Mona's Gospel Musings

A Reappraised, Refocused Life

2011-09-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Fellow Musers,

Musing, 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.

Flexing Musing Muscle takes time, space, and energy, 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, I have to step back, even re-invent many foundational aspects...not just of my life - but of ME.

My current bible is a book called The First Year -- Rheumatoid Arthritis: An Essential Guide for the Newly Diagnosed. The author, M.E.A. McNeil, has become a trusted mentor and I quote:

"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."

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 'every Sunday' - see you when I see you. I hope you're still there when I need you.

Love,
Mona

P.S. Daily Hints of Romance will continue at Mona's Musings on Facebook and Musings will appear on Monday mornings at Mormon Mommy Blogs. And again, I will publish occassionally at both Gospel Musings and Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance. Please keep in touch for a wonderful surprise I have been working on for a long time......

Two Posts Are Better Than One

2011-08-28T16:52:00.000-07:00

Check out Mona's Musings at Mormon Mommy Blogs. They've got two up this week. I love you!

Two Heads Are Better Than One!

Flying With Grace

A Daughter Called Abundance

2011-08-21T11:46:00.000-07:00

Take ye wives, and beget sons and daughters;
and take wives for your sons,
and give your daughters to husbands
that they may bear sons and daughters;
that ye may be increased there,
and not diminished. ~Jerimiah 29:6

Poets may try to describe Abundance, 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 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.

My Baby became Bride one week ago. All her life (and the hordes of people who adore her will attest) she has created Abundance: 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 Abundance; splashing all the rest of us, drenching all the rest of us, laughing at our surprise.

Her bridal gown appeared luminous, reflecting the natural sparkle in her countenance. She 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 Abundance.

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 Unity and Abundance 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.

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.

All the rest of us are delighted that it is his 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.

Abundance has a way of enlightening and enlarging everything.

A mother's treasure is her daughter. ~Catherine Pulsifer

Inspirational Words of Wisdom

Some Things Need to Simmer Before You Can Write About Them

2011-08-14T23:56:00.000-07:00

My Baby became a Bride yesterday and the hullabaloo is just now put to rest. Mother of the Bride is about to follow suit. Come tomorrow, I will undoubtedly muse myself to death (having so much of significance to muse about) but for today, having turned the last page in a very long book, I will sleep on it's wonderfulness before turning the first page in my next read.

Muse with me next Sunday.

What's a Family For?

2011-08-07T11:10:00.000-07:00

“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.” Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy, General Conference, April 2011

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.

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.

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.

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 Sir Henry’s memorial and graveside service, I realized with a slight shudder that “the possibilities” also included a great deal of loss and pain.

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”.

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. 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.

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.

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:

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 absorbing 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 purposefully. No family will ever come into being, or become ultimately successful, who doesn’t accept that reality and relinquish control over life and one another, which, in fact, is precisely how love wins in the end and fills our lives with the peace and abundance we all crave.

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. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

Related Musings:
Imagine a Life
What You Don't Have of Have Lost

Every Plan (and Parent) Has a Dream

2011-07-31T22:48:00.000-07:00

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 my journal 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:

Friday, June 16, 2000

"My own children have asked me: how did you and Dad turn out such good kids as us? (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.

. It is: Planning Ahead.

I don't mean just planning ahead to tomorrow, or next week, or even next year. I mean - REALLY planning ahead: like a lifetime ahead.

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.

I was relieved when the answer gradually dawned on me: cultivate the gifts of the Spirit. Learn to recognize and utilize promptings. The Spirit will customize revelation to fit any circumstance you might face as a parent.

Of course! So that is what I did. I learned to listen to and trust this constant companion.

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! 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!

Dale and I talked and talked and planned and planned.

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 special human being.

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!

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.

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. My visualizations knew no bounds. 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.

And through it all, there has been plenty of room for their own dreams. 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. Their independence from me and their father is my "ultimate" plan.

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. 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. 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 desire was very 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.

In consideration of the principle of "action," I believe I can say without exaggeration that in my adult life, every single choice, whether very tiny or very great, has been based on a single criterion: how will this bless or harm my children? Will this support or detract from the vision? As an example, I am, in fact, writing even these thoughts primarily for my children as parents. I see 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.

Living within this paradigm is not to say that I have no life, or ambitions, or talents of my own. 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! I have never felt "sacrificed" in any way. The resulting sense of "fulfillment" and gratitude and joy and personal growth is beyond expression 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.

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: good lives, I might add. I know, because I have seen 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.

I believe in family for all eternity, and already -- I am planning ahead."

Muse with me: What kind of "plans" (or dreams) do you have for your family? Which of your dreams have come to pass?

Related Musings:
Wish List

Galaxy Quest: Advice for Parents Who Want to Know
Old Beginnings

The Tale of Sir Henry

2011-07-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

This is for Brent and Emily,
who's precious preemie,
Henry,
has won my heart forever.

********************************

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.

For instance, no sooner did Sir Henry receive his Hero Certification, but he went face to face with a dragon.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!”

After that, our gallant knight received requests aplenty from every corner of the land: ‘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’ and so forth.

Of course, Henry did.

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.

So what, you ask, made Henry sooooo special?

Just this: all of his feats were done in two weeks.

********************************

Sir Henry

July 5, 2011 - July 20, 2011

Emily's sister has written an amazingly
beautiful explanation of loss at

Roses for Henry

Love With a Focus

2011-07-17T22:33:00.000-07:00

"For love is not a river, confined between two banks.
Its essence is to overflow.”

Mike Mason
The Mystery of Marriage

If you follow Mona’s Musings on Facebook, 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.

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 “Love With a Focus”. An illustration of Jesus looking solely into the eyes of ONE child on our Sunday ward bulletin today, perfectly illustrated this theme.

Here is the concept, as beautifully articulated in “The Mystery of Marriage”:

“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!

"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.

"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.

"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.”

Mason goes on to call this the Lord’s “strategy of concentrated love” which provides a pattern for married couples, who make vows to focus on one special person. This, he claims, “is intended to fill us up to the 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.”

This idea really makes sense with his next point: “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.”

Several months ago, at my ‘Romance’ Musings, I penned a variation of this idea after exploring Jerusalem in all its diversity: “The security one feels from a solid marriage gives the heart space to love others — lots of others.”

It just so happens that I needed to be reminded of this principle -- the expansive power that comes from “love with a focus” -- this weekend, as I took, what was for me, a major plunge: diving headfirst into the world called “Facebook”. For a very long time, and at the frustration of friends and family, I avoided creating a “personal” page, fearing burial in an avalanche of relationships. Knowing well my mortality and therefore, limitations, I knew I could not personally take care of everyone who called me “friend”.

Of course, came the dawn (and the decision to move forward) when I comprehended that 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; for 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.

As Mason puts it: “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.”

I must admit though, it is comforting to the piece of me that wants to “save the world” on some grand scale, that, in fact, 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 than any other pursuit: hence, my tardiness in getting this Musing scratched out today and neglecting the sweet people who are waiting to be Facebook friends...

I’ve been making a special Sunday dinner for my special everyday family.

First Days in the Temple

2011-07-10T19:23:00.001-07:00

Escort: accompanying another for protection, guidance, or courtesy.

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.

The home that holds 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.

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.

As an eighteen-year-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.

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.

Two hours later, I was sealed for time and all eternity to her son.

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.

My poor mother-in-law was watched like a hawk and peppered with "why" and "what does that mean" and "how do I...'s"' 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:

"Safety pin your locker key to the inside of your stocking."

Say what?

"That way it won't jingle in your pocket when you walk."

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.

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.

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 I had followed for twenty-plus years --

she said the most astounding thing:

"What are you doing THAT for?"

Say what?

"Why are you pinning the key inside your stocking?"

Ahhhh...you told me to?

(Shaking of the head.) "That's the silliest thing I ever heard of."

****************************

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:

Don't forget the Kleenex.
Only wash whites with whites.
Clip the hem of your dress to a skirt hanger when you store it in a hanging bag.
(and last but not least)
A pocket is THE best place to stash your locker key.

Of course since the temple is all about relationships, information, and forever, it seems perfectly appropriate for Hannah and Funke to cherish my advice like doctrine for the rest of their lives.
At least until they figure out a better way.
Or until I forget it.

Whichever comes first.

Muse with me: What advice do you remember from your first visit to the temple?

More musing on my relationship with my beloved mother-in-law:
Imitating Mother
Cherry-ty (Over-Chocolate) Never Faileth
Whose Body is it Anyway?

The Windows of Heaven

2011-07-03T07:39:00.000-07:00

"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." Face the Future with Faith, Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

*******************************************

The United States Dollar (USD) and the Great British Pound (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!

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: 'It was worth it.'...'once-in-a-lifetime'...'think of the memories!'. However, the best antidote to sticker shock I've found yet is to "remember, remember"... (Alma 5:5-7 and Pres. Henry B. Eyring)

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 for 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.

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.

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! But those kind of Red Sea Partings, though absolutely true, are not typical testimonies.

What IS typical happened years later when our little kids were a little older.

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.

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. 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.

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? 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.

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. 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.

*******************************************

"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.)

Muse with me: What blessings have you received from paying tithes?

Galaxy Quest: Advice for Parents Who Want to Know

2011-06-26T05:11:00.000-07:00

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 Saturday night last night: a mega bowl of popcorn and a popular movie silly. "Galaxy Quest."

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.

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.

There are some things, however, I remember with absolute clarity. This is the biggest: I LOVED being a mommy. I loved every stage of being a mommy: infants, toddlers, elementary school, tweens, teens, young adults: bring it on. However, I am sure now that I am different now. That is what going through all those stages does to a woman. Grandma’s hair turns silver so that her children will know she is different; so that, as adults, they will forgive and revere her. The wiry head is a lopsided crown proclaiming: I did it. I was imperfect, but I did it.

