Sue's News, Views 'n Muse

Calypso Night

2012-01-30T09:29:00.000-08:00

Wassily Kandinsky

Red Spot II

(Please read while listening to my playlist music.)

Calypso Night

Listen as the rhythm

of a heated, humid day

meets the drumming of a

fevered, fertile night.

The sun and clouds have dropped

into the sea, simmered away;

now the voodoo moon is

rising, hot and bright.

A sultry dance of orchids

and hibiscus stirs the breeze,

as calypso pulses

magic through your veins.

Your heart beats into music;

passion takes you by degrees.

In the morning, only

memory remains.

Lifelong

2012-01-28T09:04:00.000-08:00

At last!

A "normal" Saturday Centus prompt!!

And 100 words to make it sing!!!

Thanks, Jenny.

(Or maybe I should thank Nonna?)

;)

The prompt, as always, is in red.

∞§∞

Lifelong

Artwork by Ruth Trobe

It’s harder now to tell where your part ends,

or where my part begins, as time goes on.

I only know that when I speak of friends,

I always name you first. You are lifelong.

We’ve breathed each other’s air enough to know

that suffocation will not be our lot.

Sometimes I wander to, you wander fro.

But lonely’s something you and I are not.

We’ve been together two-thirds of our days.

Safe home. The years roll by. The years roll by.

We know where all the bodies are buried.

And we know when. And we know how and why.

∞§∞

Grandma's Secrets: Was She Witch or Wonder?

2012-01-27T06:37:00.000-08:00

This piece is from February of 2009, before I had any readers.

Hope you enjoy it!

Grandma's Secrets - A Memory Sketch

by Susan Noyes Anderson

My grandmother lived on the top floor of a red brick house. It looked pretty ordinary from the maple-lined street, but walking through her door meant leaving the familiar behind. Every cushioned step up her gold-carpeted stairway was a step away from everyday life, for my grandma lived in a curious world of her own making.

The smell of herbs commanded the air. Other smells tried to take over sometimes, a lentil and vegetable soup, for example; but it was those herbs that held sway over all the rest. Grandma was big on herbs, and she dried her own. Black cohosh root, comfrey, motherwort, and goldenseal were just a few of the plants that hung, upside-down, in the kitchen or bedroom, suspended from sap-stained strings that stirred gently as we passed through the rooms. Each rustling leaf made its pungent contribution to the botanical odor that was Grandma’s.

My sisters and I thought she was a witch when we were little, not the hex-setting variety, but the kind who had healing powers and talked to animals. The kitchen cupboards held, not food, but small brown bags, square cardboard containers, tiny envelopes and the like, filled with such treasures as twisted roots, tree bark, and odd-smelling powders. A lidless cookie jar, painted with apples and branches, stood alone on the counter, brimming with stale gingersnaps. My siblings and I didn’t eat them, though we did experiment with the contents of her cupboards. In time, it became clear to us that whatever Grandma was, “witch” was probably too easy a name for it, though we couldn’t deny she had more than a nodding acquaintance with the chirping robins that nested in her kitchen window every spring.

At the top of the stairs was the living room. A yellow slant board made its home right in the middle, where Grandma often lay, upside-down, and became a sort of human centerpiece, performing voice exercises whose syllables were so sharp they seemed, almost, to leave nicks as they bounced from wall to wall. “Eh-er-a-eh-ay-i-ee. Eh-er-a-eh-ay-i-ee.” Afterward, throat open and larynx engaged, Grandma would repair the damage with rich, deep tones from her favorite poem, beginning with the words “Oh, wild west wind,” and continuing until the walls resumed their former appearance, filigreed paper and all. Meanwhile, the blood rushing to her head (“good for the circulation”) lent a dash of vivid color to the otherwise muted room, turning her face red as the beets (“good for the bloodstream”) boiling on her stove. It was a marvelous spectacle, much better watched than replicated.

Probably because of its color, the faded yellow slant board didn’t even look particularly out of place, though much of the decor was quite formal. Everything in that front room had a golden glow to it, intensified by sunlight streaming through the windows, yet still evident when evening closed the curtains. What was the secret of that luminescence? It didn’t come from the old black box that was Grandma’s television, because she never turned it on.

Maybe it was a mysterious combination of simple things: the flaxen threads running through the fabric of her french slipcovers, or the gilded figures of a shepherd and shepherdess that served as lamps. Perhaps the ochre window coverings held the secret, or the goldenrod spilling over the chipped rim of a bisque vase. Were the peaceful nature scenes of her oriental wall hangings responsible for the glow? Was it a reflection of Grandma herself? A personal aura? Whatever the source, the effect was one of warmth, wonder, and not a little magic; and being there, you became part of it.

