? After high school or college, we’d scattered like the children of Israel.<br /><br />Not only was this emotional terrain challenging to me, I refused to get comfortable with the physical environment. Palm trees, in my opinion, could never replace evergreens, and water in the air could never compare to water from the sky.<br /><br />It scared and dismayed me--being so far from “home”.<br /><br />This sickness turned toxic when it began to affect the precious relationships that had taken me to Oz: my in-laws, my children, my husband. At that point, Heaven knew it was time to intervene for <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> sake as well as my own, so a good fairy was sent on the errand; an angel named<span style="font-style: italic;"> Aunt Athlene</span>, my mother’s sister.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHeKzTAPj6HhXe1nFY47RSyzF5jgqonIxnfaXGGh6k8H87knjTl8gQWkSQQScqCsoeyFC_bWounddme5X2qdi057qJB1GYwZO81UHVVRYd7BB95HSGeGpjTTwdtvVuXOtQW-m_f-Su1G4/s1600/Dorothy+and+Glenda+the+Good+Witch.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHeKzTAPj6HhXe1nFY47RSyzF5jgqonIxnfaXGGh6k8H87knjTl8gQWkSQQScqCsoeyFC_bWounddme5X2qdi057qJB1GYwZO81UHVVRYd7BB95HSGeGpjTTwdtvVuXOtQW-m_f-Su1G4/s200/Dorothy+and+Glenda+the+Good+Witch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617086312732522898" border="0" /></a>We talked for a long time over the phone —I mean, I talked for a long time, and she listened. After my whimpers were extinguished with just the right dose of sympathy, she turned me upside down with this profound perspective:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">What you need to understand, darling,”</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> she began gently,</span> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“is that you do not have “A” home. Rather, you have man</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">y homes -- or you WILL have many hom</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">es -- as a woman. There will always be the “home” of your childhood, but you also have the “home” of your</span> college years; the “home” of your early married life; now another “home” of your young family life; and perhaps another in your mature years. They may even put you in a “home” when you’re an old grandma like me!”<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"><br /><br />She laughed.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“You will see with time,”</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> <span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">she continued, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“that each “home” in your life becomes saturated with its own memories, its own traditions and its own purpose. Think about this: your babyhood home must have felt very strange -- so different from the one you left in heaven – but aren’t you glad you made THAT move?” </span><br /><br />I have mused a lot t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS2Rx7jZPfoxn86oSyEbmw6up8d28xNUvgWeqB29CK6fnVk2qOHvwgSKCnw9UEqOtc64eVw7Tce9bzSWtBWOMhoLxbxa-gl3MSimX8rJEarZ7ooUhd1B_GsUDmHnDLdt0K0LT0WU-gzo/s1600/tin+man%252C+scarcrow%252C+dorothy+and+lion.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS2Rx7jZPfoxn86oSyEbmw6up8d28xNUvgWeqB29CK6fnVk2qOHvwgSKCnw9UEqOtc64eVw7Tce9bzSWtBWOMhoLxbxa-gl3MSimX8rJEarZ7ooUhd1B_GsUDmHnDLdt0K0LT0WU-gzo/s200/tin+man%252C+scarcrow%252C+dorothy+and+lion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617086665471661010" border="0" /></a>his week over that advice from long ago: in ten days we are leaving this little London flat for our three-story house, and I can hardly believe it was<a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.monasmusings.com/love-makes-the-world-go-round/"> thirteen months ago</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> </span>I was leaving the U.S. for a place called England.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Experiences still too fresh to be called 'memories' are flooding me like the waters of the Red Sea on the armies of Pharaoh; I could almost drown in them. It is comforting to know that most of those experiences have been packaged in words and photos, blogs and journals. Even so, it is <span style="font-style: italic;">discomfiting</span> that the flesh of it all, <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2011/04/finding-zion.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">the people</span></a>, cannot be shipped with the furniture. The only place for them is in my heart.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oto0oBbbn3A&feature=related"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTK38RKOuZ0HH3Kb-00fsJN9wmZVXijSzVwUoLjXj4TsetZO3xankX2Sx-LWuW9Pobx_3IcAOYy57sviwdi20_m86LxoBOOeuE2Nk-WiZusZbVP96VdBFckWhVnSTF7k14pm-4ATMBaUA/s200/ruby+slippers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617088046712205234" border="0" /></a><br />Aunt Athlene was right: <span style="font-weight: bold;">life is all about creating a home, wherever you are and for however long, and the sooner you accept that and get on with it, the faster you can grow and the more love there is in the world.</span><br /><br />So say it I must: good-bye wonderful London --you're (another) “home” now.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;">“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”<br />Maya Angelou</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;"><br />Muse with me: are you "home"?</span><br /><div style="text-align: right; color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Click on the ruby slippers to watch a music video you may get as hooked on as I have:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" ><br />"There Is No Place Like Home"</span><br /></div></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-11458040521125552742011-06-05T00:00:00.000-07:002011-06-05T14:03:24.208-07:00Colleen's Gift<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >And</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > again, verily thus saith the Lord: Let the work of my temple, and all the works </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >which I have appointed unto you, be continued on and not cease; and let your diligence, and your perseverance, and patience, and your works be redoubled, </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >and you shall in nowise lose your reward, saith the Lord of Hosts.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><a href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/127?lang=eng"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);font-size:85%;" >(D&C 127:4. See also </span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/97.8?lang=eng#7"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">D&C 97:8-9</span></a></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);font-size:85%;" >)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICA-T3IDL1vHRksAvT-m1yUoYXzBpadkRHBla2GDN2w4k1cZa6DYQsuMN6f_rhktOuv5zCAOs4niY9K271HAP68IRSlKrVKlnDbvcyl_jEqz6C4DGjQXwM12m0YHJePrD-CNU27oULP8/s1600/china+dish+set.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICA-T3IDL1vHRksAvT-m1yUoYXzBpadkRHBla2GDN2w4k1cZa6DYQsuMN6f_rhktOuv5zCAOs4niY9K271HAP68IRSlKrVKlnDbvcyl_jEqz6C4DGjQXwM12m0YHJePrD-CNU27oULP8/s200/china+dish+set.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614618875612180866" border="0" /></a>She had raised her family in exotic places all over the world; wherever Conoco Phillips sent her engineer husband. As long as she could remember, they had worshiped and served in the “emerging church”; filling in the gaps where called; <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2011/04/finding-zion.html">using their background as Americans to help the Kingdom grow and stabilize in corners of the vineyard light years away from Salt Lake City</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzLI3LQDIJh0dlNIsL7DRuMJVSGJURBhO-7b5g_FG0wa3blHPU5d9dbopC4iaGG3kdbL9kGp9UFlnG5ObUv-FPBiFbHTSADc18-N735Iv6qFNX3heANFeQyid_mmhnC1N-GebScIjHc4/s1600/dish+set1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzLI3LQDIJh0dlNIsL7DRuMJVSGJURBhO-7b5g_FG0wa3blHPU5d9dbopC4iaGG3kdbL9kGp9UFlnG5ObUv-FPBiFbHTSADc18-N735Iv6qFNX3heANFeQyid_mmhnC1N-GebScIjHc4/s200/dish+set1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614623508055741602" border="0" /></a>When she walked to the pulpit on Fast Sundays, her straight back, long neck, and slightly tilted chin gave her a grace that only those trained at the ballet bar can have. (Though <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://pam.byu.edu/similarpage.asp?title=Ballroom%20Dance%20Company">Ballroom Dancers</a> were a long time ago for Colleen, she’d kept the lithe body and enthusiastic heart of her youth; all the more beautiful in maturity.)<br /><br />And when she reached the pulpit and opened her mouth to testify, it was with such sincere creativity and charming conviction, no one could resist giving her rapt attention. The Bishop called her to teach <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://hubpages.com/hub/Mormon-Teens-Get-An-Early-Start-To-The-Day--Early-Morning-Seminary-Religion-Class">Seminary</a> and to preside over the <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/pa/display/0,17884,6821-1,00.html">Young Women organization</a> (concurrently!) and I asked her to <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/pa/display/0,17884,4691-1,00.html">visit teach</a> Maureen, Belinda, Sarah, and Erin. (Would you be surprised if I told you that she was the dearest, most vigilant, most caring visiting teacher I have ever known?)<br /><br />Twice at my reques<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJb9s0QsQlGNkBIqkPgoC2fDah1HBIeRBNRloaWvxWj1JUyNutj7fNeKYdtbvbcT0Vr5rZnk4eYsU0_If2uTM_Z6OCAk2HyrFYeDvicZ_G6tW8GhA1AXZdD4a69NwPO9tXWUwikPmIU/s1600/tea+set.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJb9s0QsQlGNkBIqkPgoC2fDah1HBIeRBNRloaWvxWj1JUyNutj7fNeKYdtbvbcT0Vr5rZnk4eYsU0_If2uTM_Z6OCAk2HyrFYeDvicZ_G6tW8GhA1AXZdD4a69NwPO9tXWUwikPmIU/s200/tea+set.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614624370775694706" border="0" /></a>t, Colleen allowed me to tag along on her route (or “root” as they pronounce it here) and each time I marveled at the tenderness of her ministrations and the thoughtfulness of her preparation. The privileged sisters she had watched over loved her fiercely, making it extremely difficult when it came time for Colleen to follow her husband to their next assignment in Spain.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0WbD7ws8xVt5fV6Oe4TBhnHVa2E-s8AzwvSGwcCnHc1ZVxaAmN3pMYl8kI7kUxuGivH09lnpnLPjf2y2Fkm_h-l8R3BCh_SfMiTbivl-N80NIRCxqJdol5fF-eCPk5y8ThSZ39LJr4pM/s1600/fine+china.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0WbD7ws8xVt5fV6Oe4TBhnHVa2E-s8AzwvSGwcCnHc1ZVxaAmN3pMYl8kI7kUxuGivH09lnpnLPjf2y2Fkm_h-l8R3BCh_SfMiTbivl-N80NIRCxqJdol5fF-eCPk5y8ThSZ39LJr4pM/s200/fine+china.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614638262359736546" border="0" /></a><br />I was with her when she said good-bye, one-by-sniffly-one, leaving in their hands a token of her love – some little gift, usually an item destined for a charity shop, but which suddenly had great meaning because of the personal story Colleen would attach to it: a book, some beads, a toy. I was mesmerized by this talent for gift-giving (one I have never really mastered) and considered it <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> gift to have witnessed Colleen in action. As we pulled into to the train station though, my dear friend had one more surprise: the last good-bye and final delivery of the day.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">When you c</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSD1yDFYH0pNW1xmaZ5ALNOhpWLupt9H5P_UGYRDX1TWrPeBEu9ksdXdzbPhKZpJ3BkZ8EHzynUbJQCSll3Oagm2u7qWuuT8c8m_o1AXqYnYzydY0EjWH7H8XOWcxON-ss_airtOxP97E/s1600/tea+service+in+a+box.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSD1yDFYH0pNW1xmaZ5ALNOhpWLupt9H5P_UGYRDX1TWrPeBEu9ksdXdzbPhKZpJ3BkZ8EHzynUbJQCSll3Oagm2u7qWuuT8c8m_o1AXqYnYzydY0EjWH7H8XOWcxON-ss_airtOxP97E/s200/tea+service+in+a+box.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614656667624474802" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">ame to England from the states, Mona -”</span> she said -<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> <span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“I </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">know you were expecting a very different experience. Things have not turned out the way you and your loved ones back home thought they would. You have done some traveling with Dale for his work, but not near as much as you might have...<br /><br />"I know too, that you believed the day had finally come when you could indulge in study and writing and theater-goin<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">g, but instead your days are taken up meeting the needs of dozens of people who were strangers to you until recently. You cry yourself to sleep for them and your prayers have never been so full of so many. Most days end with the feeling that you couldn’t possibly give any more, but the next morning, you wake up and give again.”</span></span></span><br /><br />Disarmed, but swallowed up in her love, all I could do was cry. Colleen was a warm blast of sun, illuminating and healing at the same time.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“In Seminary last week,”</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pUDzwA8y9eBuIM-zd081TkMinWmH_3i1KSRgDVf-l2O5UzfTvQNgfNqipcaGziFTyX-0kIdNesqhoJFc4ckq0xVHKOE6hiJtNVqVt6kDt64rIrBllg9Zy70Jrf8WXVrwOEGRMaL8I3U/s1600/hammer+and+broken+plate.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pUDzwA8y9eBuIM-zd081TkMinWmH_3i1KSRgDVf-l2O5UzfTvQNgfNqipcaGziFTyX-0kIdNesqhoJFc4ckq0xVHKOE6hiJtNVqVt6kDt64rIrBllg9Zy70Jrf8WXVrwOEGRMaL8I3U/s200/hammer+and+broken+plate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614498633989572802" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span>she continued,<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“we learned all about the <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.ldschurchtemples.com/kirtland/">Kirtland Temple</a>. I told the kids about the sacrifices the Saints made to build it: how in their poverty, they raised the most magnificent building ever seen in those parts. We talked about how the women spun cloth and sewed for the men who labored in the construction and how those women also gave their treasured, beautiful china to be smashed to smithereens so that the stucco on the temple exterior would literally glisten.”</span><br /><br />I nodded thoughtfully, having told the same story myself in <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/04/brightest-generation.html">Seminary and Gospel Doctrine classes.</a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“The kids were interested,”</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span>she smiled,<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“when I produced a cup of my own bone china.”</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">(I could easily believe Colleen had bone china: her collection of internationally-acquired valuables was exquisite.)</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">But boy were they surprised when I also brought out a </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbydx2iVzsZCY0CpO9dThsM_mXK6ZVgwS7vlc0aRSW5JQNW4_YxP3z35j1b78YuISYfgeYesOn5vrHzZGucHm780GW_IJUiDUjRg_IHabxn4v2__G6vtCfXcIfXl7mHNUKrglwARwlN8/s1600/1+china+cup.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbydx2iVzsZCY0CpO9dThsM_mXK6ZVgwS7vlc0aRSW5JQNW4_YxP3z35j1b78YuISYfgeYesOn5vrHzZGucHm780GW_IJUiDUjRg_IHabxn4v2__G6vtCfXcIfXl7mHNUKrglwARwlN8/s200/1+china+cup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614497448663991746" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">hammer!”</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> Colleen laughed at the memory.</span> <span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“I coaxed each one of them, but they all refused to break the cup. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll have to do it myself.’ And when I did--when I smashed the cup to pieces--they just sat there in shock.”</span></span><br /><br />I was incredulous too: I have <span style="font-style: italic;">longed</span> for a bone-china tea set since childhood.<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“You broke it?!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“Oh yes,”</span> she affirmed,<span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> “and I saved the pieces in the cup’s original box. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">Now</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">, I wondered, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">what shall I do with this broken china?</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">”</span><br /><br />She pulled out a small blue box and rattled the contents.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">“That’s when I thought of </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">you</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">, Mona; of your dreams in pieces for the sake of something bigger; the dust of your dreams sparkling in the lives of your brothers and sisters in England.”</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><br />That blue box h<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrE-AoOJ0Puli-YXhzGtZm-KKgCDPVo0JevILXagygLMoz4r9-KLCEidF8wNjoLk4YSt_5YDCtqyYf8MVEZczqh76oNWkm3_zRuizWLP9KPmzr88bIXE9bWMXx6SaGRSe7AATL1h4QP0M/s1600/broken+cup.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrE-AoOJ0Puli-YXhzGtZm-KKgCDPVo0JevILXagygLMoz4r9-KLCEidF8wNjoLk4YSt_5YDCtqyYf8MVEZczqh76oNWkm3_zRuizWLP9KPmzr88bIXE9bWMXx6SaGRSe7AATL1h4QP0M/s200/broken+cup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614499889508530914" border="0" /></a>as sat on my bed stand ever since. The shippers came on Friday and tried to pack it up, but I rescued it just in time, from what – I couldn’t say. I just knew the broken cup couldn’t leave. It’s taken two days of musing and prayer for the reason to catch up with the decision, but I’ve finally got it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">I’m going to give Colleen's gift to the new Relief Society President.</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> </span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Muse with me: </span>What about your broken china?</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" ><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:78%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">(If you have a related post on your blog, please share.)</span><br /></span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qabaX4qHxqc"><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Watch "The Building of the Kirtland Temple"</span></span></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qabaX4qHxqc"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 63px; height: 84px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifESr64V9gtDiNL91CBfsttIIbyDjLdn0KPvtrP-2fSG0sT6fdE3gRwoVQU-RndFybY_Tbhvv3bwMVJ-nbmDkxDDp5uKoEtOT0LKL56FBhMqvji7_970xQBveo1ko5noG-sYwUFyUEh1w/s200/KirtlandTemple_Ohio_USA.