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: Do not listen to anyone else’s ideas about parenting. It’s your baby, and no one else can tell you how to parent. My darling Two-Plus was amazed.

Her friend’s green-counsel reminds me of a Jerry Seinfeld 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.’ ‘But Dad,’ you whisper, ‘they came from another galaxy! I think they know how to pack.’

I admit I am increasingly wrinkled, shrinking, and poofy, but I am not an alien. Whatever worthy advice I can offer younger mommies and daddies is because I am human too. 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.... Buuuut if you aren’t interested in becoming the wiser-then-I-was (because the only “how-to” you trust is the book you wrote yourself) then all I can tell you is how it feels to live with the consequences.

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. But for today, standing here in the driveway, surmising all the bags and equipment you have yet to pack, my best advice is to go get some more. ADVICE that is. The parents who have earned their silver crown have a wealth of valuable information.

Toss the “feed-Baby-pureed-liver” prattle if you want (I'm not talking about heeding Know-It-Alls) , but 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, make notes, and then -- if I were you -- take a picture together. When younger people come to you for your experience someday, you’ll need proof that the kids were once short; natural color hair was normal; and -- though they have long since returned to the stars -- it was wizened, generous aliens who helped you sort the car for that family trip.

Muse with me: What's the best parenting advice you have ever received?

Related Musings:
everything under
Musings On Our Relationships with Kiddos
(left side bar)

Father's Day Detour

2011-06-19T00:18:00.000-07:00

Thirty-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.

To see what has become of us, or rather, what has become of HIM, please visit my Father's Day musing at Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance.

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!

May the women in your life appreciate and respect you.

You're Home Now

2011-06-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

“This was a real, truly live place….I remember that some of it wasn’t very nice…but most of 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 like home.” Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz

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.

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).

And where were my friends? After high school or college, we’d scattered like the children of Israel.

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.

It scared and dismayed me--being so far from “home”.

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 their sake as well as my own, so a good fairy was sent on the errand; an angel named Aunt Athlene, my mother’s sister.

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:

What you need to understand, darling,” she began gently, “is that you do not have “A” home. Rather, you have many homes -- or you WILL have many homes -- as a woman. There will always be the “home” of your childhood, but you also have the “home” of your 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!”

She laughed.

“You will see with time,” she continued, “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?”

I have mused a lot this 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 thirteen months ago I was leaving the U.S. for a place called England.

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 discomfiting that the flesh of it all, the people, cannot be shipped with the furniture. The only place for them is in my heart.

Aunt Athlene was right: 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.

So say it I must: good-bye wonderful London --you're (another) “home” now.

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”
Maya Angelou

Muse with me: are you "home"?

Click on the ruby slippers to watch a music video you may get as hooked on as I have:
"There Is No Place Like Home"

Colleen's Gift

2011-06-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

And again, verily thus saith the Lord: Let the work of my temple, and all the works 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, and you shall in nowise lose your reward, saith the Lord of Hosts. (D&C 127:4. See also D&C 97:8-9)

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; using their background as Americans to help the Kingdom grow and stabilize in corners of the vineyard light years away from Salt Lake City.

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 Ballroom Dancers 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.)

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 Seminary and to preside over the Young Women organization (concurrently!) and I asked her to visit teach 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?)

Twice at my request, 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.

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 my 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.

“When you came to England from the states, Mona -” she said - “I 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...

"I know too, that you believed the day had finally come when you could indulge in study and writing and theater-going, 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.”

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.

“In Seminary last week,” she continued, “we learned all about the Kirtland Temple. 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.”

I nodded thoughtfully, having told the same story myself in Seminary and Gospel Doctrine classes.

“The kids were interested,” she smiled, “when I produced a cup of my own bone china.” (I could easily believe Colleen had bone china: her collection of internationally-acquired valuables was exquisite.) “But boy were they surprised when I also brought out a hammer!” Colleen laughed at the memory. “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.”

I was incredulous too: I have longed for a bone-china tea set since childhood. “You broke it?!”

“Oh yes,” she affirmed, “and I saved the pieces in the cup’s original box. Now, I wondered, what shall I do with this broken china?”

She pulled out a small blue box and rattled the contents.

“That’s when I thought of you, 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.”

That blue box has 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.

I’m going to give Colleen's gift to the new Relief Society President.

Muse with me: What about your broken china?
(If you have a related post on your blog, please share.)

Watch "The Building of the Kirtland Temple"

Related Musings: Love Makes the World Go Round

What You Don't Have or Have Lost

Beautifully related musings by fellow musers:
Visiting Teaching at LDS Women of God

Imagine a Life

2011-05-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Imagine life fighting for life and you can imagine my sisters.

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 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.

One day, while discussing the purpose of suffering 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.

“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 while on earth, through opposition, to prepare for all the rest.” I swept my hand around the room. “Is it any wonder then that with so much to learn in such a short time [pointing at the dot], that life is a crash course?”

They looked thoughtful.

“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.

Suddenly, a voice from the back rang out: “That may be YOUR life Mona,” (referring to the smooth line with a couple of hiccups), “but it’s not mine!”

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.

“That’s not my point.” I answered carefully. “This little line is not MY life. This line is NOBODY’S LIFE.”

It got very quiet.

“Would you like to see MY life?” I raised the pen impulsively. “This is MY life.”

Then with emotion that startled everyone, including me, I drew an EKG that looked like a woman having a heart attack.

“That’s MY life!” I finished. They were stunned.

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. “I worry for YOU,” she said, turning the conversation in a surprising direction. “I watch how happy you are, and I think, she is going to get hurt.”

The next day I got an email from another sister (one whom I knew was under terrific strain) that read: “Thank you for your example, dear Mona. I watch how happy you are and I think, WOW – she can only be that happy because she's been through a lot.”

Wow is right. One sister assumed I was happy because of the ABSENCE of adversity in my life and the other thought I was happy BECAUSE of it!

I mused over that for 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 lack 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. Our Little Dots, our ”small moments” (D&C 121:7-8), may be going haywire more often 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, for a FULNESS of JOY (D&C 122:5-8), which IS coming.

And imagining THAT life is what makes me happiest of all.

"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…” (Isaiah 61:3)

Photography by Dreamstime

Beautifully related post by fellow Muser, Momza at MMB:
Growing Roots

Muse with me: What do you imagine life is about?

Riveted

2011-05-22T00:14:00.000-07:00

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 Middle East: 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...

Stockholm, Sweden

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 Communists. (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.

Tiberius, Israel

We enter another orthodox church of stone, built on a holy site, predictably full of wooden pews, stained glass windows, and shrines of golden saints. 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 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.

Jerusalem, Israel

From this hill, our three Israeli companions point out The Church of Holy Sepulcher, the Dome of the Rock, and the “Mormon University” on the opposite slope. Did you know we are Mormon, we ask? Surprised faces. We did not! We have some questions for you, 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. And as the day progressed, Moti made it clear that he practiced his religion, but moderately. Why? I had asked all three. Why do you believe and live as you do? Shlomi shrugged, Benji smiled, and Moti looked thoughtful, but their answers were word for word the same: I was raised that way.

Nazareth, Northern Israel

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 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? I am. Yet you give tours of the Holy Land. Yes, I enjoy the faith of the Christians and wish I could believe too. Why don’t you? I was raised in a Kibbutz as an Atheist.

**********************************************************

These and dozens of other experiences 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 hearts of the children."

I will treat the little people at church today with increased respect, and cannot help wishing, as a precursor to the wish for world peace, that all grown-ups would do the same for children EVERYWHERE.

Muse with me: How might this perspective affect the way you teach children?

Highly recommended/ directly related
post by fellow Muser, Bri Colorful:
Determined

Photos of children''s faces from Dreamstime

The Givers

2011-05-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

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: I had to let others serve ME.

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. It’s an honor to serve you, he said.

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. 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 who is serving who.

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.

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”. Rather, they revered her as their “Teacher”, even “Mentor” in the ways of patience, endurance, and unconditional love.

That is when I began to wonder: what is it about society that makes “HELP” a four-letter word? 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”?

The big news, that Ashley has spent her thirty-one years broadcasting (though she has never spoken a word), is that somebody has to be served in order for the rest of us to feel good about ourselves; somebody has to humble themselves so that the rest of us can grow; someone has to come to earth in challenging circumstances so that those around her can be proved.

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. Think on THIS: Even God expects us to serve Him! The LORD of the Universe asks for our help, allows our help, even commands our help. WHY does HE want OUR help?!

Could it be because He knows all progress, the essence of the gospel, is based in Community and Reciprocity?

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?”

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 “The Givers”.

Related Musings: Angel Talkin'
and Match Made in Heaven

Muse with me: Are you a giver or a receiver?

Beautifully related posts by fellow Musers this week:
Special mail to Aileen from her friend.a touching post at The Alan and Lois Brown Family;.
Scarily Delicious, for a childlike view on "helping" at Crumb Crunchers;
Good Better Best, another fun one at A Splash of Life;
and Lisa reminds me why I braved surgery with
Running? at Nick and Lisa and Kids.

Toughing It Out

2011-05-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

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, I realized that this country, colored at that moment by the most fantastic sunset, was more alive and exciting than ever, only because Hungarians know too well how to tough it out.

Back in London, I received 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!”

“Are you saying that every day of your whole marriage has been totally unhappy?” My fingers flew in panic.

“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!”

Now I know for a fact that her husband is far from terrible and that she has been far from miserable. There is something about that fifth principle of the gospel: enduring to the end, which the Adversary takes particular exception with. 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 parenthood.