GRANDMA’S FAVORITE HERBS:

Black cohosh - for rheumatism

Butcher’s broom - for circulation

Cayenne - for colds and earache

Chamomile - for nervousness and to aid digestion

Comfrey - for skin wounds and irritations

Dandelion - to rid body of excess water

Feverfew - for headache

Ginger - for upset stomach

Ginseng - for vitality

Goldenseal - for inflammation

Motherwort - for female problems

Nicotinic Acid - for dizziness

Peppermint - for stomach cramps

Skullcap - for insomnia

White willow bark - in place of aspirin

There's a little bit of poetic license here, but my Grandma Noyes was a real character, a rare eccentric who was known for performing dramatic readings, doctoring herself and others with herbs and natural concoctions, and dressing with uncommon elegance. She was a rare woman, and I hope this piece does her justice. (Below is a picture of her as a young woman. Her father was George Edward Anderson, a well-known early photographer in LDS church history.)

Eva Anderson Noyes

Just for a Change

2012-01-26T07:55:00.000-08:00

(Needless to say, I wrote this when I was a bit younger.)

Just For A Change

Sunshine for the Latter-day Mother’s Soul, Eagle Gate

Just for a change I’d like to make

a change this very day–

I’d like to do the things that all

those mothering books say.

I’d like to give up yelling and

perfect the old “I” statement.

(Not “Turn that racket down!”) …

but “I’m in need of noise abatement.”

(Not “Talk back once more and you’re toast!”) …

but “I demand respect.”

(Not “Brush your teeth, or die!”) …

“I fear your hygiene is suspect.”

I’d like to be the kind of mom

who gets the kids to clean

(and they all end up having fun,

and no one thinks you’re mean!).

I’d like to be the kind who gets

the dinner on the table

and never has to set it ‘cause

her children are so able…

And willing, oh, I’d like to be

the kind that makes them willing–

I’d write a how-to book, and

would I ever make a killing!

I’d sort of like to be the type

who’s frugal as can be

and manages her time so well

she’s always home by three.

The kind whose kids are never spoiled

because they love to work,

who think a kid who asks his mom

for money is a jerk.

I’d really like to be that kind––

and, oh, just one more thing…

I’d like to be the kind who’s never

freaked by anything.

The kind who always keeps her cool,

no matter what goes down.

The kind who can control her kids

with one look, or one frown.

(Or two looks or two frowns, or even

one big burst of words!)

I’d like to be the kind who looks

real hip, but not absurd.

In short, I’d like to be a mom

who’s good as good can be.

The only problem is, how would

my children know it’s me?

click below for more J posts

On Perception and Perpetrators

2012-01-25T10:36:00.000-08:00

The Cookie Thief

by Valerie Cox

A woman was waiting at the airport one night,

with several long hours before her flight.

She hunted for a book in the airport shop,

bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop.

She was engrossed in her book, but happened to see

that the man beside her, as bold as could be,

grabbed a cookie or two from the bag between,

which she tried to ignore to avoid a scene.

She read, munched cookies, and watched the clock,

as the gutsy cookie thief diminished her stock.

She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,

thinking, "If I weren't so nice, I'd blacken his eye!"

With each cookie she took, he took one too.

When only one was left, she wondered what he'd do.

With a smile on his face and a nervous laugh,

he took the last cookie and broke it in half.

He offered her half, and he ate the other.

She snatched it from him and thought...Oooh brother.

This guy has some nerve, and he's also so rude.

Why, he didn't even show any gratitude!

She had never known when she had been so galled

and sighed with relief when her flight was called.

She gathered her belongings and headed for the gate,

refusing to look at the thieving ingrate.

She boarded the plane and sank in her seat,

then sought her book, which was almost complete.

As she reached in her baggage, she gasped with surprise.

There was her bag of cookies in front of her eyes!

"If mine are here," she moaned with despair.

"Then the others were his, and he tried to share!"

Too late to apologize, she realized with grief,

that she was the rude one, the ingrate, the thief.

This cute but astute poem makes me chuckle and gives me pause. How many times have I been absolutely certain that I understood the dynamics of a situation, only to realize that what I believed to be truth was merely a product of my own skewed perceptions? The answer, I'm sure, is too many times! We would all do well to avoid jumping to conclusions, refuse to make snap judgments about people, and get acquainted with our own faults before we project them on others.