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614680803399893138" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:78%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-weight: bold;">Related Musings:</span> </span><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.monasmusings.com/love-makes-the-world-go-round/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">Love Makes the World Go Round</span></a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/musing-in-marriott.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">What You Don't Have or Have Lost</span></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-weight: bold;">Beautifully related musings by fellow musers:</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-style: italic;" href="http://www.ldswomenofgod.com/blog/?p=2292title=">Visiting Teaching<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> </span></a><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">at</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> LDS Women of God</span><br /></span></div> </div></div></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-26915761791292195022011-05-29T00:00:00.000-07:002011-05-31T01:49:46.925-07:00Imagine a Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2xYAHfAwtliaF4Hhe7Qti7Pw5ZQ-GPV3HhYdytjcBUK0Uvr16NsVZRe4LLfmUqv7KFTl3IBsjPS1uJjeTP3r4VVpwCyArnl62TyJGklT1Lgih3JwIl7On846LYG-J_HWgEfywnwXSmc/s1600/thoughtfully+sad.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2xYAHfAwtliaF4Hhe7Qti7Pw5ZQ-GPV3HhYdytjcBUK0Uvr16NsVZRe4LLfmUqv7KFTl3IBsjPS1uJjeTP3r4VVpwCyArnl62TyJGklT1Lgih3JwIl7On846LYG-J_HWgEfywnwXSmc/s200/thoughtfully+sad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609264312404910082" border="0" /></a>Imagine life in poverty. Imagine life without a mother, or with an alcoholic father, or with family imprisoned. Imagine life with an abusive spouse or as a single mom. Imagine life after rape. Imagine life as an illegal immigrant, or with no food in the cupboards, or without education. Imagine life with mental illness. Imagine life in an arranged marriage, or as a series of co-habitations, or on the verge of divorce. Imagine life with disabilities or living in a hospital room. Imagine fearing violence in the street or dying from cancer.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Imagine life<span style="font-style: italic;"> fighting for life </span>and you can imagine my sisters.</span><br /><br />As their Relief Society President, I’ve been given a tour of what used to be a plastic globe to me, but is now flesh and blood, lots of blood, too much blood. Women have washed themselves of it in the waters of baptism and now keep the commandments in a life that may be new and improved, but a life that cannot compare to <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhug2p48NXi9uTPja4zPJKNPArOgDEOHqu8cisMCLC9R1sWpIknFhgBwcH11qIp20LbYOgo2y3hXx_JzKiZihUBEElDP2iJkoL3dkI89JjkVx8UkZKLMN3Y6IeQuvSvKwB-ZalxYPOzKRc/s1600/thougtful+older+woman.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhug2p48NXi9uTPja4zPJKNPArOgDEOHqu8cisMCLC9R1sWpIknFhgBwcH11qIp20LbYOgo2y3hXx_JzKiZihUBEElDP2iJkoL3dkI89JjkVx8UkZKLMN3Y6IeQuvSvKwB-ZalxYPOzKRc/s200/thougtful+older+woman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609267474229055682" border="0" /></a>Sister Mona’s charmed existence as an American. Or so they imagine. They love me for for my empathy (which gift I sometimes have too much of for my own good), but deep down, believe it can only go so far, which is true.<br /><br />One day, while discussing <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">the</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> purpose of suffering</span> in Relief Society, I made a dot in the center of the dry erase board and then drew a line all the way to the edge. I walked around the perimeter of the chapel, continuing an imaginary line, marker mid-air, until I came back to the dot on the board.<br /><br />“Imagine this line as eternity,” I said. “And imagine this dot representing our mortal probation. As we agreed earlier in our discussion, we can only internalize many important lessons <span style="font-style: italic;">while on earth</span>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">through</span> opposition, to prepare for all the rest.” I swept my hand around the room. “Is it any wonder then<span style="font-style: italic;"> that with so much to learn in such a short time </span>[pointing at the dot]<span style="font-style: italic;">, that life is a crash course</span>?”<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjxg6NnMrb2YHa1n2AF5c_mzmLUdMChJxpzS6Xt_xHrfavi-IiD1U-7GDfBFNpucyn5AH15D9V4Ux86q90PJlnPSEUXagfcyYbYa9Q57tBjfO33T71o8cDo5rE1VxbP0BG76n8qLy7sg/s1600/pulse.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjxg6NnMrb2YHa1n2AF5c_mzmLUdMChJxpzS6Xt_xHrfavi-IiD1U-7GDfBFNpucyn5AH15D9V4Ux86q90PJlnPSEUXagfcyYbYa9Q57tBjfO33T71o8cDo5rE1VxbP0BG76n8qLy7sg/s200/pulse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609260731682219138" border="0" /></a><br />They looked thoughtful.<br /><br />“Yet we expect our ‘dot’ to be a smooth line in and of itself, with only occasional blips,” I continued the line metaphor, using the board to draw what looked like a healthy EKG; praying I was making sense to them.<br /><br />Suddenly, a voice from the back rang out: “That may be YOUR life Mona,” (referring to the smooth line with a couple of hiccups), “<span style="font-style: italic;">but it’s not mine!</span>”<br /><br />The room froze at the mockery in her voice. If we’d been in a Wild West saloon, everyone would have backed away, clearing the space between us.<br /><br />“That’s not my point.” I answered carefully. “This little line is not MY life. This line is NOBODY’S LIFE.”<br /><br />It got very quiet.<br /><br />“Would you like to see<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73OlxujvM6NUMXN75fPjTTBu2OAoRX9AgVR8SbDAEaqVWh_IbKN-UI4N6_060AgLMms2SUHsaOcQb_u8XmWSOSUNxXR6RCQiM8U8aS8gLDl4huHgtTBWL9PiDi4FEk0GIKe2BcU01_Us/s1600/heart+attack+EKG.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73OlxujvM6NUMXN75fPjTTBu2OAoRX9AgVR8SbDAEaqVWh_IbKN-UI4N6_060AgLMms2SUHsaOcQb_u8XmWSOSUNxXR6RCQiM8U8aS8gLDl4huHgtTBWL9PiDi4FEk0GIKe2BcU01_Us/s200/heart+attack+EKG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609260995724954530" border="0" /></a> MY life?” I raised the pen impulsively. “<span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> is MY life.”<br /><br />Then with emotion that startled everyone, including me, I drew an EKG that looked like a woman having a heart attack.<br /><br />“That’s MY life!” I finished. They were stunned.<br /><br />Earlier in our stay here, I had listened to a sister for thirty minutes on the phone. She told me about an incident in the ward years before that had wounded her feelings so deeply she found it impossible now to trust the sisters. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“I worry for YOU,” she said, turning the conversation in a surprising direction. “I watch how happy you are, and I think,</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> she is going to get hurt</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">.”</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPN4_jqMgLjaRmtzYgPsy2vPEJUNygMg_G9KlCC3ZZElxDPwsWZgjETuQhva523auv_mtMOkHHIx_jod5D86TZrxP3PpwPorYCNZnLfMa_UPTkC8frkQ9aCUzbIAQpTdEOS81pLuDQrs/s1600/thoughtful.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPN4_jqMgLjaRmtzYgPsy2vPEJUNygMg_G9KlCC3ZZElxDPwsWZgjETuQhva523auv_mtMOkHHIx_jod5D86TZrxP3PpwPorYCNZnLfMa_UPTkC8frkQ9aCUzbIAQpTdEOS81pLuDQrs/s200/thoughtful.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609265653881054066" border="0" /></a><br />The next day I got an email from another sister (one whom I knew was under terrific strain) that read: <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">“Thank you for your example, dear Mona. I watch how happy you are and I think, WOW – </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">she can only be that happy because she's been through a lot</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">.”</span><br /><br />Wow is right. <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">On</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">e sister assumed I was happy because of the ABSENCE of adversity in my life and the other thought I was happy BECAUSE of it! </span><br /><br />I mused over that f<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFgY8n4htbek7eM8tkfH4RGYAo1Y06LuArVevpdqsfK8ai7_k-7KTV62UCO7T5ssSTAY9FjBbaWcEXG_43UwdF_2_iilEHn5N3jR0xIA3f4BWvTY54JidRgp1hsHkRDBlwFA22HKot6Fw/s1600/happy+thougts.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFgY8n4htbek7eM8tkfH4RGYAo1Y06LuArVevpdqsfK8ai7_k-7KTV62UCO7T5ssSTAY9FjBbaWcEXG_43UwdF_2_iilEHn5N3jR0xIA3f4BWvTY54JidRgp1hsHkRDBlwFA22HKot6Fw/s200/happy+thougts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609261399499225042" border="0" /></a>or a long time and ruminated on the conversation in the classroom (which spawned tears and hugs afterward.) If our happiness quotient is directly related to a<span style="font-style: italic;"> lack</span> of tribulation, how realistic is it that we could ever go up the scale? Do we imagine our plastic twin living on a plastic globe with nothing to disrupt her tranquility? When I imagine my Eden-Eve, I realize she couldn’t be anything like Flesh-and-Blood-Me, and actually, I don’t think I'd want her kind of contentment. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Our Little </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Dots, our ”small moments”</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> </span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/121?lang=eng">(D&C 121:7-8)</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">, may be g<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">oing haywire more oft</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">en than not, and may sometimes be filled with even terrible things, but I believe it’s the only spot where we can become strong enough, or deserving enough, f<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">or a FULNESS of JOY</span></span><a style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/122?lang=eng"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">(D&C</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> 122:5-8)</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><a href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/122?lang=eng">,</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">which IS</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> coming.</span><br /><br />And imagining<span style="font-style: italic;"> THAT </span>life is what makes me happiest of all.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;">"The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me…he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted… To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord…”</span> <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/ot/isa/61?lang=eng">(Isaiah 61:3)</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></span></span> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Photography by <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.dreamstime.com/">Dreamstime</a></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Beautifully related post by fellow Muser, Momza at MMB:<br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.mormonmommyblogs.com/2011/05/growing-roots.html">Growing Roots</a></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Muse with me: What do you imagine life is about?</span></span><br /></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-76990942858538170572011-05-22T00:14:00.000-07:002011-05-25T06:59:57.980-07:00Riveted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEjmQjBuDqPpuUrMSKO2RYJHkRN4PKt4mi0szPkByHz8YoKIkErB1HXfiPE4Uc0z9M5U4t8_kPIrgbl2pqQiT8OGBgWYKS5YOO-sIwwC4Q35HQgil5iv5BG9rVE265XXq1_88TH-Ys_M/s1600/baby+girl+with+globe.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 151px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcEjmQjBuDqPpuUrMSKO2RYJHkRN4PKt4mi0szPkByHz8YoKIkErB1HXfiPE4Uc0z9M5U4t8_kPIrgbl2pqQiT8OGBgWYKS5YOO-sIwwC4Q35HQgil5iv5BG9rVE265XXq1_88TH-Ys_M/s200/baby+girl+with+globe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609534386882559458" border="0" /></a>When Dale slipped out the door to the airport this morning, I was still under the covers. It is never a pleasant sensation to wake up and realize he is gone. This morning I felt that an additional uneasiness -- the one I always feel when his destination is somewhere in the <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Middle East</span>: a place where, as we all know, people and tradition clash in unforgiving ways. I lay in bed, reminiscing about our trip to Israel last fall...and then made the connection to another memory from a trip only weeks ago to...<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Stockholm,</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Sweden</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPQ0OsGTlcCxlPUbhD3LpqpLY8rxuyFCW59PyX3eRRpLs078Hk61uarty9clVx7xKwQd0DCWr86M96ZsoG6Ooco51QnCy6gc-4PPDEsnuzJ_JtVOrzyfYvVSf-Fm4UK3nf3BdJJQMwjM/s1600/1+Demonstration+parade%252C+Stockholm+-+child+%25282%2529.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPQ0OsGTlcCxlPUbhD3LpqpLY8rxuyFCW59PyX3eRRpLs078Hk61uarty9clVx7xKwQd0DCWr86M96ZsoG6Ooco51QnCy6gc-4PPDEsnuzJ_JtVOrzyfYvVSf-Fm4UK3nf3BdJJQMwjM/s200/1+Demonstration+parade%252C+Stockholm+-+child+%25282%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609441389537318354" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Turning a corner in the Old Town of Stockholm, we barely avert being towed down the river of humanity suddenly surging round us. These people aren’t tourists – too much tension for that. The banners and chanting take deciphering -- Swedish to English – but we finally get it: this is a tide of disgruntled demonstrators called <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);">Communists</span>. (Strange coming from a people with one of the lowest poverty rates in the world.) As I purposefully turn my eyes away from a confrontation between protestors and police on horseback, I glimpse something even more disturbing: a child in the middle of the parade on Daddy’s shoulders. </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Tiberius, Israel </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ht-pS0oJwNYJZRd6NrarPayNcRqNilBRRlGRW-1GIKLWXras1UOiu3y6dQuJbVK7FzQUk0h9OHGHU-uL-Z-ViIFcjhMZID3oGMg32ZVmU72buwAaYFJ4y7h1AlDkA3QC9cMOaFL1GDY/s1600/St+John+Church.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ht-pS0oJwNYJZRd6NrarPayNcRqNilBRRlGRW-1GIKLWXras1UOiu3y6dQuJbVK7FzQUk0h9OHGHU-uL-Z-ViIFcjhMZID3oGMg32ZVmU72buwAaYFJ4y7h1AlDkA3QC9cMOaFL1GDY/s200/St+John+Church.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609444893562493954" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We enter another <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);">orthodox church</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);"> </span>of stone, built on a holy site, predictably full of wooden pews, stained glass windows, and shrines of golden saints.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At least the cathedral is cool, if not awe-inspiring, and so I sit: near the middle, where I can watch people best. They come and go, site-see-ers seeking souvenirs and spirituality in the Judean desert. For the most part, they spend the ten minutes the tour operator has given them digitizing the dark crannies and dusty crypts, drifting without a program; except for the woman who suddenly bustles past me, a daughter of six or seven in hand. The woman stops with dead reckoning in the very center of the chapel and lowers one knee <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZzDY2TNPVTjT6OsilWH_IKYJoU_BXR4Na-7ehyphenhyphenvZyoAZAbeoXpNSjB72MQ2xRyHAvWDIjuh1QltgHcoKOAVflYxrLmi-ZC6m895GEkSKdcgO6IAKEi3iKZl2fgFymb9xw0uqGj03zEM/s1600/girl+praying.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 91px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZzDY2TNPVTjT6OsilWH_IKYJoU_BXR4Na-7ehyphenhyphenvZyoAZAbeoXpNSjB72MQ2xRyHAvWDIjuh1QltgHcoKOAVflYxrLmi-ZC6m895GEkSKdcgO6IAKEi3iKZl2fgFymb9xw0uqGj03zEM/s200/girl+praying.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609544824388964594" border="0" /></a>to the tiled floor, then bows her head. Two seconds later, Mother stands and turns to Child waiting two feet behind, pointing forcefully at the spot she just rose from. The girl moves quickly to mimic the rite verbatim; hair covering face, skirt beneath knee, almost a pratfall as she scurries out the door after her Model.</p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Jerus</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">alem,</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> Israel</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijr37L0NL7DuYZq_0Tpc5RtGZk5PaJpIllsFaWP-D_iUTxr0AVdbXbHf-B9X1K2EUJgC8gMZPyfhWjKLHWlFEirg7mb78JbZovav6xagyJ3oPKGfysjNUfw6mxciibSZt6GvMgsAwcI-E/s1600/Jerusalem+Old+City.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijr37L0NL7DuYZq_0Tpc5RtGZk5PaJpIllsFaWP-D_iUTxr0AVdbXbHf-B9X1K2EUJgC8gMZPyfhWjKLHWlFEirg7mb78JbZovav6xagyJ3oPKGfysjNUfw6mxciibSZt6GvMgsAwcI-E/s200/Jerusalem+Old+City.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609442751845663490" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From this hill, our three <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);">Israeli</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);"> </span>companions point out The Church of Holy Sepulcher, the Dome of the Rock, and the “Mormon University” on the opposite slope. <span style="font-style: italic;">Did you know we are Mormon, </span>we ask? Surprised faces. <span style="font-style: italic;">We did not! We have</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> some questions for you</span>, they say. I leave it to Dale and sit beneath a tree a few yards away. The surreal aspect of the situation suddenly hits me, and I watch our animated friends with fascination. Earlier that day, Shlomi had explained that he was Jewish, but secular. When Benji joined us, his yamaka gave him away as orthodox, a Zionist actually<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTXZnYnNrV_B-1ir4r0z_d8BSHeG8griPqTxC1N_8p6EdgQksH0pL_AjqUwtHlToATmSCyYHc714-38p3xFFIkbKfuw2fl269sNhVqUU_xOIvhEBMgrB4fSQKB3IjhxwNnYcJJZwwE5d8/s1600/Jewish+boy+praying.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 89px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTXZnYnNrV_B-1ir4r0z_d8BSHeG8griPqTxC1N_8p6EdgQksH0pL_AjqUwtHlToATmSCyYHc714-38p3xFFIkbKfuw2fl269sNhVqUU_xOIvhEBMgrB4fSQKB3IjhxwNnYcJJZwwE5d8/s200/Jewish+boy+praying.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609543351061214930" border="0" /></a>. And as the day progressed, Moti made it clear that he practiced his religion, but moderately. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why?</span> I had asked all three. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why do you believe and live as you do?</span> Shlomi shrugged, Benji smiled, and Moti looked thoughtful, but their answers were word for word the same:<span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">I was raise</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">d that way</span>.<br /></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Nazareth, Northern Israel</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i-679z-2s_kQ2hrpnB8QZtLNOTwyoldSIlagk3HmB0VIqZ8Ss0-3WvvKIdHkYl7pe_CCFvzPhP3T-VswdSR6Oj08830A6tPeFBQrElra8tle_ICeoziLqzyyqm_f0rEAyQxHxjgjR0A/s1600/IMG_1349.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i-679z-2s_kQ2hrpnB8QZtLNOTwyoldSIlagk3HmB0VIqZ8Ss0-3WvvKIdHkYl7pe_CCFvzPhP3T-VswdSR6Oj08830A6tPeFBQrElra8tle_ICeoziLqzyyqm_f0rEAyQxHxjgjR0A/s200/IMG_1349.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609445947515451570" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">Our personal guide Aton, though well over 60, is powerfully built and moves so decisively, we have a hard time keeping up. Yet when he tells the stories of Jesus on the shores of Galliee, or reads Matthew <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pdAFn9UCZYefe3zgvvdg8voXJ5fXKpQ9IpEQ-YfKDsv3aeJjcu7Ko-NQC-kuknkhBmFC99SueJcp31RM-K-l46X8CN4lna2FWV1NcC9W7rHd7dmk2-M6Kk-CXta9kpNrFXj7kr91n90/s1600/Arab+boy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 88px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pdAFn9UCZYefe3zgvvdg8voXJ5fXKpQ9IpEQ-YfKDsv3aeJjcu7Ko-NQC-kuknkhBmFC99SueJcp31RM-K-l46X8CN4lna2FWV1NcC9W7rHd7dmk2-M6Kk-CXta9kpNrFXj7kr91n90/s200/Arab+boy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609541628904997634" border="0" /></a>5 atop the Mount of Beatitudes, he holds very still and his voice is full of care. Tell us more, we say, about YOU: you are Jewish?<span style="font-style: italic;"> I am. </span>Yet you give tours of the Holy Land. <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I enjoy the </span><span style="font-style: italic;">faith of the Christians and wish I could believe too. </span>Why don’t you?<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I was raised in a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Kibbutz as an <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 153);">Atheist</span>. </span><span><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">********************************************</span><span style="font-style: italic;">**************<br /></span></p> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Th<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">ese and d</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqI2a2I9il9GfWufk0F8ViL0ySmC0CuMyW7fzdPhsvlIn7wGUvfKFfeDfHHYHnhQJlV9qFVizD9rQXlGTr4KEJs7quT4G9X6arHZpVImvP-yVhg5nHECrSyQ9oieTYKnhFZPZgV2D5dA/s1600/kids.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqI2a2I9il9GfWufk0F8ViL0ySmC0CuMyW7fzdPhsvlIn7wGUvfKFfeDfHHYHnhQJlV9qFVizD9rQXlGTr4KEJs7quT4G9X6arHZpVImvP-yVhg5nHECrSyQ9oieTYKnhFZPZgV2D5dA/s200/kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609534007843648690" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">ozens of other exper</span>iences traveling abroad, have expanded my view of humanity. I appreciate in a new way how deeply rooted and interconnected faith and identity are. So entrenched become the belief systems of our childhood, that the scriptures use the word "riveted" to describe how "the creeds of men" are imbedded in "the hear</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">ts of the children."<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDXXQLcnI45wz4DrO_4eCcvd03xrFQAsOUQRT1shVbzx4StwC2hQfyw-X4z0iMRDKBqQeZg9ZiiAlW9nIYYivihaeR24bd9LXako8wgY1MsbzUXYJ-E1mYorZ8TGjGwAg5qE8luL8DzU/s1600/Kids+Hatian.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDXXQLcnI45wz4DrO_4eCcvd03xrFQAsOUQRT1shVbzx4StwC2hQfyw-X4z0iMRDKBqQeZg9ZiiAlW9nIYYivihaeR24bd9LXako8wgY1MsbzUXYJ-E1mYorZ8TGjGwAg5qE8luL8DzU/s200/Kids+Hatian.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609539237128286866" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">I will treat the little people at church today with increased </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">respect, and cannot help wishing, as a precursor to the wish for world pea</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">ce, that all grown-ups would do the same for children </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">EVERYWHERE.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Muse with me: How might this perspective affect the way you teach children? </span></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Related Musings:</span> <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/romancing-heart.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Romance the Heart</span><br /></a><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-style: italic;" href="http://www.monasmusings.com/jerusalem-jerusalem/">Jerusalem, Jerusalem<br /></a></span><span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><a href="http://www.monasmusings.com/northern-israel-in-a-day/"> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Northern Israel in a Day</span></a></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Highly recommended/ directly related<br />post by fellow Muser, </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Bri Colorful</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">: </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://bricolorful.wordpress.com/2011/05/24/determined/">Determined</a></span></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:78%;">Photos of children''s faces from <a href="http://www.dreamstime.com/">Dreamstime</a></span></p>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-71855241874604466182011-05-15T00:00:00.000-07:002011-05-15T15:46:22.859-07:00The Givers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirs4DWgOearOTaMgLbqIbDdc_wJSGUZMCRrgX83EcjVqhDnHu3xcoI7ek5xuPHTHGOPkqSyEKU_uQo3Xs4QwcwY4t4I1npD-mmmnTqRwJXENkTmo6ZRyNb8kX04qaPZ7w4pv80VfJcehs/s1600/Reciprocity.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirs4DWgOearOTaMgLbqIbDdc_wJSGUZMCRrgX83EcjVqhDnHu3xcoI7ek5xuPHTHGOPkqSyEKU_uQo3Xs4QwcwY4t4I1npD-mmmnTqRwJXENkTmo6ZRyNb8kX04qaPZ7w4pv80VfJcehs/s200/Reciprocity.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606851142290375362" border="0" /></a>Today was my turn. I admit it felt unnatural. I confess it took guts. I can tell you that I didn’t want to do it. But since I can’t perform arthroscopy on my own knee, I had to let them: <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">I had to let others serve ME.</span><br /><br />The doctors in the “operation theater” did perfectly; Nurses Ingrid, Fiona, and Sue Ellen pampered me sweet, and my husband is cooking dinner right now as part of his waiting-on-Mona-hand-and-foot-recovery- program. I’ll never forget his stroking my forehead while I regained consciousness and the whisper that came with a kiss.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">It’s an honor to serve you</span>, he said.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqYdkNdSOAVZSarhTbkvOIbkw2TcRlRWfQc1B7Xhqeg8XwjUdn1zf8imIYGwc8-pwCmG_3IClh8EURdK13s0xOJ7-uGXevAp-RhKgkjSn5vpdDnGcwycyCUxpveCHYb13Yv8QxY0mM0A/s1600/woman%2527s+hands+holding+baby+feet.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqYdkNdSOAVZSarhTbkvOIbkw2TcRlRWfQc1B7Xhqeg8XwjUdn1zf8imIYGwc8-pwCmG_3IClh8EURdK13s0xOJ7-uGXevAp-RhKgkjSn5vpdDnGcwycyCUxpveCHYb13Yv8QxY0mM0A/s200/woman%2527s+hands+holding+baby+feet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606825127589707826" border="0" /></a>Raising four children means I have played nurse and caregiver for a long time; my honey remembers the twelve times I have sat through his surgeries; extended family knows I have cared for them when they needed me; nearly forty years worth of callings has kept me busy in the church. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">But it was Ashley, my noble beauty and firstborn, the child who never grew up -- who has depended on me all her life to eat, to move, to be her voice -- that raised the question in my mind of </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;">who is serving who</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBPYvzjoOQMEYyAF_0sW9eyUuGMxry4u3TMDbYtdbI2R5jmwUNy5EIydRDa3LkDbJ6kKCHlA-vRrA6btB083_X385fgn2UiCEFJuk5XXWOXKdYXSfLtUYghHwoOoMLcHGpA82kklao_c/s1600/helping+hands.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBPYvzjoOQMEYyAF_0sW9eyUuGMxry4u3TMDbYtdbI2R5jmwUNy5EIydRDa3LkDbJ6kKCHlA-vRrA6btB083_X385fgn2UiCEFJuk5XXWOXKdYXSfLtUYghHwoOoMLcHGpA82kklao_c/s200/helping+hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606826165313327954" border="0" /></a>In her tiny days, Ashley’s therapy incorporated 275 volunteers over three years time. The program required my attention every waking minute and Dale had to work four jobs to pay for it, so members of the church and friends of other faiths assisted while they also did our laundry, cleaned our bathroom and, believe it or not, brought us dinner five nights a week for two years straight.<br /><br />Old and young appeared on our doorstop every single day, flush with optimism, eager for their assignment, anticipating another 2 hours with Ashley. Witnessing the joy of this self-appointed army as they watched her crawl or walk for the first time -- the result of literally thousands of hours of incessant therapy -- I began to see things the way the volunteers saw them: Ashley was not “unfortunate”; nor did they regard her as an “opportunity” or a “project”. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Rather, they <span style="font-style: italic;">revered </span>her as their “Teacher”, even “Mentor” in the ways of patience, endurance, and unconditional love.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAI8m1zvQKrqlChg-924QSO-K8pISqYh9sWOYxBa4LkpIptRWGzQ0cZ4ItOgj9ig0vWLk2b4GPBAWwmLBUDnu1qq9EQsFZ2gFssAFfHKuJA7vau5rNDsnt7Y4R-kGysaKRGaLqImyAyA/s1600/HELP.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAI8m1zvQKrqlChg-924QSO-K8pISqYh9sWOYxBa4LkpIptRWGzQ0cZ4ItOgj9ig0vWLk2b4GPBAWwmLBUDnu1qq9EQsFZ2gFssAFfHKuJA7vau5rNDsnt7Y4R-kGysaKRGaLqImyAyA/s200/HELP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606826541736547874" border="0" /></a>That is when I began to wonder: <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">what is it about society that makes “HELP” a four-letter word?</span> Why do we treasure our “independence” so much that many of us would rather die than “become a burden”? How is it that we assume the right to serve our fellowman, but mysteriously, never seem to need help from anyone else? Visiting Teacher wants to bring us dinner (no-no, we’re fiiiiiiine). Neighbor offers to mow the lawn (noooo really, we’ve got it). Ward Member asks if they can take the children for an hour or two so we can nap (oh pleeeease don’t worry about me). And yeeeet – WHO is the first to fill up the calendar and empty the pocketbook with “good works”?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGncWvXkt1QKvTbP_r8udMIS19omlgawFgqvIM8eZOhjjssgOZzVFFGioPkqQsk8QLWqbnjJajqRMq4dUjyXsMYpYeDL3fiX_RkTr-Z1f7YwU5uWiV26ESKZq4fKtlEIRb6iIqnsao87U/s1600/holding+old+hand.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGncWvXkt1QKvTbP_r8udMIS19omlgawFgqvIM8eZOhjjssgOZzVFFGioPkqQsk8QLWqbnjJajqRMq4dUjyXsMYpYeDL3fiX_RkTr-Z1f7YwU5uWiV26ESKZq4fKtlEIRb6iIqnsao87U/s200/holding+old+hand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606828300490054866" border="0" /></a>The big news, that Ashley has spent her thirty-one years broadcasting (though she has never spoken a word), is that <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="font-style: italic;">somebody</span> has to be served in order for the rest of us to feel good about ourselves; <span style="font-style: italic;">somebody</span> has to humble themselves so that the rest of us can grow; <span style="font-style: italic;">someone </span>has to come</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> to earth in challenging circumstances so that those around her can be proved.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyC2bu1SeU0DbrRn8Cd8Yf0mnfzp9FE6ZRlF8_weckMNKI-XyOttLYmZVQA66bTKBwuk8uKS_F24WeMC-2dEokaYMQnYsOEuKr-y6gNBuoOgo8q3tK1MVCnbCulSCYwYctr6mbUUw9-5U/s1600/glowing+hands.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 182px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyC2bu1SeU0DbrRn8Cd8Yf0mnfzp9FE6ZRlF8_weckMNKI-XyOttLYmZVQA66bTKBwuk8uKS_F24WeMC-2dEokaYMQnYsOEuKr-y6gNBuoOgo8q3tK1MVCnbCulSCYwYctr6mbUUw9-5U/s200/glowing+hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606828737170745218" border="0" /></a>Maybe it’s because my elevated leg is making all the blood to rush to my brain, or maybe it’s the pain-killers, but my musing tonight is in hyper-gear and I feel like carrying this train of thought all the way to The End and to The Beginning: to Alpaha and Omega.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Think on THIS: Even God expects us to serve <span style="font-style: italic;">Him!</span> The LORD of the Universe <span style="font-style: italic;">asks</span> for our help, <span style="font-style: italic;">allows</span> our help, even <span style="font-style: italic;">commands</span> our help. WHY does <span style="font-style: italic;">HE</span> want <span style="font-style: italic;">OUR</span> help?! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Could it be because</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">He knows all progress, the essence of the gospel,</span> is based in Community and Reciprocity? </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1igolhdRggPST_Z-giI6gYVH59c6KRs4GihsQ6B8MW-GYq5oE8_MN4GRSm-fgzpb-dI2-PgAfn-H8_0gp7vmU2_9mRK3d3FMEg_AbWiFMZyxWZK9e_dag56kAKoqz3fMiwdXnL9YSvBE/s1600/The+Givers.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1igolhdRggPST_Z-giI6gYVH59c6KRs4GihsQ6B8MW-GYq5oE8_MN4GRSm-fgzpb-dI2-PgAfn-H8_0gp7vmU2_9mRK3d3FMEg_AbWiFMZyxWZK9e_dag56kAKoqz3fMiwdXnL9YSvBE/s200/The+Givers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606830081073741938" border="0" /></a>I love how Superman, while catching Lois Lane mid-tumble from a skyscraper, says: “Don’t worry miss. I’ve got you.” She’s dumfounded. “You’ve got me!” she cries. “Who’s got YOU?”<br /><br />Indeed, who HAS got who? Would Superman be Superman without people to rescue? Supergirl Ashley has saved me and a multitude of other people, far more ordinary than she is, during her lifetime of “dependence”. In her frequent conversation with the angels, I’m sure those heavenly pals smile and exchange knowing glances every time she benevolently refers to all of us--her personal army--as “<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">The Givers</span>”.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Related Musings: </span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/02/angel-talk.html">Angel Talkin'</a></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">and</span> <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/05/match-made-in-heaven_10.html">Match Made in Heaven</a><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;">Muse with me: </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;">Are you a giver or a receiver?</span><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Beautifully related posts by fellow Musers this week:</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://alanloisbrown.blogspot.com/2011/05/special-mail-to-aileen-from-her-friend.html">Special mail to Aileen from her friend.</a></span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://alanloisbrown.blogspot.com/2011/05/special-mail-to-aileen-from-her-friend.html"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">a touching post at </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">The Alan and Lois Brown Family</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">;</span></span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://alanloisbrown.blogspot.com/2011/05/special-mail-to-aileen-from-her-friend.html">.</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://crumbcrunchers.blogspot.com/2011/05/scarily-delicious.html">Scarily Delicious</a>, <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">for a childlike view on "helping" at</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> Crumb Crunchers</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">;</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://holladay-homeandheart.blogspot.com/2011/05/good-better-best.html">Good Better Best</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">, another fun one at </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">A Splash of Life</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">; </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">and Lisa reminds me why I braved surgery with</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://nickandlisaandkids.blogspot.com/2011/05/running.html">Running?</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">at</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> Nick and Lisa and Kids.</span></span><br /></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-81797343690170215292011-05-08T00:00:00.000-07:002011-05-08T11:03:40.803-07:00Toughing It Out<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstjOPxnsf51bqMzA9kM0yfucdo-Vhu6AyxpOMqgOcMl_Lca4bt3rKj-mbNOqmBjW4k_X3AaOr4NCR0k6JRgn0dZbcLDYHL7LbDIy7yjP084UIDVWvP7nmLAZciAkgHKotBaeN_-N82W8/s1600/1+Good-bye+Budapest.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstjOPxnsf51bqMzA9kM0yfucdo-Vhu6AyxpOMqgOcMl_Lca4bt3rKj-mbNOqmBjW4k_X3AaOr4NCR0k6JRgn0dZbcLDYHL7LbDIy7yjP084UIDVWvP7nmLAZciAkgHKotBaeN_-N82W8/s320/1+Good-bye+Budapest.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602014590229002594" border="0" /></a></div>Budapest is populated with survivors. Even the buildings have outlived the ravages of war. Ottomans, Catholics, Protestants, Atheists, Communists and Nazis have competed, confronted, and crusaded, but never crushed this city. As I stood on our hotel balcony, gaping at the panorama perched above the Danube, <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">I realized that this country, colored at that moment by the most fantastic sunset, was more alive and exciting than ever, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">only</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> because Hungarians know too well how to tough it out.</span><br /><br />Back in London, I r<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BhUiGR-GhN7JVerWVk6C43VayyevjpcD4ig489pIcxArLi_iy6FlGEj6CON31-AvKvpexveZcITktR3pBW0v472ihNadFTJHK-MhJJFpq3ghNfWV8pr9_QCc9jBa3zmrsXtC2UVRtCs/s1600/1+Castle+Hill%252C+Budapest%252C+Fishermen%2527s+Bastion+view+%25282%2529.