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.

“My grandmother,” he said, as we sat on a stone wall (the ruins of some empire or another), “has seen it all.”

“How did she survive?” I had to know.

“She just didn’t get worked up over things.” (I looked surprised.) “She knew everything would pass.”

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: most of what we get worked up over is not here to stay. Our womanly days are rarely catastrophic; they just require coping – which, often enough -- is victory
enough.

Muse with me: Do you agree?

Beautifully related posts by fellow Musers this week: When in the Depths of the Sea or Enveloped by Fog at Valerie's Attempt at Pondering; We Came Here to FINISH the Race at Smith Family Crazies; Ever have one of "those" days at Domestic Diva Dishes All

For more pictures of Budapest, visit Mona's Musings on Facebook

Finding Zion

2011-05-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

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 Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance, 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.

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 world that felt like a guidebook. At church though, I assumed I would be find instant and comfy assimilation.

Cue the proverbial-culture-shock: we stood on, what to me, felt like an island called the Staines Ward: 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 that dissolved the window between us.

When I walked into the chapel that morning, I felt drawn to the woman on the other side of the room. She watched me with a shy smile, perfect teeth and wide eyes glistening against a chocolate face. After Relief Society, she inched her way to me, ready to make contact, her beauty even more breathtaking at close range.

"I love your hair," she said.

What? It took me a split second to process her Nigerian spin on English. My hair? My hair is a mass of coarse curls, once brown, now streaked with unruly silver. I dislike it very much most days.

"I love your eyes and face and make-up," she continued passionately.

Blue eyes, white face, Bare Minerals.

"I love the way you talk -- and I loooove," (emphasis on love), "the way you dress."

Without taking my eyes off hers, I mentally compared a blue blazer and black skirt with her flowing...Flamboyant... FLORESCENT --

Oh my! She thinks I'm EXOTIC!

Sound of break glass.

A week later I was called as Relief Society President of two hundred women from twenty different nations: a village with too many windows to look like 'Mormonville' to me, but nevertheless, built on the foundation of apostles and prophets; one faith and one baptism (Ephesians 4 & Mosiah 18). My sole journal entry for 11 July 2010 reads: "God help me.God
help me."

He did. He showed me that you cannot pack a box with scrapbooks, funeral potatoes, and snicker-doodle props, stamp it "Mormon Women" and ship it overseas. He taught me about the real Zion, a phenomenon that will not be defined or contained that way: it is organic. It breathes and grows and if necessary, shatters silly notions in order to expand (D&C 82:14). 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 dangle like a prism there, spinning in the sunlight.

Muse with me: What does Zion mean to you? What experiences have you had in the church that relate to the ideal of Zion?

REDIRECT (the story of my life)

2011-04-15T03:32:00.000-07:00

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: Mona's Musings With a Hint of Romance.

You are of course, welcome to settle in and gorge yourself on the essays here at Mona's Gospel Musings until my return to it each Sunday, beginning May 1st. As always, if you become a real follower of Mona's Gospel Musings (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.

See you at our rendezvous and back here soon!

OH! And see ya everyday at Mona's Musings on Facebook....

Imitating Mother

2009-05-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

"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." (2 Corinthians 3:19)

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 had known her. And then I realized...

if you know me, you know something about LeOra.

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: “LeOra! She’s LeOra! ” Sweethearts since childhood, he remembered her well at the same age: eighteen.

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.

“Ramona,” she said, “You are LeOra.”

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.

But it was more than that.

She was my mother.

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.

In my first year of marriage, I watched with awe as she just talked to people. How did she do that, converse with so much ease? Each person she spoke to was touched and uplifted by the simplest comment, the most ordinary communication. How did she do that? I wanted to be that.

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.

"Mom,” I often phoned, “How do you...” and then I’d ask a question so basic it would be embarrassing to ask anyone else.

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 watched her puttering around the yard.

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.

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.

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.

She taught me to not be afraid of missionary work, or trials, or repentance.

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.

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.

The last words she heard were mine: "I love you Mother.”

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 remember her, by representing her, for the rest of my life.

I’m not worried about what happens after that because when the Lord releases me from mortality she will come for me.

And then all I will have to do is imitate mother.

Muse with me: Who have you tried to emulate? Who are you trying to lead to Christ through your example?

Match Made in Heaven

2009-05-10T00:16:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day! This Musing was written for you and all the mommies at Mormon Mommy Blogs! 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 day is a “akin to a holy day" there! (You will forgive me for not mentioning Daddies this week – especially if you will read The Final Test of True Manhood.)

Mother, I love you.
Mother I do.
Father in Heaven has sent me to you.
(Primary songbook, #207)

“Shall we excuse the Sunbeams early today?”

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.

Twenty-four hours later I had a run-in with Bandito at the town saloon (Applebees at 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.

“Mommy!” he whooped, “The Curly Lady said Heavenly Father sent me to YOU!”

His delightful interpretation of lyrical doctrine gave my curly head lots to muse about this week: Does Heavenly Father send specific spirits to specific women for specific reasons? What about my own four children?

In youth, I felt impervious 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 I knew before the doctors knew. Twenty-nine years later, I bathe, dress, transport and feed her, aaannnd don’t-u-know: that’ll mold or melt a person.

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.

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.

Musing on these things, I couldn’t help humming “Mother I love you…” over and over this week. With each repetition of “Father in Heaven has sent me to you…” I felt the Spirit bear testimony to its truthfulness. THERE IS A REASON.

Our omnipotent Father planted me in my circumstances. He also planted them. I am THEIR mama because of what I, in particular, can do for them; that is the more obvious truth. My every breath is for their sake. What has not always been so obvious is that they are my children because of what they can do for me. 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.

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 their particular range…

BECAUSE that IS exactly where they are supposed to be.

Related Musings: Romance the Heart
and Old Beginnings

Muse with me:
How do you see a Heavenly Hand in the making of your family?

DEEElightful...for you AND the kiddos!

The Final Test of True Manhood

2009-05-03T15:49:00.000-07:00

“When one puts business or pleasure above his home, he that moment starts on the downgrade 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 he has failed to measure up to the supreme opportunity of his life and flunked in the final test of true manhood. ... 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 home God can work miracles and will work miracles.” (Pres. David O. McKay, 2005 PH/RS Manual, 148-149)

There! 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 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.

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.

‘Twas not always thus. We have done our time crawling like beggars through the 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.

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…

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.

Then it came, the last proverbial straw; a certified “threat” from the electric company, delivered 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 nothing left. We were paupers, temporally and emotionally.

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. All of a sudden I comprehended, like I never had before, the immense burden my husband carried being wholly responsible for the lives of six people.

That eye-opener established a new empathetic undergirding in my relationships with 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.

The birthday wish I gave Dale yesterday reflected the understanding I gained all those years ago:

“…you provided beautifully and at great strain and sacrifice through the decades,” I wrote, “…so that our children are raised and providing essentially for themselves now. You did it. They never went cold or hungry or felt deprived in any way; quite the opposite. And our sweet Ashley has 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.

"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. Our union is so complete we can weather anything and live anywhere and in any situation together. This is perhaps the most important outcome of your 32 years of devotion.

"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. You have blessed us, like a true Father in every way. I pray that God will bless you with continued joy and progress in your career at this point, for your OWN sake, as you so richly deserve.”

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.

But the tidy garage comforted him most.

“After all,” he said, “if worse comes to worse, at least we’ve got the space now to hold a moving sale!”

Related Musings: What You Don't Have or Have Lost
and Belonging

Muse with me SISTERS:
How does your husband or the men in your life contribute to your family in a positive way? (And send your husbands to comment too please -- we would LOVE a man's point of view on this...)
Muse with me BROTHERS:
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?

MORE: The Proclamation on the Family

The Brightest Generation

2009-04-26T20:03:00.000-07:00

And now, as the preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just – yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or anything else, which had happened unto them --- therefore Alma thought it was expedient that they should try the virtue of the word of God. (Alma 31:5)

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) this 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 how she beat them.

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…

In teaching four years of Seminary, 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.

I had been a presenter on the Church Education System’s Especially for Yo ut h 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: the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Here is the actual class description from the printed EFY program:

“What is our greatest potential? Is 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 to us in the pre-mortal life, we must have wondered how it was possible. This class is for the serious student of the gospel who is interested in exploring Father’s Plan of Happiness as we must have contemplated it preparatory to entering mortality. We can find our place in this world when we comprehend our beautiful beginnings and divine destination. Bring your scriptures.”

Based on this preview (I had composed it more as a warning), I expected relative 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 - in droves – eventually filling every available chair.

Yiks! I thought. What a rambunctious crowd! Some of them look downright scary. Oh, WHY hadn’t I had put together a slide show or at least a personal anecdote or two - or a hundred?! Sweaty palms made my scriptures sticky.

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. The most earnest kids might stick it out, I thought. Maybe my best hope was to excuse the tag-alongs, the kids who would prefer a class on dating. I decided to offer an escape.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

That’ll do it, I thought; then braced myself for an outbreak of sidebar discussions and clanking metal chairs.

But nothing happened. No one stirred.

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.

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.

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 - and many experiences since have reinforced the fact - that the class' success had nothing to do with me. It had everything to do with serving the doctrine of Christ “straight up” to young latter-day minds, naturally inquisitive and basically brilliant.

Related Musings: Romance the Heart
and Come to Church

Muse with me: What evidence of spiritual talent do you see in the children and youth of the church today, including those in your own home?

Elisabeth's little one falls asleep with her Book of Mormon.