Things are not always as they appear, and we are free to choose our responses to whatever comes our way. We can have a good-natured sense of humor about life and those who live it alongside us (like the supposed cookie thief) or we can be ill-tempered and quick to take offense (like the actual cookie thief).

Our court system holds an accused person innocent until proven guilty, and there are good reasons for that. Any court official would testify that the initial perceptions of even the most well-intentioned people can be faulty, and reason suggests that the perceptions of an irritated person will be even more faulty, as will any snap judgments he or she chooses to make. What's more, our observations and interpretations are unfailingly colored by our own shortcomings, whatever those may be.

The takeaway, for me, is this: It's never a bad idea to hear others out before painting them with the brush of deceit or other wrong-doing. Figurative paint sticks every bit as well as literal paint does (maybe better), and the painter who applies it too hastily is left with dirty hands.

{let's keep it clean out there}

Leaving a Legacy

2012-01-24T08:22:00.000-08:00

My growing collection of blog books makes me happy.

Twelve of them, to be precise.

Each with a different cover and dedication.

This one has the words to "Sunrise, Sunset" inside the cover.

I use Blog 2 Print, which pretty much does all the work for me.

It slurps your blog right over into a book.

Not a bad result, huh? A little pricey, but worth it!

{love notes to my progeny}

for more happiness, click below

How Do You Mend a Broken Heart?

2012-01-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

It was a rough weekend at the Anderson house.

And we are definitely singing the blues...

How can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling down?

How can you stop the sun from shining?

What makes the world go round?

How can you mend this broken man?

How can a loser ever win?

Please help me mend my broken heart,

and let me live again.

I can still feel the breeze

that ruffles through the trees

and memories of days gone by.

We could never see tomorrow...

No one said a word about the sorrow.

And, how can you mend a broken heart?

How can the losers ever win?

Please help us mend our broken hearts

and let us live again.

-The BeeGees

Maybe next year??

Go, Niners!

Cliffhanging: The Epilogue

2012-01-21T09:30:00.000-08:00

Our lovely Jenny (whose blog, not coincidentally, is titled Off on a Tangent) happens to be off on a cliffhanger tangent just now. In light of that fact, and being an inveterate follower of the inimitable Ms. Matlock, I will now present you with 150 words of epilogue to conclude my two-part Saturday Centus story entitled Cliffhanging. I hope you will bear with me one last time.

∞§∞

The first two installments are in red below,

followed by today's addition, the epilogue, in black.

Cliffhanging, part one (100 words)

4:50 am.

Jan's morning began in the living room, neck protesting a night in her chair. She’d been sitting sentry there (off and on) for years, awaiting errant teenagers, welcoming them in before lecturing them soundly.

But this welcome was too slow in coming. Sean should be home. Trembling, she grabbed her iPhone, exhaling slowly. Nada.

What good were these stupid cell phones, anyway? They made not hearing from your kids even scarier. Especially when their idea of fun was hanging off a cliff. Literally.

Sean knew how she worried. “I’m alive,” he always texted, teasing her. Maybe there was no reception.

Her limbs froze when the doorbell rang. The knocking (urgent, pounding) froze her soul...

Cliffhanging, part two (50 words)

"Mrs. Miller...Janet? It's Bud Gray. "

She rose stiffly, cracked the door. "Sheriff?”

"Sean’s in rough shape, Jan. Head injury. Let’s get you to County." Her stomach lurched.

Across town, a nurse smiled. The kid was conscious now, wanted his phone.

“That your beep?” Bud asked, eyes on the road. Breathless, Jan looked down.

"I'm alive," she read, and felt the world rush in.

Cliffhanging: the Epilogue (150 words)

(six months later)

Jan jumped, startled awake by the touch of Sean’s hand upon her shoulder.

“I texted you that I was on my way home, Mom. You should have gone to bed.” His tone was gentle.

Embarrassed, she glanced up at him. “I know. I was going to, but…” Her voice trailed off into silence, knowing her vigilance was unnecessary, unable to put words to why she couldn’t seem to let go of it. At least she was doing better than initially, when her anxiety level had soared every time her adventure-seeking son left the house.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he murmured, not for the first time. “Sorry I put you through all that.”

Squeezing his hand reassuringly, Jan nodded. “I’m fine,” she said. “Hey, accidents happen. And all this crazy worrying is on me, not you. I’ll get a handle on it.”

The next weekend, she held vigil in her bed, dozed fitfully until she heard the door.

Progress, she thought, then smiled her way to sleep.