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BhUiGR-GhN7JVerWVk6C43VayyevjpcD4ig489pIcxArLi_iy6FlGEj6CON31-AvKvpexveZcITktR3pBW0v472ihNadFTJHK-MhJJFpq3ghNfWV8pr9_QCc9jBa3zmrsXtC2UVRtCs/s200/1+Castle+Hill%252C+Budapest%252C+Fishermen%2527s+Bastion+view+%25282%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604400533799293682" border="0" /></a>eceived a text from a wife who was ready to leave her husband. “HE’S NOT WORTH IT,” she screamed in capital letters. “Ever since I married this terrible man, I have been miserable!”<br /><br />“Are you saying that every day of your whole marriage has been totally unhappy?” My fingers flew in panic.<br /><br />“No,” she admitted. “There have been good days and great ones too --” (I waited for the “but”…) “but there have been terrible ones like today!” Then rapidly and back to all capitals: “It’s UP AND DOWN and I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxh1LJWaiXCsw9GTjyNLn6U-G7_M1MrEabbQlYVIlesIXJ1i_WlRJ0mUFLhde0ckDFL2qroTPgwSxS2yUtqqR1dV3J9Rv6xO6kQFb3MRn6LhRrvbOoeKgYt0KW-A5mHRai5UACC-rMtCQ/s1600/1+Castle+Hill%252C+Budapest%252C+St.+Stephen+statue+%25282%2529.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxh1LJWaiXCsw9GTjyNLn6U-G7_M1MrEabbQlYVIlesIXJ1i_WlRJ0mUFLhde0ckDFL2qroTPgwSxS2yUtqqR1dV3J9Rv6xO6kQFb3MRn6LhRrvbOoeKgYt0KW-A5mHRai5UACC-rMtCQ/s200/1+Castle+Hill%252C+Budapest%252C+St.+Stephen+statue+%25282%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604399713623663890" border="0" /></a>Now I know for a fact that her husband is far from terrible and that she has been far from miserable. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">There is something about that fifth principle of the gospel: enduring to the end, which the Adversary takes particular exception with</span>. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">He concentrates his forces on all of us in that stage of development but especially on those who are green in the gospel or in marriage or in </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">parenthood.</span><br /><br />While in Budapest, we walked with our personal guide, Peter Polczman. He told us they’d moved all the statues of toppled communist elites to a park where they have no one to preach to but each other. He pointed out what used to be Gestapo Headquarters and is now a museum. He led us down a residential street where old people sit on benches, watching young people hurry by.<br /><br />“My grandmother,” he s<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWUXTDhTZr8NVJXZl5CqToN5xTGGD-kc1sz7DGwPJy2sm8m2Tsgxz1HDomM4mlqK8ueQaBj_JAkNZdoAY4x3-lOnnNfSxgu5_pM9B55JLM8S4zATS97EoRjaBOO5PMvr4d0giTP9JgqA/s1600/1+Castle+Hill%252C+Budapest%252C+residential+neighborhood+%25283%2529.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWUXTDhTZr8NVJXZl5CqToN5xTGGD-kc1sz7DGwPJy2sm8m2Tsgxz1HDomM4mlqK8ueQaBj_JAkNZdoAY4x3-lOnnNfSxgu5_pM9B55JLM8S4zATS97EoRjaBOO5PMvr4d0giTP9JgqA/s200/1+Castle+Hill%252C+Budapest%252C+residential+neighborhood+%25283%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604401624917429426" border="0" /></a>aid, as we sat on a stone wall (the ruins of some empire or another), “has seen it all.”<br /><br />“How did she survive?” I had to know.<br /><br />“She just didn’t get worked up over things.” (I looked surprised.) “She knew everything would pass.”<br /><br />Determined longevity clearly takes guts. But is it always the kind of guts that ‘screws courage to the sticking place'? Or can it be the kind that bobs, buoy-like, up and down, anchored in place? At fifty-two, I would agree with Peter’s grandmother: <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">most of what we get worked up over is not here to stay.</span> Our womanly days are rarely catastrophic; they just require coping – <span style="font-weight: bold;">which, often enough -- is victory<br />enough.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqhP2M34H9pI5e_FW-MP7ufk2scSH-uBwzAOoIIV15-wTkxVe_2s2ow9gvsM8aS3cFpSs9nG1xpjEdxr5mVgP6bnAVIfQ3dwtK9RNNtM1HLFB3tDGkyg9NZawW5TTdmztNkYkzuOGleM/s1600/1Cafe+Gerloczy%252C+Budapest%252C+Dale%252C+Mona+%2526+Peter%252C+our+personal+tour+guide.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqhP2M34H9pI5e_FW-MP7ufk2scSH-uBwzAOoIIV15-wTkxVe_2s2ow9gvsM8aS3cFpSs9nG1xpjEdxr5mVgP6bnAVIfQ3dwtK9RNNtM1HLFB3tDGkyg9NZawW5TTdmztNkYkzuOGleM/s200/1Cafe+Gerloczy%252C+Budapest%252C+Dale%252C+Mona+%2526+Peter%252C+our+personal+tour+guide.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604407018445323506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Muse with me: Do you agree?</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Beautifully related posts by fellow Musers this week: <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://valeriepondering.blogspot.com/2011/05/when-in-depths-of-sea-or-enveloped-by.html">When in the Depths of the Sea or Enveloped by Fog</a> at Valerie's Attempt at Pondering; <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://smithfamilycrazies.blogspot.com/2011/05/we-came-here-to-finish-race.html">We Came Here to FINISH the Race</a> at Smith Family Crazies;<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> </span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://divadishesall.blogspot.com/2011/05/ever-had-one-of-those-days.html">Ever have one of "those" days</a> at Domestic Diva Dishes All<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />For more pictures of Budapest, visit <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.facebook.com/monasmusings">Mona's Musings on Facebook</a></span>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-72147249170521754452011-05-01T09:00:00.000-07:002011-05-02T14:34:56.645-07:00Finding Zion<span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Fellow Musers; I am happy to announce a return to Mona's Gospel Musings each Sunday. I hope you will join me again, and as we used to, muse together here. The romantic side of our time overseas (nearly a year now) has been mused upon at </span><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.monasmusings.com/">Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">, which blog I will continue - featuring YOUR romances and more specific ideas on strengthening marriage. I have also been invited to become a regular contributor to Mormon Mommy Blogs (at least monthly). However, here we are at gospel musings, and its a Sunday, and so we begin. I love you and look very very forward to your thoughts.<br /><br /></span><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCZd5NnXcCRm2VQjKatQATLFXX_mJs1Qrgg76hEaRl9tTloooqYbvVcOsU-4j_ScRbwRILFUl8H6f_SHhlc9NmbX4hkh72txB5ZRbbimgZwkA_ddDJzyJ6_hkwM8H55ZsTkuXVhgpddM/s1600/Relief+Society+Temple+Trip+for+Mona%2527s+52nd+birthday.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCZd5NnXcCRm2VQjKatQATLFXX_mJs1Qrgg76hEaRl9tTloooqYbvVcOsU-4j_ScRbwRILFUl8H6f_SHhlc9NmbX4hkh72txB5ZRbbimgZwkA_ddDJzyJ6_hkwM8H55ZsTkuXVhgpddM/s320/Relief+Society+Temple+Trip+for+Mona%2527s+52nd+birthday.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601646426896038258" border="0" /></a><br />As a new expat in the United Kingdom, I found I could regard people like postcards, idly turning them over in my mind with mild interest: three-dimensional-me did not expect to be included in a </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">world that felt like a guidebook. At church though, I ass</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">umed I would be find instant and comfy </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">assimilation.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Cue the proverbial-culture-shock: we stood on, what to me, felt like an island called the Staines Wa</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">rd: the most ethnically diverse group of Saints in all of London. Sunday after Sunday, I buzzed round the middle like a flustered bee hitting glass until at last we cross-pollinated: a magic moment </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">that dissolved the window</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> between us.<br /><br />When I walked into the chapel that morning, I felt drawn to the woman on the other</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> side of the room. She watc</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">hed me with a shy smile, perfect teeth and wide eyes glistening against a chocolate face. After Relief Society, s</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">he inched her way to me, ready to make contact, her beauty even more</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> breathtaking at close rang</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">e.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />"I love your hair," she said.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVehboZLgtW75omgvBy8-YkzJEUu8dHURwAjPm8ISXr5gfmLgG2ifyyfXTCzAD5obBHbGgly7lg_LjQjeBXxj8nnEHPLst9ofgSOIKROMeAvjJglIVNruKjcqQZWLC6ic5sdHcDq9pvJQ/s1600/Faith+from+Ghana.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVehboZLgtW75omgvBy8-YkzJEUu8dHURwAjPm8ISXr5gfmLgG2ifyyfXTCzAD5obBHbGgly7lg_LjQjeBXxj8nnEHPLst9ofgSOIKROMeAvjJglIVNruKjcqQZWLC6ic5sdHcDq9pvJQ/s200/Faith+from+Ghana.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600521082230546338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">What? It took me</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> a split second to process her Nigerian spin on English. My hair? My hair is a mass of coarse curls, once brown, now streaked w</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ith unruly silver. I dislike it very much most days.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"I love your eyes and face and make-up," she continued passionately.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Blue eyes, white face, Bare Minerals.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"I love the</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> way you talk -- and I loooove," (emphasis on love), "the way you dress."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm52JW8HruQqkv1rY8-rC3v57e0Am56U6aAW5QJV9fUBPpzKrzh_rlk4J7CVoXelc5_MBMwL4_OZQ7EBJvNxq8bn8DXHA08T5cQAr1rW7dcHcpiNUiQ4DxW4GATO1gzm6Cu8nXytyimDs/s1600/Fatima+from+Nigeria+and+Mona.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm52JW8HruQqkv1rY8-rC3v57e0Am56U6aAW5QJV9fUBPpzKrzh_rlk4J7CVoXelc5_MBMwL4_OZQ7EBJvNxq8bn8DXHA08T5cQAr1rW7dcHcpiNUiQ4DxW4GATO1gzm6Cu8nXytyimDs/s200/Fatima+from+Nigeria+and+Mona.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600521291376745010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Without taking my eyes off hers, I mentally compared a blue blazer and black skirt with her flowing...Flamboyant..</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. FLORESCENT --<br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh my! She think</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-style: italic;">s I'm EXOTIC!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sound of break </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">glass.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />A week later I </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">was called as Relief Society President of two hundred women from twenty different n</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ations: a village with too many windows to look like 'Mormonville' to me, bu</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">t nevertheless, built on the foundation of apostles and prophets; one faith and one baptism (<a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/nt/eph/4?lang=eng">Ephesians 4</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> & </span><a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/bofm/mosiah/18?lang=eng">Mosiah 18</a>). My sole journal entry for 11 July 2010 reads: <span style="font-style: italic;">"God help me.God<br />help </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-style: italic;">me."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He did. He showed me that you cannot pack a box with scrapbooks, funeral pota</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">toe</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJd6tvpNk6D-P0IDf-Bs5r45scl7nGWIbBERabPU21t05B7JUxYkVgWktFeJW-WxzZOEyrfUhQUBHy-UGH1quRQV2R804doNyAOfft9XtPYoYLMQo46ktFT2d4Es9b-gn3evaC00B58k/s1600/Lilian+from+Columbia.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJd6tvpNk6D-P0IDf-Bs5r45scl7nGWIbBERabPU21t05B7JUxYkVgWktFeJW-WxzZOEyrfUhQUBHy-UGH1quRQV2R804doNyAOfft9XtPYoYLMQo46ktFT2d4Es9b-gn3evaC00B58k/s200/Lilian+from+Columbia.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600523087459691842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">s,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> and snicker-doodle props, stamp it "Mormon Women" and ship it overseas. He taught me about the <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> Zion, a phenomenon </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">that will not be defined or contained that way: it is organic</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. It br</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">eathes and grows and if necessary, shatters silly notions in order to expand (<a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/82.14?lang=eng#13">D&C 82:</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);font-family:courier new;" ><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><a href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/82.14?lang=eng#13">1</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/82.14?lang=eng#13">4</a>). The tiny pane from which I used to view the world has, after a year amongst my sisters, morphed into a great glass conservatory and I contentedly d</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">angle like a prism there, spinning in the </span></span></span></span><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">sunlight.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" ><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Muse with me: What does Zion mean to you? What experiences have you had in the church that relate to the ideal of Zion?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Ramona Zabriskiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872101764302006271noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-26418579374582351032011-04-15T03:32:00.000-07:002011-04-30T13:38:57.186-07:00REDIRECT (the story of my life)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.monasmusings.com/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShj7jtWF23o7I7YJacaOgd4UjJoXxCDlRSdYi0Sa6DxMoqJjbBnJWLz4QywpQzLSBhuypyLsWTRMI63zs8FFiSVwl7ubUg23Gt4rl8B9plvSjNtur3tuWModYdk_tfSmIeC3-SzNcwX7K/s200/monasmusings_screenshot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488891434673073282" border="0" /></a>Mona's Gospel Musings (this blog) has been inactive for quite some time. (You might go inactive too if corporate sent you overseas for a year and the church made you Relief Society President three weeks later.) While undergoing this remodel of all my previously conceived notions of things as they really are, I have written and photographed the most romantic aspects of my honey-time-and-travels in Europe at the Word Press blog: <a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.monasmusings.com/">Mona's Musings With a Hint of Romance</a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">. </span><br /><br />You are of course, welcome to settle in and gorge yourself on the essays here at Mona's Gospel Musings <span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102); font-weight: bold;">until my return to it each Sunday, beginning May 1st</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 102);">.</span> As always, if you become a real follower of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Mona's Gospel Musings</span> (musing with me on a regular basis), I will consider it an invitation to become part of your family and will follow you like a pesky mother hen, and include you on my personal blog roll.<br /><br />See you at our rendezvous and back here soon!<br /><br />OH! And see ya everyday at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/monasmusings"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-weight: bold;">Mona's Musings on Facebook</span>....</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-63646367422027285732009-05-17T18:01:00.000-07:002009-05-18T12:19:38.984-07:00Imitating Mother<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"But we all, with open face beholding as in a a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord."</span> <a href="http://scriptures.lds.org/en/2_cor/3"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">(2 Corinthians 3:19)</span></a></span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8P3t9fxhIK1masno2mPcl6gpip8NOJOPZHrhe4laUgiXT1ZrCNKrFzA6LZ6apmagfyadZtV9LQT3pt-9nXHM8BIIPdsNa1cc0h434BsiJgRGl0scn8UyYf-ZEBzNi6pVY0VZrwAqQZf2/s1600-h/LeOra+ca1943.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8P3t9fxhIK1masno2mPcl6gpip8NOJOPZHrhe4laUgiXT1ZrCNKrFzA6LZ6apmagfyadZtV9LQT3pt-9nXHM8BIIPdsNa1cc0h434BsiJgRGl0scn8UyYf-ZEBzNi6pVY0VZrwAqQZf2/s200/LeOra+ca1943.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336974315177936546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span><span>My daughter-in-law celebrated her birthday on Saturday. Since May 16th is also my mother-in-law's birthday, I spent the day wishing Bri</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span><span> had known </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span><span>her. And then I realized...</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">if you know me, you know something about LeOra.</span><br /><br />When my father-in-law first laid eyes on me, he was stunned. I flew down the street with youthful exuberance and landed in his arms. All he could think was: <span style="font-style: italic;">“LeOra! She’s LeOra! ” </span>Sweethearts since childhood, he remembered her well at the same age: eighteen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMP7afn1NUHs0HRXwmRDBbUtQ0xapOeE0QqCL_6Ecu43dHDwfxcsjaajIRYSGtrPwWtTlx00sE82mtTuJ1qCaYbEuDxWlRVsqcCUbkiOfwvy3XQoLxyspAfZJdybztZTEBBPw2CwH6-VO/s1600-h/Ramona+Zabriskie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMP7afn1NUHs0HRXwmRDBbUtQ0xapOeE0QqCL_6Ecu43dHDwfxcsjaajIRYSGtrPwWtTlx00sE82mtTuJ1qCaYbEuDxWlRVsqcCUbkiOfwvy3XQoLxyspAfZJdybztZTEBBPw2CwH6-VO/s200/Ramona+Zabriskie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336996071441358466" border="0" /></a>I am a lot like her, or so people have told me. One of those times was on the day of her funeral. Elisa watched me flutter around Mom’s kitchen, trying to take care of things. Though she’d been married to Mother’s brother for nearly fifty years, I’d only met Elisa-from-California once before, so we were something of a revelation to each other. With wonder, she finally articulated what she was thinking.<br /><br />“Ramona,”<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>she said, “You<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> are </span>LeOra.”<br /><br />Mom was raised in a less active home, as was I. We both married young: at 18. Each of us was the only (pampered) daughter in a family of boys. Our children were of the same number and gender. We shared shoes, wardrobes, music, and theater.