MORE: "Teaching True Doctrine" by President Henry D. Eyring

Hawaiian Magic

2009-04-19T19:15:00.000-07:00

"It seems like such a simple thing, but how much time do we spend laughing with our spouses and enjoying their company? In our daily interactions, appropriate humor can defuse tense situations and counter negative reactions to some of the troubles of life. Laughter and a cheerful disposition can create a bond of friendship. They are medicine for the heart and lighten the troubled soul.” (Carin Lund, Ensign, August 2000)

You know how relatively little time Dale and I have together because of his business travels. So, it was a twist of irony that -- when he finally lined up a whole week at home earlier this month -- circumstances took ME away to Florida (Dream H o use), while HE stayed home with Ashley (Angel Talkin). I consoled myself musing about “compensatory blessings” (What You D on’t Have or Have Lost) 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.

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! 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. 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 “Solving the World’s Problems.”

We also like to reminisce, as most couples do, or should. 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 the right dose of perspective: the best possible prescription.

This is what we remembered…

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.

Our reminicing 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.

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 which ruffled our hair sent pink clouds chasing across an amber sky. Flaming torches lit our faces...which occasionally broke from concentrating on each other, to look out over the violet sea; sails and ships were silhouetted against a glorious sunset.

It was the beginning - and the end - of a dream come true.

The next day, we decided to snorkel off Hanauma Bay. 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-violet 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 last time he moved with ease on our entire vacation.

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. What was that big, red balloon I used to call my face?! I had no eyes, no nose, no chin; just a bloated crimson sphere with a crop of curls on top.

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.

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 chlorine! 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 -- nothing would stop that itch. 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.

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 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".

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 Dole pineapple, cry a little at Pearl Harbor, and sit very still in the canoes of the Polynesian Culture Center.

As we waved Hawaii good-bye from the clouds, we knew that the “next time” we would give ourselves at least three weeks: the first for exposing ourselves to the hostile Hawaiian environment, the second for recovery, and the third...well, we never really did have that Honolulu honeymoon. Although...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.

Oh. And a lot of wonderful conversation.

Muse with me: How have you seen enjoyable conversation strengthen your marriage or other's marriages? Though there's not a Hawaiian Vacation drawing for commentors on this one -- how about dinner for two? On May 17th, I'll draw for a $30 gift certificate to the favorite chain restaurant of a lucky fellow Muser and their honey.

Talented Musers and a Winner!

2009-04-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

You make me feel like singing and dancing! Kudos to follower friends who mused on The Kids Have Got Talent and Romance the Heart! 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 Random.org True Random Number Generator and pop! up came the number 35, which correlated to SERENE!

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!

P.S. Sorry this is late...I was in the hospital on the afore-appointed date for the "drawing"!

Dream House

2009-04-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

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.

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 little 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.

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!”

I bit my tongue for the entire ten seconds it took to back out of the driveway.

“You are such a man.”

“What?”

“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.”

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 whole world – but at least that neighborhood)…white picket fences, trees and flowers, bright paint, cars resting on tires not blocks – it was a dream!

“There! There!” I shouted. “Look at that one!”

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.

“I can’t afford it Mom.”

“You don’t know that! Let’s just stop. Stop! Stop!”

We stopped.

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.

He let me call the number on the sign in the window.

Imagine his surprise…the thrill us professional shoppers know too well…the electricity that fills the universe when you turn over the price tag and see numbers YOU CAN COMPREHEND! It was exactly in his price range with extras and pluses out the ying-yang. We were home.

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 they were all flying away before we moved into our “dream” house. It’s okay. The home I really want is still being built on the ultimate “Street of Dreams”.

Has anyone else ever thought about this? 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 that it will be whatever I want 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. (1 Cor. 2:9)

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.

Elder George Q. Cannon: “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 give them celestial glory…celestial glory is our aim…All that I am on this earth for is to get celestial glory.”

When I think of my children and grandchildren gathered on a celestial Sabbath; 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 more valiant, more committed, more courageous, more brilliant, more capable, more loving, more glorious than I EVER am as my fallen, natural, mortal-thinking self.

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.

Related Musings: "Wish List"
and"The Flying Dream"

Muse with me: Which of the images comes closest to your idea of the Celestial Kingdom? What are your dreams for your Dream House?

We Love Those We Know

2009-04-05T10:01:00.000-07:00

“Hold hands.” My little ones trailed behind me out of the chapel - right in the middle of a session. (This was before we could watch Conference on BYU-TV at home.) Everyone assumed we were heading for a potty break, but we went straight to the cultural hall. Even though row upon row of metal folding chairs sat empty during Saturday sessions, the audio from the satellite broadcast was still fed into the big room. Organ, choir, and prayers reverberated off the high ceiling and wooden gymnasium floor. The volume and resonance were perfect for the game we were about to play.

“Okay. Who’s THAT?” I whispered, positioning my kiddos at center court.

They concentrated on the deep voice coming from the speakers and filling the hall. (Attendance at all four sessions of conference had been a tradition for as long as they could remember and this game was a highlight, so they getting pretty good at it.)

“Elder Scott!” Their little feet left the ground as they recognized the lulling, deliberate style of Richard G. Scott.

“Good job! Oh wait! He’s done! Now, who’s THAT?” I challenged.

This one was too easy. “President Hinckley!” they chimed together.

His beloved tone of voice represented ALL of the general authorities somehow. The way Gordon B. Hinckley pronounced the word “grreaaat” had always impressed me; I automatically hear it to this day when I read that particular word in scripture, as in “grreaaat and terrible” or “greaaat and spacious…”

I wanted my children to love his voice (and all the Brethren) with the same intensity I did. The belief in the divine inspiration of their calling sparked to life in my youth...

My family was on the grounds of Temple Square during one of our visits with Utah relatives, when suddenly, I felt my mother rush up from behind me, grab me by the shoulders, and propel me with alarming urgency towards the Tabernacle. An old man was moving away from an open door there and people were gathering around him. With a degree of determination and boldness uncharacteristic of my mother, she shoved our way through the crowd until I was standing at his feet. I had no idea what had just happened or why.

He looked down at me. His gentle eyes never left mine as my mother panted, “President Tanner, THIS is my daughter, Ramona.” It was certain that I had never heard that kind of awe and pride in her voice.

I was so young, I don’t remember then if he said anything. I don’t remember if I said anything. What I remember most, and still can’t totally explain, is how important it was to my mother.

We were not active in the church as a family. I had never seen or heard of President N. Eldon Tanner. There were four other children in our family standing nearby. Why she singled me out and hustled me into that opportunity -- just so completely unlike her to be aggressive or assertive in any situation – baffled me for years. Sifting again and again through the details, I find it stirring that she presented me – not herself – to this Apostle of the Lord. He never heard her name or shook her hand.

Years later, my father was cooking a meal for a party of stake leaders and visiting authorities in-between sessions of stake conference. Everyone knew my dad would not be attending the meetings himself, but he was agreeable to lending his experience in the kitchen for church functions. Someone (probably me) came up with the idea of the Beehive class acting as servers at the sit-down affair.

In our look-alike aprons of yellow gingham, my best friend Becky and I assigned ourselves to the “head” table. Sometime during the course of our labors, President Ezra Taft Benson noticed my name tag. He took me by the hand and surprised everyone as he began to sing the old ballad:

Ramona, when day is done I hear you call -
Ramona, I see you by the waterfall...

My dad came out of the kitchen for the first time that day - and watched. It was certain I had never seen that kind of awe and pride in his face.

I don’t remember now if President Benson sang the whole song, or only a few lines. I don’t remember if I blushed or giggled. What I remember most is how important it was to my father. Why he stood in that doorway and made no move to insert himself into the situation – just so completely unlike him to remain in the background in any situation - has baffled me for years. Sifting through the details, I am touched that he allowed me – not himself – to receive attention from the prophet of the Lord.

***********************

The name of “Neal A. Anderson” was read over the Conference Center pulpit yesterday. Thirteen years ago he gave an address called “Teaching Our Children to Love the Prophets”. In it he describes how a group of deacons could list every player and position on the Atlanta Braves but when asked the names of the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve, were completely stumped. He counteracts the assertion that their message is more important than their names with the point that if our children do not know their names "they most likely will not know their messages either...

“Our family has mostly lived in the eastern part of the United States. On the weekend of general conference, we would spend Saturday and Sunday at the stake center viewing the conference by satellite transmission. Sometimes, as our children were asked to dress in their Sunday clothes on Saturday morning, spirits were less than enthusiastic. Few other young children of the stake went to the stake center on Saturday to view general conference. Yet it is when children are young that parents must be innovative in helping them develop good habits regarding conference participation. As our children are given opportunities to observe and learn the role of these special witnesses, they will receive a spiritual confirmation of the sacred calling of their Church leaders, and they will feel a deeper love for and interest in these leaders and their message.”

It is especially interesting that in this address, Elder Anderson recalls standing with his parents in a long line, awaiting the chance to shake an apostle’s hand. “I have never forgotten the feelings I had," he says, "as I met the Lord’s servants.” I also treasure those feelings, but even more impressive to me as a child, was the the impact of those occasions on my PARENTS.

Related Musings: "The Holy Men"
and "Romance the Heart"

Muse with me: What experiences and feelings do you recall as a child that have affected your testimony of the prophets today? How have you shared that testimony with the little people and youth in your life?

Romance the Heart

2009-03-29T05:58:00.000-07:00

I was momentarily dumbfounded.

“The LAST row?” I gasped to the usher.

“Nooo,” he smiled reassuringly. “The TOP row.”

Even from this vantage point at base camp, I could see that our seats butted against a cement wall at the summit far, far away. It made me woozy just thinking of getting there. However, my honey and I are good sports (after all, we’d come for a sporting event) and since our “group” was already ensconced at the zenith of Section 316, we began the assent.