∞§∞

The Lost Summer

2012-01-20T09:30:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, I was invited to attend a summer writing class that would include the so-called "most gifted" writers in that sprawling bureaucracy known as the Los Angeles Unified School District. Having designated yours truly as the sole and supposedly lucky nominee for our high school, members of the English department clearly expected me to be nothing but delighted by the news. Instead, I was resentful, completely against the idea of having to spend the entire summer in a classroom with a bunch of kids I didn't know and wouldn't see again. If this was the reward for being a good writer, maybe I had miscalculated in my efforts to excel in that area.

Of course, my parents were thrilled by what they saw as a great opportunity, and they insisted I attend. I complied with the most negative attitude imaginable, unhappy that I would be writing papers instead of swimming, going to the beach, and devouring every book I could get my hands on whilst lounging in my favorite air-conditioned corner of our home. All of my friends, excellent students in their own right, were free as the proverbial birds in trees to do all the fun things I should have been doing with them. I, on the other hand, was relegated to four walls, a desk, and a chalkboard...penalized for a talent I took for granted. What an honor. Blecch.

I did end up meeting a girl I really enjoyed, and we spent many covert moments passing a silly poem back and forth that began, "There's nothing so pleasant as a day in June, except...". As I recall, the first entry (hers) was "...a nun, buried in a sand dune." (Can you guess that my new friend attended Catholic school?) My oh-so-clever follow-up, I believe, was something about a child choking on a silver spoon. And so on (and on and on). You get the drift. Both of us were equally delighted to be there, and we expressed our displeasure with great maturity. Or not.

But let me proceed to the real point. It was in this class that the first B of my English career appeared at the top of my handwritten page. At first I was appalled, then humiliated, then indignant. How could I, arguably the best writer in my school, if not the entire universe (I was a modest child), receive anything but an A for my efforts? What was the guy thinking? What kind of crazy was he? And what was the world coming to, anyway?

When I went up after class and addressed these questions to a surprisingly patient teacher, he explained that my paper had wonderful mechanics, excellent vocabulary, solid ideas, and solid support for those ideas. What it lacked, he explained, was ME. I was pretty much phoning my product in, and he wasn't buying. Happily, this shocked me to the point that I actually heard him, and the message hit home. I was simply giving my teachers what they wanted, writing to meet their expectations, going through the motions. And strangely enough, it had never occurred to me to do more. These were just assignments, and I wasn't investing anything in them at all...no passion, no flair, and no creativity.

My friend, by the way, received an A on her paper. Reading it, I understood why. In fact, I learned the most valuable lesson of my writing career that summer...not to put pen to paper until I was feeling something...a proviso which applied to anything and everything I intended to put my name on, assigned or otherwise, essays as well as poetry. Writing from that place of feeling was not only possible, but necessary. The good stuff started in the gut, not the head.

Of course, I don't always write from that place. It comes and goes, even now. Sometimes the passion just isn't there, or it's buried so deeply I can't come up with it. That's when I use my head and not my heart.

It always shows.

In My Life

2012-01-19T08:18:00.000-08:00

(I hope you will turn up your sound and enjoy the melody.)

"In My Life" is one of my favorite Beatles songs, and not just because my nephew sang it at my son's wedding. The lyrics were written by John Lennon, inspired by Kenneth Allsop's remark that Lennon should inject more of his own life into the music he wrote. Apparently, the journalist had learned more about John from reading "In His Own Write" than from any of his lyrics.

With that in mind, "In My Life" began as a self-described rambling poem where the composer sort of took a bus ride through his childhood haunts, including Penny Lane and Strawberry Field. Lennon was not happy with the result, calling it "the most boring sort of 'What I Did on my Holidays Bus Trip' song." He reworked the lyrics into a much more generalized reflection on his past, and very few of the original lines remain.

While the lyric was written entirely by Lennon, the music was a collaboration with McCartney, and George Martin wrote the bridge. Released on the Rubber Soul album in 1965, In My Life is ranked 23rd on Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, as well as fifth on their list of The Beatles 100 Greatest Songs. It also placed second on CBC's 50 Tracks, and Mojo magazine named it the best song of all time in 2000.

As for me, I will never forget the sound of my nephew accompanying himself on the piano as he sang this beautiful song to my son and daughter-in-law at their wedding dinner in 1999. (And they have been making beautiful music together ever since!)

There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed.

Some forever, not for better;

Some have gone and some remain.

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall.

Some are dead, and some are living.

In my life, I’ve loved them all.