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWyrztsyuT9OAFW9l_GreFsUMKmZPmSubkkORYo-FqGg6HmmDIfCTAUEZzhyx7bHnMq-yBw-ovhNhyphenhyphenLrFNaDlhhogRFwORQZdhbhsBQ2jBn8RRJrNR8XSzmggw-dyr1nfJHGFNqN6RUz4/s1600-h/imitate+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWyrztsyuT9OAFW9l_GreFsUMKmZPmSubkkORYo-FqGg6HmmDIfCTAUEZzhyx7bHnMq-yBw-ovhNhyphenhyphenLrFNaDlhhogRFwORQZdhbhsBQ2jBn8RRJrNR8XSzmggw-dyr1nfJHGFNqN6RUz4/s200/imitate+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336984463879960722" border="0" /></a>But it was more than that.<br /><br />She was my mother.<br /><br />In the most classic sense of the role, she nurtured me through young adulthood and young motherhood. She taught me overtly. She taught me by example.<br /><br />In my first year of marriage, I watched with awe as she just talked to people. <span style="font-style: italic;">How did she do that</span>, converse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNy4IdHXXDrjGKFfGEqV0SKlIZK3nUYzN71H0yNdPHYSitTjhjKWtIeux9-z1OrwFXb5zNfWa5uzhNBFiuz4uiZjHm0YHv2l9cau_cCIE2hO-rHOdMSBpSsbcWUMz4I6Uef31hyYaWOmyO/s1600-h/imitate+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNy4IdHXXDrjGKFfGEqV0SKlIZK3nUYzN71H0yNdPHYSitTjhjKWtIeux9-z1OrwFXb5zNfWa5uzhNBFiuz4uiZjHm0YHv2l9cau_cCIE2hO-rHOdMSBpSsbcWUMz4I6Uef31hyYaWOmyO/s200/imitate+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336985047790125858" border="0" /></a> with so much <span style="font-style: italic;">ease?</span> Each person she spoke to was touched and uplifted by the simplest comment, the most ordinary communication. How did she <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> that? <span style="font-style: italic;">I wanted to be that.</span><br /><br />She taught me how to cook chicken soup from scratch. She taught me how to make homemade noodles. She taught me how to put a Sunday roast on the table. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">"Mom,” </span>I often phoned, <span style="font-style: italic;">“How do you...”</span> and then I’d ask a question so basic it would be embarrassing to ask anyone else.<br /><br />She explained a lot through the years as she pruned a rose bush, trimmed the shrubs, fertilized the trees, pulled the weeds. I know she hoped some of it was sinking in, but mostly I <span style="font-style: italic;">watched</span> her puttering around the yard.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUq9tF5fRPNMaoU5BZuG69G-FedIi08lFFfqVG9HXIc1l5OiK4Q5uyzfSRs0mwSRSApmUehWSVtFbiOpHHKt7vAyNUBBIaEmB73ccIuQtpU3KntSw1HPxqRhPbEwm2XYqp2PcpumRwbaJg/s1600-h/imitate+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUq9tF5fRPNMaoU5BZuG69G-FedIi08lFFfqVG9HXIc1l5OiK4Q5uyzfSRs0mwSRSApmUehWSVtFbiOpHHKt7vAyNUBBIaEmB73ccIuQtpU3KntSw1HPxqRhPbEwm2XYqp2PcpumRwbaJg/s200/imitate+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336985484263385554" border="0" /></a><br />I gradually absorbed her good taste. As a young wife, without a comparable bank account, I couldn’t shop from the same upscale department stores that she did, but I tailed along anyway, and learned loveliness.<br /><br />Though Mom wanted to be a writer, most of her writing is in her journals; a spiritual pursuit she wanted me to learn. She loved the gospel, the work of the Kingdom, the divine principle of family. I watched how she honored, respected, sustained, supported, and cared for her eternal companion and the Priesthood. I experienced firsthand her employment of patience, long suffering, charity and forgiveness. She taught me how to have faith in people who seemed not to want it or deserve it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihNKWN525k7xreeywUH5MM2PlYy_H4rpRfUvgxCVNpuPNKUdntd566eaxYJRU1eSnEVfLm4mS8rAma330iMJ3bpqoQQ0ut7f2Gc_UF7OtKu35hFr0yyMRjASuwD0jwjrYa0P-CP51GM0e/s1600-h/imitate+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihNKWN525k7xreeywUH5MM2PlYy_H4rpRfUvgxCVNpuPNKUdntd566eaxYJRU1eSnEVfLm4mS8rAma330iMJ3bpqoQQ0ut7f2Gc_UF7OtKu35hFr0yyMRjASuwD0jwjrYa0P-CP51GM0e/s200/imitate+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336987481799164066" border="0" /></a>She taught me to love spirituality. She taught me to love the Brethren. She taught me to love the scriptures. She taught me to love the Church. She taught me to love the temple and family history.<br /><br />She taught me to not be afraid of missionary work, or trials, or repentance.<br /><br />She showed me how to turn my kitchen into a concert hall, how to sing old tunes and dance jigs with babies. She held my hand when I gave birth.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tIjtx5jjcfCK1m95q5ZumgSQWWPbXMheE6d1E-GJjnCetgAKl_AnweHiZcPci5Z4DhGlnLacS7BfcCdQET_uNBALT4lb9sbnpcEgimuQ1iuI2EkyDdXHNQWOoNtGJgHQ-BOZ-q9hPkHU/s1600-h/imitate+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tIjtx5jjcfCK1m95q5ZumgSQWWPbXMheE6d1E-GJjnCetgAKl_AnweHiZcPci5Z4DhGlnLacS7BfcCdQET_uNBALT4lb9sbnpcEgimuQ1iuI2EkyDdXHNQWOoNtGJgHQ-BOZ-q9hPkHU/s200/imitate+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336988990613733650" border="0" /></a>The phone rang on an August afternoon. Dale said Mom had suffered a stroke. As I prepared to meet him at the hospital, I knew that I would not leave her side.<br /><br />The last words she heard were mine: <span style="font-style: italic;">"I love you Mother.”</span><br /><br />Her funeral was nothing less than majestic with nine-hundred people filling the chapel and cultural hall; yet I knew, in the midst of it all, that I was special to her. I felt the Spirit assign me to <span style="font-style: italic;">remember</span> her, by <span style="font-style: italic;">representing</span> her, for the rest of my life.<br /><br />I’m not worried about what happens after that because when the Lord releases me from mortality she will come for me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">And then all I will have to do is imitate mother.</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLv-NnT41-sMM2ShyphenhyphenGj1CN_3r-sDnZ1-WRBDmF8uWLIlRsJ38vIx3_5qXmgwrx2HRMsLcxv9lQmrF3nP0rDCr-a3t96CQ7mzJiIM-PRw8hV6NITBAy-CAJ_81g3Ox3YrYWY9KlNUOAU-uj/s1600-h/imitate+6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLv-NnT41-sMM2ShyphenhyphenGj1CN_3r-sDnZ1-WRBDmF8uWLIlRsJ38vIx3_5qXmgwrx2HRMsLcxv9lQmrF3nP0rDCr-a3t96CQ7mzJiIM-PRw8hV6NITBAy-CAJ_81g3Ox3YrYWY9KlNUOAU-uj/s200/imitate+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336989504831872722" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Related Musings: <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/cherry-ty-over-chocolate-never-faileth.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Cherry-ty (Over Chocolate) Never Faileth </span></a><br /></span>and </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/whose-body-is-it-anyway.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Whose Body Is it Anyway?</span></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span> </span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Muse with me: </span>Who have you tried to emulate? Who are you trying to lead to Christ through your example? </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-12319932978178335432009-05-10T00:16:00.000-07:002009-05-10T19:40:53.849-07:00Match Made in Heaven<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5pqawaSXU7yQAuZJG4293SYz2KXiZT_SHVGKpF-7p92KQUGTmVvcqmfP8pVYFvn4MovBMRnjUI4QKTdLxDpB_TkV_lux7mkjHm-19k9SLg42ZV_f4gydQoZj-7NIYFphnojBGhmxLlgC/s1600-h/match+10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5pqawaSXU7yQAuZJG4293SYz2KXiZT_SHVGKpF-7p92KQUGTmVvcqmfP8pVYFvn4MovBMRnjUI4QKTdLxDpB_TkV_lux7mkjHm-19k9SLg42ZV_f4gydQoZj-7NIYFphnojBGhmxLlgC/s200/match+10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334094579857332738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Happy Mother's Day! </span>This Musing was written for you and all the mommies at </span><a href="http://www.mormonmommyblogs.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mormon Mommy Blogs</span>! </span></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">MMB’s invitation to share a Mother’s Day Musing was lathered in butter…how could I resist? And who would want to? MMB is “the place” for Latter-day women...and THIS da</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">y is a “akin to a holy day" there! (You will forgive me for not mentioning Daddies this </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">week – especially if you will read</span> <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/05/final-test-of-true-manhood.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">The Final Test of True Manhood</span></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-weight: bold;">.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-weight: bold;">)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Mother, I love you.<br /></span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Mother I do.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Father in Heaven has sent me to you.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.lds.org/churchmusic/detailmusicPlayer/index.html?searchlanguage=1&searchcollection=2&searchseqstart=207&searchsubseqstart=%20&searchseqend=207&searchsubseqend=ZZZ"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">(Primary songbook, #207)</span></a></span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEged7H7aJtOb8azr7_003DxRrOcwK9gPkCk9KqcRKDBpeP7NPge2mK7AHTEblV24l9qP8v19XBJupw7ZG4CP4U2PTk5M2u3C_fZUuTACAnqrt8H6BqqSxH_4WEFCS_O2vltSbAnzdEo1Z-k/s1600-h/match+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEged7H7aJtOb8azr7_003DxRrOcwK9gPkCk9KqcRKDBpeP7NPge2mK7AHTEblV24l9qP8v19XBJupw7ZG4CP4U2PTk5M2u3C_fZUuTACAnqrt8H6BqqSxH_4WEFCS_O2vltSbAnzdEo1Z-k/s200/match+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334094988048854642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Shall we excuse the Sunbeams early today?”</span><br /><br />The whole Primary looked relieved. With Singing Time on pause, teachers (whose hard-day-on-the-ranch had just begun) rounded-up thirteen three-year-olds and headed out. The culprit behind the banditos starred me down as he brought up the rear. He’d really outdone himself that day, exciting the herd into a frenzy. I’d caught on and dismissed them just before they would have stampeded anyway. As soon as the dust settled, we went back to practicing our Mother’s Day program.<br /><br />Twenty-four hours later I had a run-in with Bandito at the town saloon (Applebees at <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1n35Pr2rqGgeHJUfyYj2CXbX88P9hf0kid_HOFDPdBHBj5klcGLXqHB8w1p4xDuw-CMufXWGPM8NiQTLVYxqrXvOZyK51dz4vdWG7O8Xlp3ngx32AJYw7wmENKxvKKrW2rajsFmG0_E/s1600-h/match+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1n35Pr2rqGgeHJUfyYj2CXbX88P9hf0kid_HOFDPdBHBj5klcGLXqHB8w1p4xDuw-CMufXWGPM8NiQTLVYxqrXvOZyK51dz4vdWG7O8Xlp3ngx32AJYw7wmENKxvKKrW2rajsFmG0_E/s200/match+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334095192390677218" border="0" /></a>lunchtime.) Instead of shooting me, he lit up like the stars of Wyoming. His mommy said that he had come home from Primary on fire the day before.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“Mommy!” </span>he whooped, <span style="font-style: italic;">“The Curly Lady said Heavenly Father sent me to YOU!”</span><br /><br />His delightful interpretation of lyrical doctrine gave my curly head lots to muse about this week: <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Does Heavenly Father send specific spirits to </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">specific women for specific reasons? What about my own four children?</span><br /><br />In youth, I felt im<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgicvkyTy5nkyE9u7zibXHkc3DGSBJnVzrgsLyuDDskASzk7ZDcSB4yKRdrgSlRfPLRPl7vHKeX4ULw93fmm9pb111Bhq9aBTG3C0YDJV4ghSDR2Lug4Nbcy0v5VOaiM6A9uPFlKxJALzV_/s1600-h/match+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgicvkyTy5nkyE9u7zibXHkc3DGSBJnVzrgsLyuDDskASzk7ZDcSB4yKRdrgSlRfPLRPl7vHKeX4ULw93fmm9pb111Bhq9aBTG3C0YDJV4ghSDR2Lug4Nbcy0v5VOaiM6A9uPFlKxJALzV_/s200/match+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334095414717130002" border="0" /></a>pervious to adversity; that is, until my first baby grew physically -- but not mentally. I had sensed an impending challenge for months, even when everything seemed perfectly normal. Slightly more experienced friends had laughed when I confessed my fears. But mommies are realists, not mythmakers (contrary to popular thought) and <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>knew before the doctors knew. Twenty-nine years later, I bathe, dress, transport and feed her, aaannnd <span style="font-style: italic;">don’t-u-know</span>: that’ll mold or melt a person.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jAVEtqzLBsN2EDbu-GF-4XqvogPgvh7vVVXZwU00Bum8ZS6NbqD3azRPi8-WWhaVHndbykCtjZ1jlDds4f3TWSB8g4xh9yRYeKuzzXP9ytV3KXC8lj1fuGRxYS7Our3btDXXNc14khJH/s1600-h/match+8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 127px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jAVEtqzLBsN2EDbu-GF-4XqvogPgvh7vVVXZwU00Bum8ZS6NbqD3azRPi8-WWhaVHndbykCtjZ1jlDds4f3TWSB8g4xh9yRYeKuzzXP9ytV3KXC8lj1fuGRxYS7Our3btDXXNc14khJH/s200/match+8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334095703396305666" border="0" /></a>A second baby arrived, and though thrilled with a healthy boy, my intuition kicked into high gear. I sensed a call to brace myself. His super-charged intellect has taken me through so many hills and valleys and twists and turns, I have felt upside-down for most of his twenty-seven years. It took me almost that long to get my heart on straight; its capacity for charity has grown at least “three sizes”. I love him in a way that I can love no one else.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXQlVLloV7qZNYLURa0O8YiXK8cExlOi3mQsHm5vF6eIdo-dPz7Pbjv9rgElEEsBAy0ea89VFboSr1Hbkw8zx4yBLM8TVtz6XGyDxX_9H68FZp9XPv6SdsMPPqahUe2i5u9oiSu078Yuk/s1600-h/match+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXQlVLloV7qZNYLURa0O8YiXK8cExlOi3mQsHm5vF6eIdo-dPz7Pbjv9rgElEEsBAy0ea89VFboSr1Hbkw8zx4yBLM8TVtz6XGyDxX_9H68FZp9XPv6SdsMPPqahUe2i5u9oiSu078Yuk/s200/match+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334095950894305058" border="0" /></a>During a third pregnancy, I discerned a different sort of personality. Even prenatally, this child soothed and comforted me. Like a warm blanket, his humility, consistency, and sweet creativity have calmed my heart. Following close behind came his compatriot - and mine: a daughter who shouldered the responsibilities of a firstborn in cheerfully caring for her sister and leading an exemplary life. I felt our team spirit by the time she turned two.<br /><br />Musing on these things, I couldn’t help humming “<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Mother I love you…</span>” over and over this week. With each repetition of “<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Father in Heaven has sent me to you…</span>” I felt the Spirit bear testimony to its truthfulness. THERE IS A REASON.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdx37GZ8KnSsmMAjgNX4oG0oBcr01bkYLcAjh5Ljhd7rFjeO3gr1P4mt0W1tBBbFo3FzdQF2d91QpG4bfp7HGBCBVMavcRTXtFHvcKSyDv8PRsQoLi_lTB6U2toXeAuDXHX_4UW6vM-FsM/s1600-h/match+7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdx37GZ8KnSsmMAjgNX4oG0oBcr01bkYLcAjh5Ljhd7rFjeO3gr1P4mt0W1tBBbFo3FzdQF2d91QpG4bfp7HGBCBVMavcRTXtFHvcKSyDv8PRsQoLi_lTB6U2toXeAuDXHX_4UW6vM-FsM/s200/match+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334096155719715394" border="0" /></a>Our omnipotent Father planted me in my circumstances. He also planted them. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">I am THEIR mama because of what </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">I</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">, in particular, can do for </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">them</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">; that is the more obvious truth. My every breath is for their sake. What has not always been so obvious </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">is that </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">the</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">y</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;"> are </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">my</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;"> children because of what </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">they</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;"> can do for </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">me</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span> </span>My character burst out of the ground when those particular personalities sprang into my life. I grew as they grew; our individual strengths and weaknesses intertwining in a garden that is our own. I am the fruits of my children.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYGMhj5718yd4Ol1DZrOs4e34QKlt0ImTacKisRbkt7gMHt-KAu7CB6Idf7K4Kz6afHPB1p0sXyNtO_dVd3qlx_Xksttydh___jre1NNjDRhzf1QhJCdJ37HBpLQL1gQou89yTN14bNtj/s1600-h/match+9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYGMhj5718yd4Ol1DZrOs4e34QKlt0ImTacKisRbkt7gMHt-KAu7CB6Idf7K4Kz6afHPB1p0sXyNtO_dVd3qlx_Xksttydh___jre1NNjDRhzf1QhJCdJ37HBpLQL1gQou89yTN14bNtj/s200/match+9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334096553317340082" border="0" /></a>Leading the banditos in their Mothers Day presentation will have more meaning, now that I have mused over their song… I’ll be thinking how little cowpokes, under all those wild-west wiggles, are very much at home on <span style="font-style: italic;">their </span>particular range…<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">BECAUSE that IS </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-weight: bold;">exactly</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> where they are supposed to be.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Related Musings: </span><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/romancing-heart.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Romance the Heart </span></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">and</span> <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/old-beginnings.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Old Beginnings</span></a><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 204, 153); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span>Muse with me:<br />How do you see a Heavenly Hand in the making of your family?</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">DEEElightful...for you AND the kiddos!