We fell naturally into a form of “lead climbing” where Dale tugged me along by the hand in lieu of a rope around the waist. I needed it, because I had a hard time focusing on the steep steps I was so distracted by the carnival environment. The Rose Garden Arena on game night is like any other professional sporting venue I’m sure, but I’ve not been to many, and not for a long time. The faces spray-painted red and black, the helium Ford floating overhead, the pounding rock music, and exposed mid-riffs of the “stunt team” had me on sensory overload.

Just to show how dizzy I’d gotten, when the announcer boomed that everyone would get a free chalupa from Taco Bell if the Trailblazers racked up a hundred-plus points that night, I was stupefied. My mind conjured up the image of a crazed kitchen staff churning out 20,000 chalupas while a frenzied chef kept tabs on the action:
“They just hit 99!”

Dale told me we’d get coupons.

The Blazers did score well over 100 points that night, but we didn’t get our coupons, because we left before the guys in baggy shorts had swooshed their fifteenth basket. You see, we weren’t there for Greg Oden or Brandon Roy. We were there for Matt Erickson.

When Matt strode to the center of the court, microphone in hand, everyone stood up. The raucous rank and file shushed and stood still – thousands of eyes and ears zeroed in on Matt. I couldn’t get over how his face glowed with confidence (as seen on the Jumbotron from Section 316) even as he began singing a cappella in a key I was SURE was too high for his range: “Ohhhh, say can you see?....” Lucky for Matt, there was magic in the air – the man could do no wrong: he was in his element. Every note billowed with bravado:

“The laaand of the –- “ (here it comes) “--FRRREEEE-“

He nailed it! THE- CROWD- WENT- WILD!

When I was a teen and young adult, everyone assumed I was Broadway bound. As it turned out, my audiences have averaged around two, three, or four loyal fans. On a big night I might pack the house with six or eight. They are the same ones also (well actually, the only ones) who go “wild” over my performances. Interestingly, they all have the same last name as I do and have all been shorter than me for most of my off-Broadway run. No sir-ee, I cannot ask for a more illustrious career or a more ardent fan club ‘cuz when Mommy sings, she can do NO wrong.

Feeling good about that began many years ago when I attended a keynote presentation at a Florida homeschool convention I’ve never forgotten. The speaker, a beautiful young father with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a pony-tail dangling down his back, appeared unconventional to be sure, but I was intrigued with the message. He and his wife, in-between their folksy musical numbers, were telling ten thousand parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents that we needed to “romance the hearts” of our children. The phrase was lovely: “romance the heart” - but what did it mean?

This dad explained that there is joy and family unity in “dazzling” children with our gifts and talents. Win their love and loyalty, he said, by sharing with them your genuine passions.

It’s true, I thought. Little children are arrested, if not beguiled, by unadulterated, authentic enthusiasm. They can resist or dismiss counterfeit zeal, forced fervor, or rules-without-reason, but they are easily caught up in anything presented with true delight and excitement. Suddenly, I saw child-like wonder as a precious window of opportunity. The Spirit whispered; Thrill your children with your real, best self. Who needs the world?! Memories of singing and drawing and cooking and gardening and throwing and catching and dancing and reading and racing and praying with my children flooded my imagination. How many times had their eyes glistened with gratitude and admiration: "I love you, mommy” or "Good job mommy!"

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!
Book of Beginnings, Story without End;
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, as quoted by Pres. Thomas S. Monson in “A Lighthouse of the Lord”, Ensign, Feb. 2001)

As I thought on my gifts, I knew my greatest passion was my love of the gospel; my happiness in Christ. It was suddenly clear that if I relished my callings and praised my leaders with sincerity; if I “delighteth in the scriptures” so that Restoration doctrine spilled out all over, “speaking of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up”; if I “gloried” in "my Jesus", my soul “delighting” in the “things of the Lord”, who could deny that it would be to the “learning and profit of my children”? (2nd Nephi 4:15-16, Deuteronomy 11:18-19, 2 Nephi 31:6) THIS, I realized, was the most precious opportunity of all to “romance the hearts” of my children.

As we drove home from the Rose Garden Monday night. Dale made the observation that singing the National Anthem at a sporting event is just a tad different than strutting your stuff on American Idol. In the latter case, he said, you’re being scrutinized and shredded by millions of couch critics, while at a ball game, every spectator in the arena is cheering you on, humming along -- your voice belongs to them. So it is with our kiddos, I thought -- times a hundred.

Imagining a little child in the lap of the Savior, I realized that His commandment to “let your light so shine” (Matt. 5:16) applies nowhere more than in our own homes, where EVERYone has a court-side seat.

Muse with me: what is your experience or take on sharing your talents, gifts, passions or testimony with the children in your life?

On April 11th, I will be conducting a random drawing for an ice cream parlor gift coupon from all those who "muse" with me on this Musing as well as last week's The Kids Have Got Talent! Take the kids out for ice cream!

A Grandstand Living Room Performance
by mom

2009-03-27T13:47:00.000-07:00

MONA'S MUSINGS MILESTONE

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The Kids Have Got Talent

2009-03-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

“Very nice dear. NEEEXT!!!

I probably said that well….ah….FOUR HUNDRED TIMES. (Exaggeration not included.) Yes, one of my all-time greatest accomplishments in this life, is that I listened politely to hundreds of little girls sing: “ToMORrow! ToMORrow! I LOVE ya ToMORrow!” one by one by one by one by one – and was still a nice person at the end of the day. At least, I thought I was nice. A poll of the 400+ stage mothers who believed their little girl should be cast as “Annie”, might have read differently.

I have learned valuable lessons from mothers and fathers throughout twenty-five years of directing live theater. Actually, in all that time, only one disgruntled mother confronted me. (I suspect I’m still on her hit-list.) Otherwise, I found moms and dads to be incredibly generous, supporting the organization in any way they could. Whyyyy? The predominant reason by far was a deep-seated commitment on the part of the parents to facilitate their child’s happiness and development.

Born of my experience working with families in the performing arts and my personal experience as a stage mom myself, I have cultivated a two-part philosophy about such things. The first part boils down to this: my responsibility as parent is to help my kids chose and develop TALENTS. Notice I did not say “their” talents. That’s because I personally believe talents are skills we select to learn and master to some useful degree. We don’t really “own” them. Choose a talent, any talent, if you will – then go for it. Those we acquire can then be used to our own happiness and to the benefit of our families and the Kingdom.

On the other hand, it is also my experience that we are all born with “GIFTS”: attributes or abilities that come to us naturally. A classic example is Mozart, who was wowing everyone with his musical genius by age four. According to Elder Bruce R. McConkie, this was because the composer had a head-start -- a pre-mortal disposition and aptitude:

“Being subject to law, and having their agency, all the spirits of men, while yet in the Eternal Presence, developed aptitude, talents, capacities, and abilities of every sort, kind, and degree. During the long expanse of life which then was, an infinite variety of talents and abilities came into being. As the ages rolled, no two spirits remained alike. Mozart became a musician; Einstein centered his interest in mathematics; Michelangelo turned his attention to painting….Abraham and Moses all of the prophets sought and obtained the talent of spiritualities…And so it went through all the hosts of heaven, each individual developing such talent and abilities as his soul desired.” (Teachings of the Latter-day Prophets” SLC: the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1986.)

We know the Source-of-All-Good-Gifts (Moroni 10:18) shares our joy as we “discover” and develop the gifts he has given us for the express purpose of blessing others. (D&C 46:12)

Dale took me with him to London last fall and the highlight for me was Westminster Abbey. I was filled with the Spirit as we looked upon the graves and memorials of the world’s most celebrated poets, musicians, inventors, scientists, statesmen and soldiers. These are they who have played their part in the Great Plan of Happiness, I thought. And they did it by using their gifts. I feel the same way when I visit the Church Museum near Temple Square and walk through the portrait gallery of modern prophets and apostles.

However, to use our gifts, we first must DISCOVER, or discern, them. And to discover them, we often need support, usually from our families, particularly our parents. Christy Brown was an Irishman born with cerebral palsy, who had control only of his left foot. Though non-verbal, his keen mind was desperate for expression. Everyone in his environment discouraged him from attempts to hold a paint brush or a pencil between the toes of his left foot. Everyone, that is, except his mother. With her encouragement, Christy went on to reveal himself as both a gifted artist and writer.

As our kiddos grew, we were always on the alert for opportunities to introduce them to a variety of interesting subjects, pursuits and people, including things we did not personally have experience with. I was determined to be sensitive to both the Spirit of God, and to the little spirits who were my children.

When they would express a curiosity or real desire, their Dad and I would, if circumstances permitted, do our best to facilitate their interest, aborting a pursuit here and there when our kiddo didn’t feel the “fire” that would identify a “gift”, or the sincere interest in really working at a particular skill (a “talent” by this definition).

Often of course, we parents feel it is important that our child stay the course even though they want to give up; some personalities in particular. For instance, mastering the piano takes years and there's going to be tears on the keyboard once in a while.

But I also admire the parents who are careful not to punish their kids into and through activities that consume their time and energy in a consistently unhappy or unproductive way; precious years that could be spent in something they really enjoy, if not have a passion for. For instance, we may expect kids to pursue a certain area due to OUR preferences or experience, or because it's a family tradition. I knew a family once who was obsessed with athletics -- every kid played every sport all year round -- which is great of course, except that one of the children did not have the opportunity to discover a real “gift” for acting until he was an adult.

There is no doubt that helping children discover their “gifts” or explore potential talents takes an open mind and an open conduit between adult, child and Heaven.