But of all these friends and lovers,

There is no one compares with you.

And these memories lose their meaning,

When I think of love as something new.

Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before;

I know I’ll often stop and think about them.

In my life, I love you more.

Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before;

I know I’ll often stop and think about them.

In my life, I love you more.

-John Lennon

click below for more I posts

What Really Matters

2012-01-18T08:45:00.000-08:00

The two most important days in your life are

the day you were born and the day you find out why.

-Mark Twain

I think we all have a lot of things we were meant to do and be,

but some definitely stick out more than others.

Seems that maybe Josh Kelley has found his raison d'etre.

And he's written a song about it that just might touch your heart.

(Video below.)

Happiness Is a Thoughtful Husband

2012-01-17T09:09:00.000-08:00

It might not be very glamorous, but this new shower head means the world to me. A couple of weeks ago, I was wishing out loud for the kind of shower where I could take the sprayer in hand and keep my hair from getting wet. (As a short person, this is difficult with the type that just rains down water willy-nilly on you from above.)

Sooooo...yesterday, without even telling me, my husband installed the perfect shower head for me! (I should add that he was inordinately fond of our old one, which was not only the perfect height for him but also looked considerably better.)

What a great surprise!! I don't need to tell you that the hubs just scored a few extra points with his lovely wife.

{make someone happy}

click below for more happiness

The Word Nymph Talks on Water

2012-01-16T09:52:00.000-08:00

Magpie Tales is one of the best writing memes around, and the prompt is always a thought and emotion-provoking picture. I've only participated a couple of times, but I think you will agree that the regulars over there are a pretty talented bunch!

The Word Nymph Talks on Water

Even turned to stone,

I can't stop talking.

Water-logged (and -lunged),

I burble on, blow

bubbles with my words

and watch them rising...

till every bit of heat

and hope is gone.

When I run out of air,

I bide my time.

But groups of letters still

clique in my brain.

They gather there,

await the resurrection...

ensure this drowning, too,

shall be in vain.

sculpture: Jason deCaires Taylor

∞§∞

"An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines

of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity."

Happy Martin Luther King Day!

Cliffhanging (part two)

2012-01-14T09:03:00.000-08:00

Here we go again: part deux of last week's Saturday Centus. The diabolical Ms. Matlock has granted us only 50 words this time, with no prompt at all. (Part 1 is revisited below, in red, with Part 2 immediately following.)

Cliffhanging (part one)

4:50 am.

But this welcome was too slow in coming. Sean should be home. Trembling, she grabbed her iPhone, exhaling slowly. Nada.

What good were these stupid cell phones, anyway? They made not hearing from your kids even scarier. Especially when their idea of fun was hanging off a cliff. Literally.

Sean knew how she worried. “I’m alive,” he always texted, teasing her. Maybe there was no reception.

Her limbs froze when the doorbell rang. The knocking (urgent, pounding) froze her soul...

∞§∞

Cliffhanging (part two)

"Mrs. Miller...Janet? It's Bud Gray. "

She rose stiffly, cracked the door. "Sheriff?”

"Sean’s in rough shape, Jan. Head injury. Let’s get you to County." Her stomach lurched.

Across town, a nurse smiled. The kid was conscious now, wanted his phone.

“That your beep?” Bud asked, eyes on the road. Breathless, Jan looked down.

"I'm alive," she read, and felt the world rush in.

∞§∞

Tendershootz Is Utah Bound!

2012-01-13T08:49:00.000-08:00

click to enlarge

Those of you who frequent my blog are probably aware that my daughter-in-law, Heather, is a multi-talented photographer (great eye, great ideas, great edits). Those who live in Utah might be interested to know that she will be there visiting friends and family in March and has decided to combine business with pleasure by devoting two full days to photo shoots. On the 2nd, she will be in Provo; on the 3rd, she will be in Salt Lake City.

Utahans who feel like having a fun, creative photo session with pictures that are out of the ordinary might want to check out her website and consider spending a little time with our cute Heather (tendershootz@gmail.com). And just to make my blog look a little better today, here are a few samples:

Candid,

posed,

or somewhere in between,

you are sure to be happy with the results!

{i know...isn't she gorgeous?}

Hair Platoon

2012-01-12T01:12:00.000-08:00

Hair Platoon

My hair marches across my head.

Left face. Right face. Full speed ahead.

A hair platoon, in disarray,

With soldiers who will not obey.

Some stepping here. Some strutting there.

Some standing straight up in the air

At full attention, as they please.

I’ve had enough, Hair. Stand at ease.