<br /></span></div><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7unihW8HiaU&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7unihW8HiaU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-21306282357590753162009-05-03T15:49:00.000-07:002009-05-04T07:04:32.881-07:00The Final Test of True Manhood<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg764txu1C3PyMFdfifrkULa3CMaMY9xoAz7j6XonfboCmGuDaPLD7pDjUm1v2PeRkC98KlM_M7jPPkzsrJpkUThmFljTrClCBfSFueUK-iTGDOeXFnJ-V8Tu0yIOx8ywZNuJH2-i2OMJwD/s1600-h/garage+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg764txu1C3PyMFdfifrkULa3CMaMY9xoAz7j6XonfboCmGuDaPLD7pDjUm1v2PeRkC98KlM_M7jPPkzsrJpkUThmFljTrClCBfSFueUK-iTGDOeXFnJ-V8Tu0yIOx8ywZNuJH2-i2OMJwD/s200/garage+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331766401878063922" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >“When one puts business or pleasure above hi</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >s home, he that moment starts on the downgrade </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >to soul-weakness. When the club becomes more attractive to any man than his home, it is time for him to confess in bitter shame that </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >he has failed </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >to measure up to the supreme opportunity of his life and flunked in <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">the final test of true manhood.</span> ... The poorest shack in which love prevails over a united family is of greater value to God and future humanity than any other riches. In such a hom</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">e God can work miracles and will work miracles.”</span></span> </span><span style="font-size:78%;">(Pres. David </span><span style="font-size:78%;">O. Mc</span><span style="font-size:78%;">Kay, 2005 PH/RS Manual, 148-149)<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">There!</span> I thought with satisfaction, surveying the clean garage. Winter has a way of piling up stuff, but at last it is spring and time to liberate the cement floor and fling open the cabinets busting with Miracle <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1GNYinIto2boDR8bDgL-aIdHg3hBOIqCCTxl97tcYSintn3cxOFSAnDy3FDB1P_mXh65-xZzRuzmmJGfZVzVNLAFiGS7eVAipGEmv94oMNKysAAcK2AIvLrCqytXV__5KAzqfTs7oNIrp/s1600-h/garage+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1GNYinIto2boDR8bDgL-aIdHg3hBOIqCCTxl97tcYSintn3cxOFSAnDy3FDB1P_mXh65-xZzRuzmmJGfZVzVNLAFiGS7eVAipGEmv94oMNKysAAcK2AIvLrCqytXV__5KAzqfTs7oNIrp/s200/garage+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331754553310620626" border="0" /></a>Grow, slug bait, and gardening gloves. Spring is also the time to celebrate my honey’s birthday, so this year I decided to combine a clean garage with a happy birthday, since it was all I could think to give him.<br /><br />Now, that last statement is a true one and a significant one. It means we have passed through the “accumulation stage” and have embarked on the “give-it-to-the-kids” stage. I honestly could not think of a single meaningful “thing” to give my honey this week. He has books and music and electronics and ties coming out of his ears. His sock drawer is bulging and we just beefed up his shirt collection.<br /><br />‘Twas not always thus. We have done our time crawling like beggars through the<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bLlsY6UPLjNklNjiKNWx_gQdwxyp0lx8HDcGZIQPc-zFiSwv6CU28rv8KPJzgNxkzeBX-UnGy3AQEqKYvSIJcDVG_ir-gQfHewhev4Vt8UPA3gnHXS-HEOFlo4L5hE1GUE9AEUWP6Joy/s1600-h/garage+7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bLlsY6UPLjNklNjiKNWx_gQdwxyp0lx8HDcGZIQPc-zFiSwv6CU28rv8KPJzgNxkzeBX-UnGy3AQEqKYvSIJcDVG_ir-gQfHewhev4Vt8UPA3gnHXS-HEOFlo4L5hE1GUE9AEUWP6Joy/s200/garage+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331758813550195730" border="0" /></a> muddy trenches of unemployment, the battlefield of under-employment, and the mine-field called corporate America. At this time, we are balanced on a tight-rope of uncertainty (like everyone today), but at least we have a rope.<br /><br />My heart filled with charity last night as I listened to a very dear friend who lost his job recently. Hearing his fears and frustrations awoke poignant memories, one in particular…<br /><br />It was a season of unemployment for us (not the first time), the result of corporate down-sizing, and after many, many weeks, we had exhausted our resources, our list of contacts, and our initiative. Like mountaineers gasping for air with the summit just behind the clouds, we had no idea how close we were to being delivered.<br /><br />Then it came, the last proverbial straw; a certified “threat” from the electric company, delivere<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCAmSSm7_PQjQhBY0efBPi37XB4nUVjHGRauYOUt00BsdPMW5s0sdg3n0X5UYe4dwICoAdo2hNSsH3fFkTcxJCkqW_4EoJ-49EoOIY0TNzDZBDvbJIehli6WAglWB_zEc8_RICQrEmHcO/s1600-h/garage+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 96px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCAmSSm7_PQjQhBY0efBPi37XB4nUVjHGRauYOUt00BsdPMW5s0sdg3n0X5UYe4dwICoAdo2hNSsH3fFkTcxJCkqW_4EoJ-49EoOIY0TNzDZBDvbJIehli6WAglWB_zEc8_RICQrEmHcO/s200/garage+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331759191529599410" border="0" /></a>d by a guy with a logo on his shirt, wearing a tool belt. With deep foreboding, I handed it to Dale at his desk. He slit open the envelope and starred at the contents. The red print bled through so that I could make out the numbers, even from the other side of the desk. I knew they could not be matched by what remained in our bank account. Our eyes met, searching for some inkling of hope and faith in the other, but instead, a terrifying realization overcame us both; we had <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span> left. We were paupers, temporally <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> emotionally.<br /><br />Then, the strangest thing happened. My husband fell forward, his forehead to his arms, and he wept. He wept and wept and wept. The Spirit waved over me, followed by a tidal wave of compassion. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">All of a sudden I comprehended, like I never had before, the imm</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;">ense</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204); font-weight: bold;"> burden my husband carried being wholly responsible for the lives of six people. </span><br /><br />That eye-opener established a new empathetic undergirding in my relationships with<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWHPVgJDZZZJ95SUuAuBYziCzj9jcLPobgZYznytHB1fH017eYmoTvQQ5QgTeGf7U-qLUDWuRjwEKiz_xI1HXYNKo_TmZ7PaEdvvOFfHp-CvJ22PPBeoWHcsadM9PGEsDkmBkSSWhFnxm/s1600-h/garage+8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWHPVgJDZZZJ95SUuAuBYziCzj9jcLPobgZYznytHB1fH017eYmoTvQQ5QgTeGf7U-qLUDWuRjwEKiz_xI1HXYNKo_TmZ7PaEdvvOFfHp-CvJ22PPBeoWHcsadM9PGEsDkmBkSSWhFnxm/s200/garage+8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331763150531683330" border="0" /></a> men; husband, adult male family, and Priesthood brothers. My claims upon their time, or evaluation of their performance in familiar roles or church callings became much more liberal. I took great care, ever after, to express my sincere appreciation for what they do for me, for my family, and for others. Particularly in the church, as I served with Bishoprics, High Council and Stake Presidencies, I made a concerted effort to respect their many obligations and lighten their load whenever possible.<br /><br />The birthday wish I gave Dale yesterday reflected the understanding I gained all those years ago:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIQCJ2wZ6fXMXfufeJNSAcepQnFR_nCAQbeYE-0bUI_GFsFwgnr3PMkIeMLLEUjQZHaIeh8AnV11iRCDQgs5iQmJQUxkWfpmS8_gqC-a46Bf8iOI72qZFldqFequ714B9ZNkY3wGVKxCt/s1600-h/garage+9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIQCJ2wZ6fXMXfufeJNSAcepQnFR_nCAQbeYE-0bUI_GFsFwgnr3PMkIeMLLEUjQZHaIeh8AnV11iRCDQgs5iQmJQUxkWfpmS8_gqC-a46Bf8iOI72qZFldqFequ714B9ZNkY3wGVKxCt/s200/garage+9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331764977442293394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“…you provided beautifully and at great strain and sacrifice through the decades,” </span>I wrote, <span style="font-style: italic;">“…so that our children are raised a</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nd providing essentially for themselves now. You did </span><span style="font-style: italic;">it. They never wen</span><span style="font-style: italic;">t cold or hungry or felt deprived in any way; quite the opposite. And our sweet Ashley </span><span style="font-style: italic;">ha</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s had an amazing life for an individual with her severity of disability. She has been well fed, well loved, well dressed, and well serviced in the schools and community. Last night, you credited me for that, but the truth is that you always did whatever it took so that we could keep her close to us and expose her to every advantage. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"As for the future, it doesn’t really matter. I believe the Lord will prepare the way and orchestrate our lives so that our remaining time on earth will be productive and safe. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">Our union is so complete we can weather anything and live a</span></span><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrDQFu6kGnaGlUn0WuOVVADkcLtySz3qf7PMMYuiKiXmwN0BtUR0fgGRUBPdAbatapq-j4HjX0ss_P1ENiGstRUVrhQ-Mz6H_Gi5wPmIiSdwCdlQsi_TWZMIsYpHYwC-Z_k-g7GB_yv20/s1600-h/garage+10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrDQFu6kGnaGlUn0WuOVVADkcLtySz3qf7PMMYuiKiXmwN0BtUR0fgGRUBPdAbatapq-j4HjX0ss_P1ENiGstRUVrhQ-Mz6H_Gi5wPmIiSdwCdlQsi_TWZMIsYpHYwC-Z_k-g7GB_yv20/s200/garage+10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331765243415713810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span>nywhere and in any situation together. This is perhaps the most important outcome of your 32 years of </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">devo</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">tion. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"So on your birthday, I want you to know that our family’s success, even existence, has been entirely dependent on you for a very long time, and you have not failed us.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);"> You have blessed us, like a true Father in every way.</span> I pray that God will bless you with continued joy and progress in your career at this point, <span style="font-weight: bold;">for yo</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">ur OWN sake</span>, as you so richly deserve.”</span><br /><br />He was touched by that of course. I got a doozy of a hug and kiss for it. And the surprise party I threw later than night didn't hurt.<br /><br />But the tidy garage comforted him most.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“After all,”</span> he said, <span style="font-style: italic;">“if worse comes to worse, at least we’ve got the space now to hold a moving sale!”</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7QYn-10HvrP69aq1X7u3PwytPVjXrHR-CsIqwaXPpnTKnNg0UaCwcBK4Yx1VlF7DJ9tkkt6zbZRmOaBRKNkKeKvzRguD-nO9jZb02AQAVfIvqInnH_m0wjrUfB-QoIF7Gh07j22q3dax/s1600-h/garage+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7QYn-10HvrP69aq1X7u3PwytPVjXrHR-CsIqwaXPpnTKnNg0UaCwcBK4Yx1VlF7DJ9tkkt6zbZRmOaBRKNkKeKvzRguD-nO9jZb02AQAVfIvqInnH_m0wjrUfB-QoIF7Gh07j22q3dax/s200/garage+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331765561098244130" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Related Musings: </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/musing-in-marriott.html">What You Don't Have or Have Lost</a><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2008/12/belonging.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Belonging</span></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Muse with me </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">SISTERS:</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><br />How does your husband or the men in your life contribute to your family in a positive way?</span></span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">(And send your husbands to comment too please -- we would LOVE a man's point of view on this...)</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Muse with me </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">BROTHERS</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">:<br /></span>How does your wife or the other women in your life (daughters, mothers, sisters in the church) sustain you? What does that mean to you? </span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">MORE: </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=e1fa5f74db46c010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD&locale=0&sourceId=1aba862384d20110VgnVCM100000176f620a____"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">The Proclamation on the Family</span></a></span> </div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-79344280654555697202009-04-26T20:03:00.000-07:002009-05-02T23:01:12.751-07:00The Brightest Generation<a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZBelk-VSdl92kU95amua8vUFJGrbjv_sVk2KrzrjVi_S-0HCL_GOxMVXdlULG07JcNhVS1uSBt2Ez0D_V9NMYtsXPCz7wQpEAi4SnA5lIoJRauBu1Mts4g5AC1jaaW1hS_QbYwjDfg2M/s1600-h/teens+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZBelk-VSdl92kU95amua8vUFJGrbjv_sVk2KrzrjVi_S-0HCL_GOxMVXdlULG07JcNhVS1uSBt2Ez0D_V9NMYtsXPCz7wQpEAi4SnA5lIoJRauBu1Mts4g5AC1jaaW1hS_QbYwjDfg2M/s200/teens+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329212722570922162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >And now, as the preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >the people to do that whi</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >ch was just – yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >anything els</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >e</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >, which had happened unto them --- therefore </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >Alma thought it was expedient tha</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >t they should try the virtue </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">of the word of God</span>.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;">(<a href="http://scriptures.lds.org/en/alma/31"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Alma 31:5</span></a>)</span><br /><br />An amazing young mother named Jessica bore her testimony in church today. Despite a desperately rocky childhood (seriously troubled parents, every kind of abuse, and years of foster care) th<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCnQ_0ZQvSt6yT7-06uiKloyQji6p9pCg0fl_JACdsWwHRaIWLxO_KA37OxUghpAfBaqgqRRebw-gQj92TkQmvyZtpnWdmCosdBZlVxSQxG53EWFJPGyGmqyOvNthsyEwZlp-oeEKOREg/s1600-h/teens+-+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCnQ_0ZQvSt6yT7-06uiKloyQji6p9pCg0fl_JACdsWwHRaIWLxO_KA37OxUghpAfBaqgqRRebw-gQj92TkQmvyZtpnWdmCosdBZlVxSQxG53EWFJPGyGmqyOvNthsyEwZlp-oeEKOREg/s200/teens+-+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329227014713188786" border="0" /></a>is resilient woman has found the gospel of Jesus Christ and is raising her own family in it. Her conversion is remarkable, not only because she beat the statistics, but <span style="font-style: italic;">how</span> she beat them.<br /><br />As a little girl, she was given her own copy of the New Testament, which she read regularly without prompting or reinforcement while growing up. And she prayed…without example or instruction. As I visualized Jessica growing into a young woman, holding those scriptures for dear life… her face morphed into many young faces…<br /><br />In teaching four years of <a href="http://seminary.lds.org/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Seminary</span></a>, I had proven over and over to myself (through trial and error) that though teens enjoy Scripture Jeopardy and gumdrop Rameumptoms, they will eat gospel meat, even at 6:00 a.m. Yet with that experience shoring me up, I still felt intimidated when I stood in front of hundreds of teenagers one summer morning with nothing more than scriptures in hand.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinip_m1In7oE-tK9e18vBkyNwvTaPDQaqXt7L-RQJCKHnu0UKMG3y3RS8V28vugrmWX3uVH5pLVJ2tGKaDkqxbAW6l9pRezrEpF_uaAV-aNbY8tnA37BacNWJJ5909n45qg9qKV2OzVVYe/s1600-h/scriptures.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinip_m1In7oE-tK9e18vBkyNwvTaPDQaqXt7L-RQJCKHnu0UKMG3y3RS8V28vugrmWX3uVH5pLVJ2tGKaDkqxbAW6l9pRezrEpF_uaAV-aNbY8tnA37BacNWJJ5909n45qg9qKV2OzVVYe/s200/scriptures.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329217385777576818" border="0" /></a>I had been a presenter on the Church Education System’s <a href="http://ce.byu.edu/yp/efy-programs/efy/index.cfm"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Especially for Yo</span></a><a href="http://ce.byu.edu/yp/efy-programs/efy/index.cfm"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">ut</span></a><a href="http://ce.byu.edu/yp/efy-programs/efy/index.cfm"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">h</span></a> faculty for a few years at the time, so it wasn’t the size or age of the audience that worried me; it wasn’t that they’d given me the giant gymnasium instead of a lecture hall to present in; it wasn’t even that the schedule had landed this class right before lunch, when the adolescent stomach would rather feast on food than scripture. What worried me most was the subject itself: <span style="font-style: italic;">the gospel of Jesus Christ.</span><br /><br />Here is the actual class description from the printed EFY program:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >“What is our</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" > greatest potential? Is</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" > it not to achieve godhood ourselves?” How wonderful that we know that the answer to President Kimball’s question is yes! But until the Plan of Redemption was presented t</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >o us in the pre-mort</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >al life, we must have wondered how it was possible. <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">This</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> class is for the serious student of the gospel</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span>who is interested in exploring Father’s Plan of Happiness as we must have contemplated it p</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 204);font-size:85%;" >reparatory to entering mortality. We can find our place in this world when we comprehend our beautiful beginnings and divine destination. <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Bring your scriptures</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">”</span></span></span><br /><br />Based on this preview (I had composed it more as a warning), I expected relat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHa3vdFAHkrzaBXxPKJsdsnCb0fEpEfxrniZiSM0t5jk4c60vvCTHPNANpVdWerV5x_TSydqhcDBzyr0_fIF-9PZsmYnTWkJjXzAvujQWhy4E12DEgE-15-Pj2lPjW9AMsC2u-uOyH9Jp/s1600-h/teens+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHa3vdFAHkrzaBXxPKJsdsnCb0fEpEfxrniZiSM0t5jk4c60vvCTHPNANpVdWerV5x_TSydqhcDBzyr0_fIF-9PZsmYnTWkJjXzAvujQWhy4E12DEgE-15-Pj2lPjW9AMsC2u-uOyH9Jp/s200/teens+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329215996846639458" border="0" /></a>ive few to choose my class; after all, more popular and entertaining teachers were presenting the same hour. Ten minutes before start time, however, boys slouched and girls giggled through the gym doors - <span style="font-style: italic;">i</span><span style="font-style: italic;">n droves</span> – eventually filling every available chair. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yiks!</span> I thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">What a rambunctious crowd! Some of them look downright scary. Oh, WHY hadn’t I had put together a s</span><span style="font-style: italic;">lide show</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> or at least a personal anecdote or two - or a hundred?! </span>Sweaty palms made my scriptures sticky.<br /><br />Like the end credits of a disaster movie, the dozens of scripture references and prophet quotes I was about to discuss scrolled through my brain. I panicked that too many in a row would come across as dull and complicated, though I had definitely felt inspired when organizing them. <span style="font-style: italic;">The most earnest kids </span><span style="font-style: italic;">might stick it out</span>, I thought. Maybe my best hope was to excuse the tag-alon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2SQuuipQjinb80kFROGiql2PyW4jgYx35QhzSQi-CxEvkaS6FUXMFjwVyPlZKiDbHvP0fV0v76w51tGsp06DJbWsTLNu6UpvgpL4nDYDsuZNxUfxxSDCFvxmD7O5FOdXDmhV8SgYKJs8/s1600-h/teens+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2SQuuipQjinb80kFROGiql2PyW4jgYx35QhzSQi-CxEvkaS6FUXMFjwVyPlZKiDbHvP0fV0v76w51tGsp06DJbWsTLNu6UpvgpL4nDYDsuZNxUfxxSDCFvxmD7O5FOdXDmhV8SgYKJs8/s200/teens+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329219369065459810" border="0" /></a>gs, the kids who would prefer a class on dating. I decided to offer an escape.<br /><br />“Alright everyone,” I began, “You should know that this discussion is all doctrine – straight up. You will be expected to keep your scriptures open and to turn to every reference, and we will be trucking.”<br /><br />I looked for discouraged expressions, but didn’t see any. In fact, I thought for a second that they all seemed to sit up a bit.<br /><br />“There is a lot to cover,” I continued my disclaimer, “so we may go into your lunch hour some. If this doesn’t appeal to you, it’s perfectly alright to excuse yourself now and join another class. You won’t offend me in the least.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwCGkXp189fXaEQoaeiwqk4ceZ83ll0PXQpt8k-UGlmfP8yK1vq65bXE81ZAt_tX-H1KXMV_k0zzrtGJ9QJ5AYPUgJ25fkixbp8uq3lKXsqgcpBlUnnypbHpRcP17FYmMe2bFvV9m0uI8/s1600-h/teens+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwCGkXp189fXaEQoaeiwqk4ceZ83ll0PXQpt8k-UGlmfP8yK1vq65bXE81ZAt_tX-H1KXMV_k0zzrtGJ9QJ5AYPUgJ25fkixbp8uq3lKXsqgcpBlUnnypbHpRcP17FYmMe2bFvV9m0uI8/s200/teens+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329219616691822514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">That’ll do it, </span>I thought; then braced myself for an outbreak of sidebar discussions and clanking metal chairs.<br /><br />But nothing happened. No one stirred.<br /><br />Whether it was genuine interest in the subject, peer pressure, too much trouble to move, or a wave of compassion for the lady shaking at the mic, I had no idea. There was nothing left to do but preach.<br /><br />We did go over-time. We went several minutes over-time. No one left. No one even packed up early. They ALL kept their scriptures open and stayed intent. Afterward, they crowded around with questions and insights that were stunning.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc88rdaDinrVidrZvikGnyT2vulMr8RdV73SwtTjnK7S52NwnfoRYSw94YWJZfQ95sbFrNnAx14u_tQBVFY-iKFoUemMlipr_o8GbFpvNrTx2cept02ITqj8idppsPbjtPqu07flZkUwDb/s1600-h/teen+6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc88rdaDinrVidrZvikGnyT2vulMr8RdV73SwtTjnK7S52NwnfoRYSw94YWJZfQ95sbFrNnAx14u_tQBVFY-iKFoUemMlipr_o8GbFpvNrTx2cept02ITqj8idppsPbjtPqu07flZkUwDb/s200/teen+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329222275533840690" border="0" /></a> I repented of having underestimated their spiritual intelligence, humbled by the Spirit which testified that these youth exceeded me - and my generation. It was clear - <span style="font-style: italic;">and many experiences since have reinforced the fact - </span>that the class' success had nothing to do with me. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 204);">It had everything to do with serving the doctrine of Christ “straight up” to young latter-day minds, naturally inquisitive and basically brilliant.</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=f318118dd536c010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD&locale=0&sourceId=1ac4105560440210VgnVCM100000176f620a____&hideNav=true"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"></span></a></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Related Musings:</span> <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/romancing-heart.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Romance the Heart </span></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and </span><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2008/12/come-to-church.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Come to Church</span></a><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Muse with me: </span>What evidence of spiritual talent do you see in the children and youth of the church today, including those in your own home?</span></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD4q4BmPfSrzj1x7z6h1_mvDpdIiW8E3435sglG0au6166DswSqvyN7v_lp9CjYijaF2ZWCNbWlNCzk9LPrm11QJm7ca9gtL5WToaypuTKjXMZEhyEBkSW_Jnot5mm_YKVBuOwDnZ2xzc/s1600-h/Elisabeth's+little+one+with+book+of+mormon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 383px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD4q4BmPfSrzj1x7z6h1_mvDpdIiW8E3435sglG0au6166DswSqvyN7v_lp9CjYijaF2ZWCNbWlNCzk9LPrm11QJm7ca9gtL5WToaypuTKjXMZEhyEBkSW_Jnot5mm_YKVBuOwDnZ2xzc/s200/Elisabeth's+little+one+with+book+of+mormon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329230561253493506" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Elisabeth's little one falls asleep with her Book of Mormon. </span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=f318118dd536c010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD&locale=0&sourceId=1ac4105560440210VgnVCM100000176f620a____&hideNav=true"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">MORE: </span>"Teaching True Doctrine" <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">by President Henry D. Eyring</span></span></a><br /></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-57153028433065849262009-04-19T19:15:00.000-07:002009-04-20T14:02:41.273-07:00Hawaiian Magic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgTF8Xw8NkMvbte_bbWJjmnzGItX50OBcXbHmcxx3f-kkD-nMKA4wvsFjuZoD06RW91DcUX8I-gQUnu5k3H9lYxj4z3h-D8w-9i5s-7AtrMAVM661p5gWirdJF0FlkEwK5at9cul8i450/s1600-h/P1010042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgTF8Xw8NkMvbte_bbWJjmnzGItX50OBcXbHmcxx3f-kkD-nMKA4wvsFjuZoD06RW91DcUX8I-gQUnu5k3H9lYxj4z3h-D8w-9i5s-7AtrMAVM661p5gWirdJF0FlkEwK5at9cul8i450/s200/P1010042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326573676656747026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >"It seems like such a simple thing, but how much time do we </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >spend laug</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >hin</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >g </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >with</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" > o</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >ur spouses and enjoying their company? </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >In our daily i</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >nteractions, appropriate humor can defuse tense situations and counter n</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >egative reactions to</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" > so</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >me of the t</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >roubles o</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >f life. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >Laughter and</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" > a cheerful </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >disposition c</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >an create a bond of friendship. They are medi</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >cine for the heart and l</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >ighten the troubled soul.”</span> <a href="http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=2354fccf2b7db010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD&locale=0&sourceId=f74ba1615ac0c010VgnVCM1000004d82620a____&hideNav=1"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);font-size:85%;" >(Carin Lund, Ensign, August 2000)</span></a><br /><br />You know how relatively little time Dale and I have together because of his business travels. So, it was a t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-CPOb0C1xgDBgWOzxxGN1jt_7zhPSUQqG1yzstCWNRWFepq4CaO2RBn-dubV0IRZnN20EKyIAFYzXD5oYiol-lIido4WtzdvNJUIqTaoZHoan2a_cKl5OiH5rRgizwJcnJBUMiN_n0DN/s1600-h/couple+open+road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-CPOb0C1xgDBgWOzxxGN1jt_7zhPSUQqG1yzstCWNRWFepq4CaO2RBn-dubV0IRZnN20EKyIAFYzXD5oYiol-lIido4WtzdvNJUIqTaoZHoan2a_cKl5OiH5rRgizwJcnJBUMiN_n0DN/s200/couple+open+road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326571348489636802" border="0" /></a>wist of irony that -- when he finally lined up a whole week at home earlier this month -- circumstances took <span style="font-style: italic;">ME</span> away to Florida (<a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/04/dream-house.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Dream H</span></a><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/04/dream-house.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">o</span></a><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/04/dream-house.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">use</span></a>), while <span style="font-style: italic;">HE</span> stayed home with Ashley (<a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/02/angel-talk.html">Angel Talkin</a>). I consoled myself musing about “compensatory blessings” (<a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/musing-in-marriott.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">What You D</span></a><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/musing-in-marriott.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">on’t Have or Have Lost</span></a>) and sure enough! he got a second week knocked off his regular itinerary! When I returned, we hit the road TOGETHER for Hannah's concert at BYU, Grant's 23rd birthday, and Easter.<br /><br />What a glorious 12 hours in the car -- non-stop conversation. Come Monday morning however, I was in the Provo Regional Medical Center, diagnosed with shingles! <span style="font-weight: bold;">The wonder of it is that as I sat for hours on the emergency room gurney, my honey, rather than huff frustration and disappointment, continued the conversation.</span> Running now for 31 years (from far and near) this conversation is part practical, part pleasure, part daydream, part counsel, part observation, part opinion. We call it “<span style="font-weight: bold;">Solv</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">ing the World’s Problems</span>.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyVkWJfL-pj1_3Jb9fl09SvFmW4Uq17nzlpDDmFMEsD5L9bZW_vjZMRBd8QJOteGmyh9iyott84qKcqRspilBM7tuH5A0_-Y45SxvTt-fXRms6uS7L0HJeBqLfw_7OL5pWoGkEI69YmlA/s1600-h/couple+corridor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyVkWJfL-pj1_3Jb9fl09SvFmW4Uq17nzlpDDmFMEsD5L9bZW_vjZMRBd8QJOteGmyh9iyott84qKcqRspilBM7tuH5A0_-Y45SxvTt-fXRms6uS7L0HJeBqLfw_7OL5pWoGkEI69YmlA/s200/couple+corridor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326572198343233842" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">We also like to rem</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">inisce, as most couples do, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">or should</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">. </span>Not only does re-living shared-memory act like crazy glue on hearts, on that morning in the hospital (as it has so many tough times before) reminiscing gave us t<span style="font-weight: bold;">he right dose of perspectiv</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">e: the b</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">est possible prescription. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">This is what we remembered…</span><br /><br />Two days and nights in Salt Lake City; not exactly the exotic honeymoon a boy or girl dreams about, but with the pocketbooks and planners of university students, it was the best we could do. Our professors expected the new "Mr. & Mrs." back to campus in time for winter semester finals.<br /><br />Our reminic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MsLWQ7UVPBnY6SDpdcVn_OpdpcWW-aLCO5n87Is3bkc68VezLHnZBpBCSH5Acx2VWDQo5-vcgeDT1qO0OrhpLOxIel6XFXlTctVFL0pX1NuwlU-9EOVV2Zf5E2jC_4W0gkE7MGa7zLbd/s1600-h/couple+beach.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MsLWQ7UVPBnY6SDpdcVn_OpdpcWW-aLCO5n87Is3bkc68VezLHnZBpBCSH5Acx2VWDQo5-vcgeDT1qO0OrhpLOxIel6XFXlTctVFL0pX1NuwlU-9EOVV2Zf5E2jC_4W0gkE7MGa7zLbd/s200/couple+beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326554604871914898" border="0" /></a>ing wasn't about those two days though. It was about five years and two babies later when the chance for a "real" honeymoon finally presented itself. For years we had dreamed...and in the weeks leading up to our great Hawaiian adventure, we ate, slept, and spoke of almost nothing else: visions of solitary strolls on the beach, hand in hand, timid waves glancing our bare feet. We would return a radiant brown, renewed by strange vistas, quiet nights, and lazy days.<br /><br />On page one of our photo album we are framed by a sagging palm tree and a stop sign at the airport. Our get-a-way was not yet a postcard one, but we could smell it from there. That night we had dinner at an outdoor table on Waikiki Beach. The same breeze w<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMh49UbAw58SdQO50fHEzeEnwZ_9HqyyhfUmyIlVnPFy6hAL_vl6BPvBfqz6gPINkRaIhFt7btqELrYWdjB-Z-aZYQdkfPrgJ8H1LiXP5DV9YBSSEqoWvjczwj7-kjdVU4yIW0DOse8o4w/s1600-h/couple+beach+toes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMh49UbAw58SdQO50fHEzeEnwZ_9HqyyhfUmyIlVnPFy6hAL_vl6BPvBfqz6gPINkRaIhFt7btqELrYWdjB-Z-aZYQdkfPrgJ8H1LiXP5DV9YBSSEqoWvjczwj7-kjdVU4yIW0DOse8o4w/s200/couple+beach+toes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326560923042998066" border="0" /></a>hich ruffled our hair sent pink clouds chasing across an amber sky. Flaming torches lit our faces...which <span style="font-style: italic;">occasionally</span> broke from concentrating on <span style="font-style: italic;">each other</span>, to look out over the violet sea; sails and ships were silhouetted against a glorious sunset.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It was the beginning - and the end - of a dream come true.</span><br /><br />The next day, we decided to snorkel off <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.honolulu.gov/parks/facility/hanaumabay/welcome.htm">Hanauma Bay</a>. Having a touch of stateside practicality still in hand, I lathered up with my #45 sunscreen. I was generous to every appendage except my head and (accidentally) a little triangle of peach just below my shoulder. Dale, on the other hand (a Californian by birth) thought nothing of absorbing ultra-v<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPnCNqrIq-bbZZY93ZAiOiQ3G1ayyBaNuJGbhQH-S-vSPfBZd-UvTY9jmr3Vmb9yaIyzJv5TWLbsbmAiystdglBzNONz1RnIx13nXOBj6wH_iBYJ8hkw3aipFXqs5stozCLfy1u3XyVHU/s1600-h/couple+snorkel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPnCNqrIq-bbZZY93ZAiOiQ3G1ayyBaNuJGbhQH-S-vSPfBZd-UvTY9jmr3Vmb9yaIyzJv5TWLbsbmAiystdglBzNONz1RnIx13nXOBj6wH_iBYJ8hkw3aipFXqs5stozCLfy1u3XyVHU/s200/couple+snorkel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326623946069643106" border="0" /></a>iolet rays in the raw. An experienced snorkeler, he "geared" us both up for our undersea exploration - BUT - despite the best flippers money could rent - I just couldn't overcome my fear of the deep. A couple of fainthearted attempts to navigate the reef left me smarting with lacerations where unforgiving corral had met unpracticed diver. Dale, of course, evaded similar injury. He moved with ease through the water; but that was the <span style="font-style: italic;">last time</span> he moved with ease on our entire vacation.<br /><br />Scorched from top to bottom, his inflamed skin progressed gradually from a concerning pink to an alarming red. The sun's effect on me was more immediate. The moment we got back in the car, I screamed with horror into the rear view mirror. <span style="font-style: italic;">What was that big, red </span><span style="font-style: italic;">balloon I used to call my face?!</span> I had no eyes, <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span> nose, <span style="font-style: italic;">no </span>chin; just a bloated crimson sphe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGV3jSzEuELU9APimpuKEhi_DobvgP67as3rkmztnIn3Ieu75v8T_iJzDQeqrIx5lPTK4ZlU6iO1cSYGmGL43nE7iaSwTxh80eqvJdQdWynrhbUfyaEJUs47dMmsL1PVA3Jdo11tLnEKO8/s1600-h/couple+burn+feet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGV3jSzEuELU9APimpuKEhi_DobvgP67as3rkmztnIn3Ieu75v8T_iJzDQeqrIx5lPTK4ZlU6iO1cSYGmGL43nE7iaSwTxh80eqvJdQdWynrhbUfyaEJUs47dMmsL1PVA3Jdo11tLnEKO8/s200/couple+burn+feet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326562738699055122" border="0" /></a>re with a crop of curls on top.<br /><br />Frightened, we hastened to the hotel and hobbled to our sanctuary. Blisters had begun to swell between our toes. Though they were the preferred foot-gear of the tropics, we were more accustomed to rubber boots than rubber thongs.<br /><br />Inside our room even bed sheets were painful to the touch. We were burning up. What could be more soothing than a cool swim? Diving out the window to sizzle in the hotel pool provided a few minutes of relief...but, as we began to pucker up like sun-dried tomatoes, we headed back . Toweling off, Dale suddenly knew he was in trouble. An ominous sting began to creep up his shins, his already irritated pores now infected with chlorin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMyK-hmTOoY-0jRnsLCeVMye0J9eEYcFV5ByVHOLncataMc6g4rtru2XVUwUfPYK_LUCQCdgCpONSQuXKqxl_vPH_17bf5KeIii6QrgTz5ju4f_pV5WIP0DX4t80Ok_hLFiRTAYwUCFM0/s1600-h/couple+flip+flops.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMyK-hmTOoY-0jRnsLCeVMye0J9eEYcFV5ByVHOLncataMc6g4rtru2XVUwUfPYK_LUCQCdgCpONSQuXKqxl_vPH_17bf5KeIii6QrgTz5ju4f_pV5WIP0DX4t80Ok_hLFiRTAYwUCFM0/s200/couple+flip+flops.