Two weeks ago, I sat in the audience of the Covey Performing Arts Center in downtown Provo. The packed house was demanding a second encore when memories, a decade old but fresh as yesterday, made me whoop like a crazy mom...

Who knew it would be a historic night in the life of my twelve-year-old when I packed up all the kids for a free, open-air concert in downtown Orlando? A variety of local acts was capped off by a new group called “Toxic Audio”. These three male and two female vocalists, all experienced Disney performers, blew the audience away with their amazing a cappella arrangements – vocals without instruments. If you closed your eyes, you’d swear you were listening to a whole band, not five human voices. Grant was on the edge of his seat, memorized, his whole countenance alight with a very promising “spark”. Afterward, I eagerly escorted him backstage to talk with the group – especially the vocal percussionist named Paul.

Paul graciously showed an interest in Grant and demonstrated a couple of sounds that Grant could practice at home. He did. And he added to his beat box repertoire with amazing speed and agility until one day, a few years later, after Grant had unleashed a torrent of thumps, hits and sizzles, Paul, always the encouraging mentor, exclaimed: “Grant buddy! You’re better than I am!” The group became our friends.

Today, Grant is the vocal percussionist for Vocal Point, BYU’s internationally acclaimed, champion, nine-man accapella ensemble. He brings himself and a lot of other people joy doing it. There is no doubt music is one of Grant's true gifts and vocal percussion is one of his most amazing talents. And I’d never even heard of it before that night in the park.

What a wonderfully noisy ride it has been! I can't even imagine what's

"NEEEXT!!!"

MUSE WITH ME about the kiddos in your life (we'll talk about grown-ups next week): What talents or gifts have you detected or encouraged them in? Remember: talents and gifts go far and broad across the spectrum of life. And they don't have to be remarkable or advanced to any degree to be of value and praiseworthy. (Translated: We all LOVE kid-sized/starter talents. If you have video or pictures, give us the link - or just tell us about it!) On April 12th I'll do a random drawing from all those who comment on this Musing for a gift certificate to a favorite ice cream parlor -- treat the kids after their next recital or game!

What You Don't Have or Have Lost

2009-03-15T21:09:00.000-07:00

I would like to continue our musings on the topic of perfection verses imperfection, weakness verses strength, inadequacy verses fullness. And I will do it atop the seventh floor of the Seattle Waterfront Marriott.

I have occasionally mused in a Marriott: Tokyo, New York City, Honolulu, London, Paris, Orlando, Washington D.C., St. Thomas.....

You see, last year (a typical year in this regard), my honey-man spent 180 nights in a Marriott. That’s 180 days out of 220 work days. As exotic or luxurious as that may sound to some, the reality is that a hotel room is a cold place. It’s unfamiliar. It’s lonely. It’s too quiet. It’s not home.

The pain involved in our good-byes has never eased. I am traumatized every single time. It has been over eleven years of airport runs, love letter emails, and panicked-mommy text messages. It’s sleepless nights when I know he’s flying over the Atlantic. It’s clutching his pillow while I cry over romantic movies. It’s hiding in the closet to bury my face in his shirts.

Reunions are sweet to be sure, but I would gladly trade passionate kisses at baggage claim for the mundane-morning type.

However, my journals are full of family adventures, hither and yon, because of our daddy’s miles and points; experiences we never would have had otherwise. They are part of our family treasure-trove and have contributed to who we are. In a very real sense, these opportunities to travel and learn from our travels have also been opportunities to strengthen our family through shared memory. And this, in some measure, compensates us for Dale’s absences.

The concept of compensatory blessings came to me this week as I waited for Dale to finish his Seattle business meetings. Marveling at our beautiful room, I wandered to the picture window framing the Puget Sound. The sky was spectacularly blue – a rare March phenomenon. Knowing we would be riding the ferry later that afternoon and strolling through Pike Place Market, I could hardly believe the charmed weather. But even if the day turned gray and damp, being with Dale was tender mercy enough.

As I opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and inhaled the sea air (my favorite smell in the whole world), I tried to remember Elder Scott’s landmark talk on JOY ("Finding Joy in Life"). I knew there was something in there that articulated what I was thinking. He said:

“Simple, rejuvenating experiences surround us. They can be safety valves to keep the tension down and the spirit up. Don’t concentrate on what you don’t have or have lost. The Lord promised the obedient to share all that He possesses with them. You may temporarily lack here, but in the next life, if you prove yourself worthy by living valiantly, a fullness will be your blessing.”

This train of thought prompted me to make a mental list of the “imperfect” situations in my life; desirable or ideal circumstances that I “don’t have, or have lost.” These are conditions I endure (or have endured) because they just are. And I am sad when I think of them. Usually.

On this morning however, as I watched sailboats and barges from the hotel balcony, I felt something different. A gust of wind blew my curly hair into tangled ribbons, but I stood still, feeling the Spirit organize and crystallize my thoughts.

Yes, you have a daughter with severe disabilities, but she is precious, you have learned so much, and God sent you another daughter who has been your closest ally in that struggle. Yes, you were not reared in an active-member home, but your testimony is actually the stronger for it, and God gave you a loving ward who taught you what you needed to know. It’s true that family members do not embrace the gospel, but you better comprehend charity and God presented you with in-law and extended family who are valiant and exemplary.

And so it went: the listing of compensatory blessings in my life just piled up until I wept.

Elder Scott: “Find the compensatory blessings in your life when, in the wisdom of the Lord, He deprives you of something you very much want. To the sightless or hearing impaired, He sharpens the other senses. To the ill, He gives patience, understanding, and increased appreciation for others’ kindness. With the loss of a dear one, He deepens the bonds of love, enriches memories, and kindles hope in a future reunion. You will discover compensatory blessings when you willingly accept the will of the Lord and exercise faith in Him.”

As the breeze grew colder, I decided to retreat inside. And what an “inside” it was! Because of Dale’s “status” with Marriott, management had surprised us with a complimentary “upgrade”. It was beyond delightful when we discovered our electronic key opened the double doors to Room 736: The Presidential Suite!

Though our family situations are not ideal, though our righteous ambitions seem impossible now, though rewards enjoyed by others appear to have passed us by, the Lord promises that the faithful will enjoy the ultimate “upgrade”: a “place in the mansions” of our Father. (Ether 12:37) Omniscient forces are constantly at work, turning our imperfect circumstances into "perfecting" experiences. (Romans 8:28)

And don’t you know a celestial mansion trumps any Marriott!

Muse with me: what compensatory blessings do you see in your life?

Tour the Presidential Suite....

The Flying Dream

2009-03-08T18:20:00.000-07:00

Ashley got the window seat on our flight from PDX to SLC this week. With her restricted mobility, time in the sky is ecstasy for Ashley, especially if she can peer down on the world through clouds. Her face beams: I was BORN to fly. (See Angel Talkin')

Squishing my cheek to hers, I tried to absorb some of her joy. The view reminded me of The Flying Dream. For years, I was plagued by this strange, subconscious fantasy. I don’t know how you've done it in your sleep, but my legs would start rotating like I was riding a unicycle. (How you start this process while still ground-bound is never clear.) The gist of the exercise is that the harder and faster I pumped the invisible pedals, the faster and higher I rose.

It was very heady of course to be air born, to escape the bad guys who were chasing me seconds ago, to sail over skyscrapers and to look down on tiny things. But it never lasted. Sooner or later, even with all the imagination-fluid-in-the-world lubricating my quads, I started to lose altitude. The realization that I was goin’ down was terrifying, a real first-class nightmare. Bad guys, who had been tracking my flight, were of course, waiting at the bottom.

I am grateful to say I’ve been free of The Flying Dream for a long time now. It became less and less frequent when I figured out that I didn’t have to “pedal” so hard….

I lived my early twenty-something life like every day was finals week -– a constant state of “cramming” for the “test”. You name it: index cards, strings on my finger, refrigerator magnets from Relief Society, embroidered scriptures on the wall, charts, how-to books, and sheer will: I filled my environment with these reminders that I was a daughter of a GOD –- and, therefore, logically, a daughter who ought to be “perfect”. Not having been taught the gospel in my home as a child, there were holes in my doctrinal understanding, and this was a big one.

Sadly, my little family suffered for it. Looking back, I can see that my mothering was too intense at times -- especially on my oldest son. He was just a little guy, so sweet and good, and not even out of Sunbeams when I took him firmly him by the shoulders and told him to “PERFORM”. We had been practicing his four-word line for the Primary Sacrament meeting program and I knew he knew it. But at the moment of truth, he refused to leave my side and go up to the podium with the other children. I was aghast at this breech of our reputation, our family honor! Likewise, I’m sure my humble honey-man was roughed over now and again for chancing to be ill on a Sunday, or forgetting the tithing check.

Dale theorizes that some women are frustrated every Sunday morning when their Priesthood husbands do not don a red cape with a big "P" on it, straddle the front doorway in their Sunday suit-- fists to hips--and boom out: "Come on kids! We're going to FLYYYY to church!"

The spiritual evolution or rebirth I went through was gradual. I do remember though, when it began. I was at a stake women's conference and the speaker introduced a concept honestly new to me: GRACE. She spoke of the folly of trying to “earn” our way into the Celestial Kingdom, describing a Savior who stands with open arms to embrace us while we keep our distance with excuses like: “I’ll be right back…have to go to the temple” … or "have to deliver these cookies"...or "have to study my lesson"… (Mormon 6:17) This visual struck a deep chord with me.

Years of scripture study followed. I became particularly sensitive to the humanity of the prophets:

Paul: “For I am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle.”

Nephi: “O wretched man that I am!”

Brother of Jared: “Now behold, O Lord, and do not be angry with thy servant because of his weakness…”

Moses: “Lord, O my Lord, I am not eloquent…but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.”

