How Amazing Is She?

Alyssa in Cedar City-2005


Out my back window it looks cold, very cold. The latest snowfall has not melted much and the crust looks brittle. But my heart feels warm as I contemplate the life of my daughter Alyssa on her birthday. I have been looking through some photos of her. I love those that I have. Yet I am feeling nostalgic for the photos I didn't take as she was growing up. Taking pictures depended on whether or not we had a camera and finances. (It wasn't easy to provide for the needs of our young family.) When Alyssa was about six, my piano teacher friend, Royce, loved her new Minolta 110 camera so much that I got one for myself. Off and on, I tried to develop the habit of taking pictures. Most of those remain to be scanned into the computer, but since having a digital camera I have enjoyed taking more snapshots of our living. I like this picture of Alyssa. It reminds me of our many trips together to Cedar City to visit Aunt Fran and take in the Shakespeare festival. This trip included Heather for a girl's weekend. Great fun! The day of Alyssa's birth remains vivid in my mind. She was the first of our children to have her dad present for the actual birth. That meant a lot to me. And I remember how grateful I felt for her and humbled by another opportunity to raise a child. She has given joy to us throughout her life and has grown to be a remarkably fine woman. I love her a lot. It is easy to take people for granted. I am glad on this cold day that I can look back and realize how lucky I am to be Alyssa's mother.

Merry Little Christmas

(Photo: Nativity, 2005. Brittany as Mary; Stephanie in her reindeer hat, to the left, decided to be a goat.)

About 6 o'clock on Christmas morning 2007 the memories of Christmas celebrations in the past nudged their way through into my consciousness. I found myself weeping, a phenomenon currently common when either Art or I are feeling particularly vulnerable or emotionally tender. This time the realization that those earlier times were really past hit a soft place. I began thinking of the members of our family (and of our friends) one by one. I worried about struggles I knew about and "what ifs". (Worry is an old habit of mine, difficult to break.) That process felt way too hard, mostly because the problems of others are, for the most part, out of my control. Finally it came to me how grateful I am for each one. So I began naming each person in my circle of loved individuals one at a time. I thanked God for their strengths and asked him to bless lives according to his wisdom. The process took quite a long time. There were many strengths to list and each person is unique. I was struck again by the power residing within each of them. At that point, it didn't matter what the rest of the day would bring, I was content and at peace. BTW: The rest of the day was low-key and just right!

Visions of Gingerbread

Putting together a gingerbread house has been a family tradition for many years. It began with a recipe and a pattern using a cereal box for the template. That was really starting from scratch! We enjoyed doing it and the results were quite a bit like my Photo of this Week. Gradually life became more complicated and kits became more available. So each year buying and putting together a gingerbread house was essential. As grandchildren were old enough, they, too, became part of this process. When Nick was about three, he could hardly wait to have dad and grandpa come view the finished product! Some years we ate the pieces on New Years Day. Always a few candies were popped in the mouth when no one was looking. Sometimes I wanted it to remain; by the time I was ready to let go, it was so stale that even the birds didn't want to eat the remnants. This year has been a time to simplify. Each time we saw a gingerbread house kit in the store, Art would ask if I wanted to get one. Unfortunately, I couldn't muster the enthusiasm to do it. When I finally decided that, yes, maybe I would at least get a gingerbread nativity kit, they were sold out. So for this year, the picture will suffice to remind me of times past and maybe, just maybe, some fun possibilities for the future.

Pondering Freedom

This past week I have been indexing records of slave owners in the US in the 1800's. The work has gone relatively quickly this time. The handwriting is somewhat more easy to read than most and the facts are brief. But I have felt sad as I have typed these records for submission. I guess what made me most sorrowful as I read was the fact that the slaves themselves are not listed by name. It was as if they were things, not people. The form required the name of the slave owner, then one by one, each slave he owned was listed by age, sex and race. One particularly touching entry sent my imagination into a story line. This particular man had a female slave, age 27 who had three children, the oldest 13. So she was 14 when that child was born. There is no male slave listed who was of an age to be her husband. On the line for race for the children, there was the letter M. I believe that stood for mulatto. My dictionary says the definition of the word is "the first generation offspring of a Negro and a white person." So I am left to my own thoughts and imaginings as to the truth behind the statistics. This is real history at my fingertips.
I finish the record hoping that somehow the descendants of these people are able to trace them. I can see that it will take miracles for this to happen. And now I understand, more than ever, what a tragic time this was in the history of my country.
There are many ways to be a slave. I am grateful that I am not involved with the slavery of those times. Yet I know for myself that it is an awesome responsibility to have moral agency. And it is not easy. Today I am recognizing that I too am a slave to my own unwise choices when I am not careful (and prayerful). It takes a lot of effort to resist those things which drag me down. I hope I can remember the wonderful feeling it is to be truly free.

Making Your Mark

At my book club this week, one of the women said that she didn’t think she had made her mark in the world. I disagreed vehemently but I don’t think she was convinced, even though I know that she has taught school, raised a family, risen above many challenges, is intelligent and shares her thoughts with others, has been on 2 church missions and this is only a part what I know of her life.
Since that time I have been wondering what it means to make your mark. Does it mean you have to do something that the rest of the world sees as significant? Or is it possible to make your mark in quiet unobtrusive ways by how you live your life, attempting to be true to yourself and doing small acts of service? I know recognition has value; I know how it feels to be appreciated (or not), but somehow I want to believe that the everyday courtesies and kindnesses matter more than we think.
As I hugged my friend, I told her that she has made a mark on me just by being who she is. I hope someday she will know that her life choices have marked many others for good, and that on days when I am discouraged, I will remember the same thing about myself.

Little Things

My bear with the Wales flag on his chest is sitting next to my computer. Why do I tell you this? Because little things matter. Today, after I came home from water aerobics and exchanging the wrong crochet thread at the craft store, my energy was really depleted. I was extremely happy to be home. Then I realized that I had left two things at the gym. I asked Art to drive me back because I couldn’t even face driving at that moment. He was busy and besides wanted to make a call to the gym first. I almost burst into tears. I felt so sad and exhausted and didn’t even know why.

Later, after lying down for a few minutes, I remembered that I did know what could refuel me. I had not read my scriptures, not even one verse, and I had not put my burdens in the hands of the Lord. After doing so (and it took less than five minutes) I was revived. It was amazing.

Now I even know some of the reasons I was feeling sad. I have been putting a crocheted edging on a blanket for my friend who has been diagnosed with cancer. I missed a funeral at noon today because the thought didn’t rise to my consciousness until it was over (although it must have been weighing on me below the surface). At water aerobics I began to quiz my friend about her husband’s knee surgery. I noticed myself edging ever closer to making that decision but not without great reluctance. Art and I are both seeing our doctors tomorrow. As usual I am afraid of what they will tell us. The days pass too fast with seemingly not enough done. And I still have the same old weaknesses. What a load to carry on my own!

So my little bear with his cute little grin and black beady eyes reminds me that yes, life isn’t easy, but there are good times, like the day I found him in a store in Wrexham, and now I remember that humor is never far away.