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326659308307490578" border="0" /></a>e! The sting blossomed into a full-body itch, and the rest of the long night was spent trying to purge his enraged epidermis. Countless runs to the drug store proved ineffective. We were beyond desperation -- <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">nothing </span>would stop that itch.</span> Of course by now, the fire had spread to Dale's brain and my island-lover had become a mad-man. His only salve and salvation, at last, was to sit in the bathroom, beside a scalding shower, steam and sweat working their magic.<br /><br />In the morning we learned that our welcome to paradise was not yet over. Dale had a rocketing fever and throbbing pain inside both ears. An expensive trip to the doctor confirmed our own diagnosis: infection caused by entrapped water. Sensitive <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHFMN4VYqyujZGapUq0SU3-y-xYRCe5823MUGZvc1IgUpsqSL3YfJlDA2RdDSyKErZ3sUACNWJ1ImlTrt7Bo1q5yKZO1CLWmFC4w8m6dck6avTKKdU33BIUAOIaVszfOxgjGjJFCIZRSM/s1600-h/couple+feet+bed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHFMN4VYqyujZGapUq0SU3-y-xYRCe5823MUGZvc1IgUpsqSL3YfJlDA2RdDSyKErZ3sUACNWJ1ImlTrt7Bo1q5yKZO1CLWmFC4w8m6dck6avTKKdU33BIUAOIaVszfOxgjGjJFCIZRSM/s200/couple+feet+bed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326563877616948530" border="0" /></a>to the touch and yowling in agony, all we could do for the next several days was to administer medicine every two hours and watch all-night reruns of "Hawaii Five-O".<br /><br />When we finally braved the world of the living (on our last day of "vacation"), we moved with the speed and agility of injured skiers in full body casts. Somehow we managed to taste fresh <a href="http://www.dole-plantation.com/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Dole pineapple</span></a>, cry a little at <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.nps.gov/usar/">Pearl Harbor</a>, and sit very still in the canoes of the <a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://www.polynesianculturalcenter.com/">Polynesian Culture Center</a>.<br /><br />As we waved Hawaii good-bye from the clouds, we knew that the “next time” we would give ourselves at least three weeks: the <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">first </span>for exposing ourselves to the hostile Hawaiian environment, the <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">secon</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">d </span>for recovery, and the <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">third...</span>well, we never really did have that Honolulu honeymoon. <span style="font-style: italic;">Although</span>...by the time we get around to going back...T-shirts for grandchildren and viewing Hanauma Bay from a tour bus will be all the romance we'll need.<br /><br />Oh. And a lot of wonderful conversation.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgC51LaIgavc_IshPCmxconF-AkA-q3lazw-WJzMHjqmXKtsBNo1sHniJ-7P1mjw0S25Ff7Ia5Xm2sI_E1cBeRtVXU6KmoLJ5cJk2EQxyLuFRThvUSYXZ4BsdX5bBCin9pVMxPM0t97GFT/s1600-h/couple+sillly+hat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgC51LaIgavc_IshPCmxconF-AkA-q3lazw-WJzMHjqmXKtsBNo1sHniJ-7P1mjw0S25Ff7Ia5Xm2sI_E1cBeRtVXU6KmoLJ5cJk2EQxyLuFRThvUSYXZ4BsdX5bBCin9pVMxPM0t97GFT/s200/couple+sillly+hat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326617830674260226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Related Musings:</span> <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/02/fairy-tale-endings.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Fairy Tale Endings</span></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and </span><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/01/cherry-ty-over-chocolate-never-faileth.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Charity Over Chocolate Never Faileth</span><br /></a></span></div><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:100%;" ><br />Muse with me:</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> How have you seen enjoyable conversation strengthen your marriage or other's marriages?</span> Though there's not a <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Hawaiian Vacation </span>drawing for commentors on this one -- how about <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-weight: bold;">dinner for two</span>? On </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >May 17th</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >, I'll draw for a $30 gift certificate to the favorite chain restaurant of a lucky fellow Muser and their honey.</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-87845916180272766842009-04-19T19:00:00.000-07:002009-04-19T19:30:20.665-07:00Talented Musers and a Winner!<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" >You make me feel like singing and dancing! Kudos to follower friends who mused on</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/kids-got-talent.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-style: italic;">The Kids Have Got Talent </span></a>and <a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/romancing-heart.html"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Romance the Heart!</span></a> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" >I made a list with all your names and numbered them (two for those who commented both weeks.) With witnesses looking over my shoulder (who have the same last name as I do) I then entered the numbers into the</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <a href="http://random.org/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Random.org True Random Number Generator</span></a> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" >and pop! up came the number <span style="font-weight: bold;">35</span>, which correlated to</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:85%;" >SERENE</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" >! </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" >Take the kiddos out for ice cream Serene – which do you like best? Cold Stone?...Baskin and Robbins?…or MY personal favorite – McDonalds! (Did you know McCones are always 3 points?!) Just kidding - splurge!</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">P.S. Sorry this is late...I was in the hospital on the afore-appointed date for the "drawing"!</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3230288215309238824.post-51522885147160386672009-04-12T20:00:00.000-07:002009-04-20T07:57:42.985-07:00Dream House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugaTZZTYIbgzXjoMVsFnjrycyOfJ3-z9HGpfI_OAutQt4lGzR8rkZh4FUuLtCZV86UC3naug5n6OjixXpwp_B-SjxIRsmJu4r7R7a7Vq_9FOpCPewng-7QehgrbOz53GlWK_Dm49ujbLJ/s1600-h/dreamstime_6154101.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugaTZZTYIbgzXjoMVsFnjrycyOfJ3-z9HGpfI_OAutQt4lGzR8rkZh4FUuLtCZV86UC3naug5n6OjixXpwp_B-SjxIRsmJu4r7R7a7Vq_9FOpCPewng-7QehgrbOz53GlWK_Dm49ujbLJ/s200/dreamstime_6154101.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322793260114368370" border="0" /></a>The neighborhood was a typical Florida neighborhood – streets winding through hundreds of houses that all looked a lot alike, at least when they were built. After thirty or forty years, a parade of owners had come and gone, leaving their imprints on each house. Most of the streets looked like the current occupants didn’t have time, money, or sympathy for their aging residences.<br /><br />We followed the faded curb-numbers until we pulled into the driveway of one of the most dilapidated homes of all. My heart sank. If my son and his kiddo were going to move into their first house, I had hoped for better…even just a <span style="font-style: italic;">little</span> better. My boy had a more open mind (and tighter checkbook) that I had obviously, because he jumped out of the car with enthusiasm, eager to snoop. I waited with Biscuit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgPO0sRDQPRXFldjlaqb7HDnOVrcNkcZ6srL10Hwg83oYnvaU0ycYDsSN2JF9hPRrVSh2hmSDe5RBnirs5OTvn6wTe0330ZXdkB80jqAypxBt62AScuDv25f2QMSvdNO73t7jEfn3n_t0/s1600-h/house+-+beach.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgPO0sRDQPRXFldjlaqb7HDnOVrcNkcZ6srL10Hwg83oYnvaU0ycYDsSN2JF9hPRrVSh2hmSDe5RBnirs5OTvn6wTe0330ZXdkB80jqAypxBt62AScuDv25f2QMSvdNO73t7jEfn3n_t0/s200/house+-+beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322791890405067298" border="0" /></a>After making the rounds, trudging through the weedy, grassless yard, peeking in the dirty windows, he reported: “Well, it’s kind of eclectic, but I think it’ll work!”<br /><br />I bit my tongue for the entire ten seconds it took to back out of the driveway.<br /><br />“You are such a man.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBe2XMDTeAWQhRQ5NteRCuzRWduqwFRaSxTyuvdRYMM9BBPqyCaOlWfgezOvWMJLp07sXpTXRbsFNg7PCSvpoXR9mhT5WB5IfRY4qmci5rJShRfAD_ximpOh6ENnifAcsK_OLOPuuV8r3G/s1600-h/swans.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBe2XMDTeAWQhRQ5NteRCuzRWduqwFRaSxTyuvdRYMM9BBPqyCaOlWfgezOvWMJLp07sXpTXRbsFNg7PCSvpoXR9mhT5WB5IfRY4qmci5rJShRfAD_ximpOh6ENnifAcsK_OLOPuuV8r3G/s200/swans.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322783793902677762" border="0" /></a>“Men are buyers. They want to buy the first thing they see. I am a woman, a professional shopper, and I think we should keep looking. Drive down that street.”<br /><br />He mumbled a protest, but mom won. We had made only a couple of lefts and rights when suddenly – the whole world changed…(well, maybe not the <span style="font-style: italic;">whole</span> world – but at least that neighborhood)…white picket fences, trees and flowers, bright paint, cars resting on tires not blocks – it was a dream!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6TH0hUAPHGoTdu3Ig7Somi1dgklO5hNogCdHpK77criKqzUy-tHvSuu7BNIbkiREKRuYZij1IfXD410Be4ZXSrXi0e4sOLEuXy5IREPlKHD43YwvqYuDB3TwdZ1bhvk3qE1pLHBHuJRI/s1600-h/waterfall.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6TH0hUAPHGoTdu3Ig7Somi1dgklO5hNogCdHpK77criKqzUy-tHvSuu7BNIbkiREKRuYZij1IfXD410Be4ZXSrXi0e4sOLEuXy5IREPlKHD43YwvqYuDB3TwdZ1bhvk3qE1pLHBHuJRI/s200/waterfall.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322785368314433362" border="0" /></a>“There! There!” I shouted. “Look at that one!”<br /><br />It may have been a one-story, flat-roofed, cinder-block house, but to me it looked like a million bucks. Biscuit’s dad made the same assessment.<br /><br />“I can’t afford it Mom.”<br /><br />“You don’t know that! Let’s just stop. Stop! <span style="font-style: italic;">Stop!” </span><br /><br />We stopped.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBL0owlHlJntgXiVKNBxq3pY7Fg6AglZvCPCgpHVGFROs1mmhepg8ZX1DGdPDdF_MBjr8ZAF_p633YEN8qzmBaKd3cr6capWWCJIH6cfLnU4d_Pm46JiT8EyWtbJ3V4ATQbYC0TmCYBbCu/s1600-h/bare+forrest+lane.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBL0owlHlJntgXiVKNBxq3pY7Fg6AglZvCPCgpHVGFROs1mmhepg8ZX1DGdPDdF_MBjr8ZAF_p633YEN8qzmBaKd3cr6capWWCJIH6cfLnU4d_Pm46JiT8EyWtbJ3V4ATQbYC0TmCYBbCu/s200/bare+forrest+lane.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322785158786781634" border="0" /></a>Moving tentatively around the house perimeter, like a Kmart regular at Macy’s, my son came back with that look Professional Shoppers know too well: the “there-is-no-way---but-I want-there-to-be-a-way-so- bad” look.<br /><br />He let me call the number on the sign in the window.<br /><br />Imagine his surprise…the thrill us professional shoppers know too well…the<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFz9S9tAiMDEfmq016T6L-lVjW3Scatzn4ZmZg9ACoOn-ovfJRFdqsniLuI7YIglCl1Ea0oy6oFFMsWno_CPQoUhu_a4civp2WT4e0HeCyQ0sHC_wO2lyW32Lcn-lsiiqW4tZIvrBTqcVA/s1600-h/beach+sunset.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFz9S9tAiMDEfmq016T6L-lVjW3Scatzn4ZmZg9ACoOn-ovfJRFdqsniLuI7YIglCl1Ea0oy6oFFMsWno_CPQoUhu_a4civp2WT4e0HeCyQ0sHC_wO2lyW32Lcn-lsiiqW4tZIvrBTqcVA/s200/beach+sunset.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322784713669331154" border="0" /></a> electricity that fills the universe when you turn over the price tag and see numbers YOU CAN COMPREHEND! It was <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> in his price range with extras and pluses out the ying-yang. We were home.<br /><br />That was just last week, but the memories of drooling over home ownership are as fresh as the paint in Biscuit’s new bedroom. The way it turned out, our family had three babies before we had a nest, and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrM8pCRFp8GHpwwNhH6iaL0Evlsun8ul6fj4pUtoxLzV8Aob_mHu69kbLFQ07HCFGzPyuFBM6yImFZ8F7kb0dq0lznOby_OSRaV8D2fH4dTZJgvuldC0WtMD19WFSvMVm1hvospIwW07Cz/s1600-h/lagoon.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrM8pCRFp8GHpwwNhH6iaL0Evlsun8ul6fj4pUtoxLzV8Aob_mHu69kbLFQ07HCFGzPyuFBM6yImFZ8F7kb0dq0lznOby_OSRaV8D2fH4dTZJgvuldC0WtMD19WFSvMVm1hvospIwW07Cz/s200/lagoon.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322784458550309778" border="0" /></a>they were all flying away before we moved into our “dream” house. It’s okay. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">The home I </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">really</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> want is still being built on the ultimate “Street of Dreams”.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Has anyone else ever thought about this?</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span>I like to imagine what my celestial mansion will be like. Will it be on a mountain top? Or come with an ocean view? Will there be a waterfall or a lagoon beside a tropical rain forest??? I have come to the conclusion t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzeTkb1psEC1JXUfDwGMVRqihhNI6gzErE6CSE96_yWiXhGzjksIWUkmsCd_njtoireIjJP04u5vFLdpmyk05k6HKiztOupqCAzYpbbOUdylpVvUR8EZQxcL4haSbt4cnSKUIS5MlFp-uk/s1600-h/mountain+lake.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzeTkb1psEC1JXUfDwGMVRqihhNI6gzErE6CSE96_yWiXhGzjksIWUkmsCd_njtoireIjJP04u5vFLdpmyk05k6HKiztOupqCAzYpbbOUdylpVvUR8EZQxcL4haSbt4cnSKUIS5MlFp-uk/s200/mountain+lake.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322784164648669970" border="0" /></a>hat it will be whatever I <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> it to be. And right now, that’s WAY beyond my experience, let alone my price range. Musing on it makes me happy though and keeps me motivated. Eternal rewards do that. <a href="http://scriptures.lds.org/en/1_cor/2"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">(1 Cor. 2:9)</span></a><br /><br />In the same breath however, I must admit that divine promises have occasionally lost their punch, but only when I forget the reality of infinity, when the here-and-now usurps my imagination. And when that happens, I -- like my boy on his house hunt -- am more willing to accept the unacceptable. I come way too close to “settling” for much less than is actually available to me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7RfDNPkkCitunMOqI-u0botgQmFUhBPAUB-84Q9DNgvXcwmh5rniXgF6iIlllHqgXDtZ3hQW63OXv45y2D0B3CyI9KYjEl9WlarSXSiOEL8Ht_j6QTX903OaooeebNr71M5LW_oVZBKfn/s1600-h/mountain+flowers.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7RfDNPkkCitunMOqI-u0botgQmFUhBPAUB-84Q9DNgvXcwmh5rniXgF6iIlllHqgXDtZ3hQW63OXv45y2D0B3CyI9KYjEl9WlarSXSiOEL8Ht_j6QTX903OaooeebNr71M5LW_oVZBKfn/s200/mountain+flowers.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322783134929943170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Elder George Q.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Ca</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">nnon: </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">“I think it is of great importance to us as a people to know what we shall do. Are we content to aim for telestial glory? I never heard a prayer offered, especially in the family circle in which the family does not beseech God to </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">give them celestial glory…celestial glory is our aim…All that I am on this earth for is to get celestial glory.”</span><br /><br />When I think of my children and grandchildren gathered on a celestial Sabbath;<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH46RBmb4c1g_5_Ro7Z0Y-g2kkgcbxIb0PJJuTWjZfZ4aGGSdwVQhPUD6x94cauMKbTo_g5XKwWtdhgvT9QXNhvNp_ul86CMWVcXPqy8OhB_ld-fH-Er-nqZhi49E8lFAhYMV4JLcPIULt/s1600-h/autumn+lane.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH46RBmb4c1g_5_Ro7Z0Y-g2kkgcbxIb0PJJuTWjZfZ4aGGSdwVQhPUD6x94cauMKbTo_g5XKwWtdhgvT9QXNhvNp_ul86CMWVcXPqy8OhB_ld-fH-Er-nqZhi49E8lFAhYMV4JLcPIULt/s200/autumn+lane.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322783372554057794" border="0" /></a> when I visualize Ashley at a truly GRAND piano of celestial make, finally able to play the magnificent concertos she’s composed all her silent life; when I close my eyes to feel the arms of my beloved mother-in-law around me again, or picture the scene when Dale and I face each other on Resurrection Morning then bow together to kiss the feet of the Savior; I am<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">more valiant, more committed, more courageous, more brilliant, more capable, more loving, more glorious</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> </span>than I EVER am as my fallen, natural, mortal-thinking self.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUoEbNjexLMZBqEGg_4nqVkEtmp2zROZD9B6Tbbl8_h_Kj2-6-p1gfpozJsmWmIAvwBQOQGAD5F89ygmZ7QjDe3Mut-iBrCEWW41VxR65RteJTXAxm2aOd1_x3G5mmUnRzyH73zCP5Nkw/s1600-h/house+-+mountain.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUoEbNjexLMZBqEGg_4nqVkEtmp2zROZD9B6Tbbl8_h_Kj2-6-p1gfpozJsmWmIAvwBQOQGAD5F89ygmZ7QjDe3Mut-iBrCEWW41VxR65RteJTXAxm2aOd1_x3G5mmUnRzyH73zCP5Nkw/s200/house+-+mountain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322792291551413570" border="0" /></a>For me, it is vital to have hope, to point and align and rivet myself on the goal of eternal life, this in spite of my imperfections. Though building a celestial mansion is a process; a lengthy process that extends beyond death, the Savior is with me every mile. I sense Him directing me down one path and then the next, asking only that I go with him all the way to the end. He knows that my Celestial Mansion waits there - sitting on a hill, surrounded by crystal clear, forested lakes, overlooking endless fields of wild flowers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Related Musings: </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/02/tossing-pennies-and-wishing-on-stars.html"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">"Wish List" </span></a><br />and<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">"<a style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);" href="http://monasgospelmusings.blogspot.com/2009/03/flying-dream.html">The Flying Dream"</a></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Muse with me:</span> Which of the images comes closest to your idea of the Celestial Kingdom? What are your dreams for your Dream House?</span></span><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9VRwMghIemo&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9VRwMghIemo&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24