Jeremiah: “I, ah Lord God! Behold, I cannot speak: for I am but a child.”

Moroni: “Lord, the Gentiles will mock at these things because of our weakness…when we write we…stumble…”

Isaiah: “Woe is me! For I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips…”

HOW, I wondered, were these people able to continue toward greatness, despite their inadequacies? Paul really stumped me: "For we are glad, when we are weak..." WHAT?! How can we be glad to be weak? Another Paul-zinger: “Be perfec t, be of good comfort.” Oookaaay…how can we be told to be perfect AND comforted in the same breath?

I knew what the end was supposed to be, without being square on how to get to that end. I was living the gospel like a project manager with complicated, detailed lists and flow charts and deadlines and goals and it wasn’t working.

As I say, it took a long time, years of study and prayer before I fully accepted the answer -– the answer that’s as obvious as any doctrine in scripture:

Brother of Ja re d: “….thou hast given us a commandment that we must call upon thee, that from thee we may receive according to our desires…” (note: not our lists)

The Lord abou t the Prophet Joseph: “…and in weakness have I blessed him.”

The Lord to Moroni: “And because thou hast seen thy weakness thou shalt be made strong…”

The good news is NOT that perfect people can be reconciled to God, but that imperfect people can. Christ shares his sinlessness, righteousness, merits with the penitent. In his mercy He offers His perfection, in absence of our own. Personal "perfection", or "finishing", is a long, long way off--impossible to attain in this life. In essence, our piles of lists and flow charts can be boiled down to ONE goal:

Uniting ourselves with Jesus, becoming One with Him through a broken heart and a contrite spirit.

When this lesson sunk deep, Moroni’s charge to “lay a hold of every good thing” no longer perplexed me. My life had been a juggling act of “good things”, but now I knew that I just needed to wrap my arms around the Savior and hold on tight. I found my prayers become very very real, very very sincere, very very specific, very very frequent. I devoured the Book of Mormon six times in one year. Good works, good feelings, good relationships, good opportunities, good choices naturally resulted. Looking back on the years since my “rebirth”, I can hardly believe what I have been able to accomplish and become.

This was possible not just because I was embracing the Savior, but because He was holding ME. The fear of "falling" (Jude 1:24) melted away as little by little I felt “lifted up”, not in pride, but in perspective. I began to see others, especially my family, through the Lord’s eyes. My sense of humility, charity, and patience gradually increased. I accepted and made allowance for imperfection, enjoying wife-dom and motherhood so much more after that: "discovering" my children instead of "molding" them, "appreciating" my husband instead of "perfecting" him.

It all came down to loving Jesus, trusting in His promise of celestial somedays.......

Moroni described his own resurrection day as being “b rought forth triumphant through the ai r…” and Isaiah promised that the Lord “giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength…they that wait upon the Lord shall…mount up with wings as eagles…”

No pedaling required.

How has the gospel affected your perspective on your relationship with your spouse, children or other family? How have you come to deal with your own imperfection?

Creative Comments and a Winner

2009-03-08T16:04:00.000-07:00

I'm inspired! Kudos to Commentators who Contributed to our CREATIVITY! I made a list with all your names and numbered them (two for those who mentioned Musings in their own blog or emailed friends). With 3 witnesses looking over my shoulder (who all have the same last name as I do) I then entered the numbers into the Random.org True Random Number Generator and pop! up came the number 11, which correlated to ELISABETH! trust you'll do something fantastically creative with your Micheal's Gift Certificate Elisabeth!

Clueless or Creative: Continued

2009-03-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

Excited by the success of “On the Rug”, I contemplated another parenting challenge, an even bigger one: CHORES. As much as I disliked the role of referee, I hated playing commandant even more. Short of Captain Von Trapp’s whistle, I had tried just about everything known to mom to get my kids to do their chores, to do them well, and to do them on time (which in mommy-tongue means: when I wanted it done.) It was going to take a HUGE “burst” of inventiveness to construct a solution...but I knew I could, using the “creativity” formula I’d discovered. (See post “Clueless or Creative”)

The problem: Kiddos' chores undone.
The truth: Children need to grow into capable, responsible adults.
The beauty: They DO grow into capable, responsible adults.

On paper, the creative connection between this "truth" and this "beauty" was the Grand Canyon. I didn’t even know where to begin. Inspired by Janice Kapp Perry (prolific LDS songwriter) who says that she gets her ideas from first, praying, and second, engaging in a mindless activity; I knelt down and asked for help, and then---did my kid’s chores.

They were definitely mindless: shining the mirror, sweeping the entryway, dusting the living room. And right in the middle of a squirt of Clorox into the toilet – sure enough, a hint of an idea bubbled up. I hurried to my files in the office and shuffled through the indexed folders.

At last I found it, a newspaper article I’d clipped some time ago, detailing a study of children who were given a complicated task to complete, Researchers saw two very different reactions from their participants. Some of the kids just starred at the task, either daunted or uninterested, saying, “I’m not good at that” and went no further. Other children however, proactively analyzed the task, asked questions, and triumphantly, if not predictably, solved the problem.

I had archived that bit of news because I knew as soon as I read it that I wanted my kids to fit into the second bunch. The refrain, “I’m not good at math…” or “I can’t do a cartwheel…” became clarion calls to me: “Mother –" they said – “teach your children they can learn ANYthing with instruction, time, patience and practice.”

I had a GREAT opportunity to kill a whole flock of birds with one stone: chores could be done, done well, and done on time WHILE my kiddos were assimilating a lot of character. Instead of looking at chores as an unpleasant or annoying assignment, or worse, cruel and unusual punishment –

we would view chores as an opportunity to learn and become really accomplished at something of worth.

With my creative river running like springtime, it was easy now to draft up a document that we continued to use every Saturday all the way into the kids’ young adulthood (we just made LOTS of copies.) It looked like this:

1. Chore ___Student Apprentice Professional Expert Teacher
2. Chore___Student Apprentice Professional Expert Teacher
3. Chore___Student Apprentice Professional Expert Teacher
4. Chore___Student Apprentice Professional Expert Teacher

Here’s how it worked…

I wrote out a chore list for each kid. The worker-bees understood that the list had to be completed THAT day, however, they also knew they could decide when and in what order. Remarkably, this blend of expectation, agency, and trust bred far more self-determination than all my nagging ever had. The chores were usually finished by lunch. That’s Part I of the scheme.

Part II (their favorite part) was about the “ratings”. When each chore was completed, I and the worker-bee would decide which rating the job fit under. For instance, if the child watched ME scrub the toilet as I explained the ins and outs of the job (no pun intended), he/she was, for that day, a “STUDENT”.

If, on the other hand, it was me who watched the CHILD scrub the toilet, offering helpful suggestions as needed, then, for that job that day, he/she was an “APPRENTICE”.

When the child eventually got to the point where he/she could do the job as well as Mom without any assistance whatsoever, he/she was a “PROFESSIONAL” (this was a BIG day). But if the child eventually took the initiative to go one step further, and experimented with ways of doing the job even better than Mom, he/she was an “EXPERT”.

Lastly, and ultimately, if our worker-bee had been something of an “EXPERT” or “PROFESSIONAL” for a while, he/she had the prerogative of “graduating” from that particular assignment; passing it onto a sibling by becoming their “TEACHER” (the sibling the “STUDENT”). I wanted the kids to assimilate my conviction that sharing your experience and knowledge with others so they can achieve, was the highest and noblest of the rankings.

I do not discount the effectiveness of paying kids for chores. I know it works well in some families. But our kids never received anything for their labors but a sense of accomplishment which came from a sense of ownership.

This approach pleased not only our own children, but their friends as well. The worker-bees often had visiting bees from other hives at their side, finishing things off even sooner. By the time they were teenagers, it was a piece of cake to round up the usual suspects for a yard project.

Of course the idea of progressive attainment as it pertains to the gospel, isn’t new to any of us:

D&C 50:24: …he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day.

2 Nephi 28:30: I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little...

D&C 93:13: And he received not of the fulness at first, but continued from grace to grace, until he received a fulness...

I realize in retrospect that the ideas which "stuck"--the ones our family used for years and years because they worked--were patterned after “heavenly” parenting, or parenting after the manner of heaven. In the book Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die, the authors captured this whole concept with: “You want to invent new ideas, not new rules.”

Keep your creative parenting ideas rolling in! Read the comments from last week’s post to be edified and entertained by moms and dads. (Anyone can comment, or email me -- you don’t have to be a follower! And if you're new to commenting, check the box next to "Email me follow-up comments" - its fun.)

Watch this: One minute = biiiiig smile!

Clueless or Creative

2009-02-23T17:10:00.000-08:00

As I commiserated with my best mommy friend Becky (I think we referred to our little ones as “leeches” that day), she said that she expected her headstone to read:

Here Lies Mom
Keeper of the Stuff

(…as in “Mom, hold this ” or “Maaahm, where’s my shoes?”)

Not wanting my headstone to look exactly like hers, I imagined mine would say:

Here Lies Mom
Family Referee

(…as in “Mom, she took my __!” or “I had it first!”)

Bickering between siblings was considered an inescapable fact of family life by everyone I knew. Still, I hated it. I wanted a family of peacemakers, not rabble-rousers. It was frustrating that I was following the counsel to teach my children to follow Jesus and all else that we are commanded to do in order to invite the Spirit into our homes-–yet the daily, even hourly, disputes continued. The “natural man” aspect of it grated my spiritual nerves raw. It just wasn’t right.

One day as I was reading King Benjamin’s address, he started talking directly to me:

“And ye will not suffer your children that they go hungry, or naked; neither will ye suffer that they transgress the laws of God, and fight and quarrel one with another, and serve the devil, who is the master of sin, or who is the evil spirit which hath been spoken of by our fathers, he being an enemy to all righteousness. But ye will teach them to walk in the ways of truth and soberness; ye will teach them to love one another, and to serve one another.” (Mosiah 4:14-15)

Even as the rightness of it flooded my heart, I knew that another Family Home Evening lesson on the evils of contention wasn’t going to cut it. What more could I do in my little vineyard? Wait a minute--I told myself--you may be clueless, but you are also creative! Sit down, think it out, pray it out – be proactive. A glimmer of hope lighted a distant corner in my brain. I knew the answer was in there…just a nudge or two from the Spirit and I might yet come off conqueror!

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I recently conducted a workshop on creativity called: “A Gift for Expression”. The room was full of musicians, but what we learned about the subject applies as much to moms and musicians. Elder Dean L. Larsen points out for instance, that Father expects all of us to cultivate our creativity: “It m ay well be that this aspect of our development in mortality is as important in the eyes of a crea tive Heavenly Father as many other attributes that receive greater attention and emphasis.” We ought to be focusing on becoming more creative; the way we concentrate on becoming more patient or humble or forgiving - or, as Mary Ellen Smoot (former General Relief Society President) puts it: “…we are childre n of God. Shouldn’t we be about our Father’s business? Shouldn’t we b e creators as well?”

Becoming a “creator” for the first time at age 21, I remember being more afraid of the potential hurts I’d cause as a young mom, than of the hurt I would pass through in childbirth. With multiple personalities to deal with as my family grew, there was no way I had enough education or experience to handle the complexities of “people-making.” My pre-natal worries were eventually subdued in prayer: “You have the Holy Ghost,” I heard. “Use him.”

Crawford Gates, LDS composer, suggests something interesting about the gift of the Holy Ghost as it relates to creativity: “How does it make us different? May I suggest that one of the ways the Holy Spirit he lps us is that it makes us more creative?” President Uchtorf verifies that this is true: “The mo re you trust and rely upon the Spirit, th e greater your capacity to create.”

That doesn’t sound like the Holy Ghost will dictate to us though, does it? “Hea venly Father wants to help us fi n d the creativity wit hin us. It w ouldn’t encourage us to do that if he were to say, “Get a piece o f paper and write this down” (Jack Weyland). Remember: “…you must study it out in your mind: then you must ask me if it be right…” (D&C 9:7-9) That little tidbit from church history would certainly bear out the presumption that the answers are within us–if we employ a little perspira tion before inspiration, as Elder Maxwell puts it, or in another turn of the phrase: “Inspiration complements our creative efforts” (Crawford Gates).

So where do the creative solutions really come from? Elder Maxwell says that they “spring out of our seeing possibilities we h ave not seen before, seeing connections between patches of truth and beauty, and responding to them in ways we have not done before.”

*************************************************
Alright then: back to my homespun warlords. I rolled up my sleeves, took out a piece of paper and wrote down the following:

The problem: Kids clashes.

(The truth) They shouldn’t be doing it.

(The beauty) They don’t have to be doing it. We can learn a better way.

What I needed next was to “see” or “create” the connection between this patch of “truth” and it’s corresponding patch of “beauty”. Hmmmm…. I thought and thought about it for quite a while. I eventually reasoned that the munchkins needed to learn to settle their own spats…and that boiled down to…communication skills! Ah-ha! Now we’re on to something! A crazy idea started to piece itself together in my imagination and a whoosh of light gave me the tingles.

I rearranged the living room so that Grammy’s big, round, rag rug was front and center. Then I called the kids into a “come-to-Jesus” meeting, (as my Christian friends in the South would say).

“Here.”I explained, “is The Rug”. From now on, any parties suffering a disagreement will be immediately referred to “The Rug”. The parties in question will face each other, sitting Indian-style, knees touching (absolute rule). You will have to decide who presents his case first. The other will have to listen without interruption. When Party One is completely aired out, then Party Two speaks his mind – same courtesies applied.”

Now came the clincher: NO ONE WOULD BE ALLOWED TO LEAVE THE RUG UNTIL BOTH PARTIES AGREED ON A RESOLUTION.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that they were intrigued, even enthusiastic. It sounded more like a game than an unhappy consequence. It wasn’t long of course, before the first “players” presented themselves, their whines competing for my attention. “STOP!” I covered my ears. “On The Rug!!!” They marched off and I watched them from a crack in the door. Quietly and with childlike reasoning, they established their defenses. Within ten minutes the two of them ran off together to do something completely different. Wow, I marveled. It worked!

And it continued to work for the next several years. It got to the point that all I had to say was, “On The Rug!” and they settled on the spot, one or the other acquiescing. Sometimes the litigation morphed into more of a contest of who would be the peacemaker first.

After discovering “The Rug”, I became innovative in dealing with other mommy-dilemmas like getting chores done and keeping toys picked up. I testify that as mothers and fathers we can—and ought—to be creative as we mold our ideal family life. Elder Ballard laid down the gauntlet this way:
“People [insert ‘your children’] des erve quality alternatives that YOU, with the influence o f th e Holy Spirit, are capable of providing.”

I'm having so much fun with your comments and emails! Let me know about one your creative “mommy” or “daddy” ideas, or one your parents used, or even just your thoughts on the subject. This will get you started: Follower Laura’s creative solution for toy clutter: "Making Bread: Toy Catalog".

Wish List

2009-02-15T20:32:00.000-08:00

My little grandson, who I've pet-named "Biscuit", pulled himself up onto the low stone wall surrounding the fountain with speed and agility. I held his waist as a precaution, visualizing his headfirst tumble into the clear water, which, now that I think of it, wouldn’t have been so bad on a February day in Florida. It was 80 degrees yesterday.

I love Florida winters. For 13 years I loved rolling down the car window, letting my bare arm ride the wind, gloating at the top of my lungs: “Hello Buffalo! Hello Minnesota! I live in Orrrrlllaaandooo!” My little riders would giggle as they imitated me, which must have been a sight for the car behind us. By a fluke, our daddy’s career had transferred us from aspens to palm trees and I was determined to make the best of this foreign environment, which in truth, I was not all that fond of. There was something wonderful to be said however, for routinely spending family home evening at Disney World.

Home is now in the Douglas firs, on the opposite corner of the map, so this weekend I am not Resident, but Tourist in this world of “Worlds” (did you know there’s even a “Sock World” here???) It’s Biscuit’s fourth birthday, he still lives here, so Grandma’s back, and we’re doin’ Disney, perched on the fountain at the entrance to Epcot…

“Here’s a penny Biscuit. Throw it into the water and make a wish.”

He grinned and looked at me quizzically.

“A wish is something you would like to have - or to happen.”

He looked through the bubbles at the coins on the bottom of the fountain. “See? Other people made wishes here too.”

He still hesitated. I took another penny out of my wallet and squeezed my eyes shut. “I wish Biscuit will grow very tall.”

My penny flew through the air and splashed into the waterfall.

His eyes lit up. With a fling that surprised even me, his penny sailed to the very top of the tiered fountain. He was joyful. The whole tossing business proved great fun for the next ten cents, but he never did enjoin a “wish” upon his pennies. He didn’t get it and I couldn’t explain it.

Somehow, when I very young, I knew all about wishes. Clear summer nights in the Pacific Northwest are perfect for outdoor sleep-over’s and my brothers and I often toted our pillows and blankets into the yard. There I thought deep thoughts (for a little person) and wondered at the universe just out of reach. And I always made wishes. My Disney-inspired conversation with Biscuit made me realize that it’s a practice I’ve never outgrown.

As recently as last week, straightening my “writing” desk, I wished once again that I could find the time to finish my book. The dust was pretty thick. No one had touched that desk, that keyboard, that stack of books and notes for a long time. Of course, no one would, but me. Funny that I thought the auspicious moving of the table to the front room would make any difference. Just because it’s in plain sight doesn’t mean I’ll have any more time than normal to write.

I felt hopeless and was tempted to put all the dust-collecting paraphernalia away until a little cricket appeared on my shoulder and whispered:

Make a list. Take inventory of every wish you can ever remember making.

Exercising a rusty brain took some doing, but I finally had my list. I starred at those thirty wishes with amazement, including the first few which were made under the stars by a little girl with lots of faith. Twenty-five of the thirty had materialized and there was every possibility that the other five still might.

The first wish I ever made reflects a child’s priorities, but it was real and sustained and added-upon every time we took a family vacation. I had forgotten it altogether until I made my list. There must be at least fifty stars bearing the innocent aspiration:

I wish I lived next to Disneyland.

Just tonight, my sweet friend Dana shared with me a Meridian article written by H. Wallace Goddard entitled: “You Can Write Your Blessings—If You Do Right” which I strongly recommend for a fuller treatment of this subject. I quote the opening paragraph:

“Heber C. Kimball made an extraordinary invitation: “I have said often, you may write blessings for yourselves and insert every good thing you can think of, and it will all come to pass on your heads, if you do right.” (From an address in the Old Tabernacle, August 1853.)

I have loved “the right” all my life. I believe that God delights in my happiness, the way I delight in giving my grandbaby happiness. In the eternal scheme of things, among stars and comets and nebula, I am my Heavenly Father’s little girl. If a dream is a wish your heart makes, only He can know it and only He can fill it. And since compiling my "wish list" I BELIEVE more than ever that He will.

What do you think a wish is? I hope you'll share one or two... or if you make your own "wish list" I'd love to hear about it.

"When You Wish Upon a Star"
Video by Mona and Grant. Music by N'Sync. Photos by NASA.