Obey my orders. Call me ‘Sir.’

Dismissed. Fall out!

(Oops.)

As you were.

click below for more H posts

The Worth of Souls

2012-01-11T09:41:00.000-08:00

In my church, members fast on the first Sunday of every month and donate the money saved on meals to those who are in need. We also have a testimony meeting on that day, when members of the congregation are free to come up to the podium and share their thoughts and beliefs about the gospel of Jesus Christ.

As I've mentioned before, my husband is the bishop (lay leader) of a congregation of youth from ages 18 to 30, and one of these young people bore a testimony recently that I'd like to share with all of you. He works as an insurance adjuster/estimator, meaning that he is the guy from your insurance company who looks your car over after an accident and determines how much it will cost to repair. Apparently, damages range from a few dents or scratches to completely bent axles or cracked frames, and I really like the simple analogy he drew:

We all get anything from a few dings to major damage to our cars at one time or another, and insurance companies pay the price to have them fixed. Occasionally, our vehicles are totaled, meaning that the value of the car is less than the price to repair it. At that point, the car is considered a complete loss and written off.

As people, every one of us carries anything from a few dings to some major damage ourselves. We get broken, and repentance (made possible through the atonement) is Christ paying the price to fix us. Unlike our vehicles, however, we can never be totaled, no matter the devastation. We will never be written off, because our value is inestimable. God's children are of infinite worth, and Christ will pay whatever it takes to reclaim us. In fact, He already has.

"Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God" (D&C 18:10).

Peace is Priceless

2012-01-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

Leaving footprints on the shore...

what could any child ask more?

Those who grow up by the sea

own a place where peace comes free.

{Two of my grandkids, livin' the good life in So Cal.}

by tendershootz

click below for more happiness

On Banishing the Inner Punk

2012-01-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

Saturday I woke up in a bad mood. There was no particular reason for it, other than the fact that I was feeling sorry for myself. Oh, poor me was my prevailing thought. I caught a cold in December, celebrated New Year's with a kidney infection, and ate my way into a fairly amazing (given the amount of time it took) weight gain to begin 2012.

Of course, my cold was gone...my infection nearly resolved...my healthy eating habits resumed, but that didn't matter. Life was awful. I had boring chores to do, and I couldn't find a good book to read. My car was dirty. My husband was acting cheerful and doing projects. My hair was getting thinner by the minute. The eggs I boiled were too hard. You get the picture. I was the unluckiest person in the universe, hands down. Nobody knew the troubles I'd seen.

Sheesh. What a crock. And even though I realized this intellectually, I couldn't (or wouldn't) pull myself out of it. I went around acting like the martyr of the world all day long, snapping at my husband like an old fishwife, and counting (then recounting) my unblessings. Even the wedding we attended that night couldn't quite reclaim my good nature (though it made a pretty good try)!

Lovely wedding notwithstanding, my Sunday morning mood was only slightly improved. I didn't want to go to church, didn't want to make dinner, didn't want to host the young adult ward for the CES fireside and snacks. I was feeling mad, bad, and kinda sad...and I was ready, though not quite willing, to take everyone down with me. What's more, as this is far from my usual state of mind, my husband was beginning to look at me as if he thought an exorcism might be in order, and the tones he was using in speaking to me sounded like someone trying to talk down a jumper...or soothe a savage beast. Let's face it; I was bristling like a porcupine. (Okay, more prickly than savage, but an unpleasant creature to deal with, nonetheless!)

What cured me? My better-late-than-never decision to push through it, of course, and once sought, the attitude adjustment was a predictably simple one. It involved, as President Hinckley's father once counseled him, forgetting myself and going to work. For me, this took the form of recharging my spiritual batteries at church (thanks, Monta Vista ward, for powerful testimonies and uplifting Relief Society lessons) and replacing self-centeredness with some unselfish service at home. Abandoning the pity pot to prepare and share a good meal with my family set the stage for inner peace so well that hosting our wonderful (and fun) young adult crowd was able to bring the curtain down on my inner punk. And doing the dishes afterward sent her packing!

I don't think she will be missed.

;)

PS: The moral of this story?

The self pity plant draws all of its sunlight directly from our own energy.

It withers in the dark when we direct that energy at others.

Cliffhanging

2012-01-07T10:29:00.000-08:00

Jenny's pulled a fast one on us this time...or maybe I should say a slooooow one...because this Centus is going to play out over two weeks. Yep, we're doing a cliffhanger today, one that continues and concludes next Saturday. 100 words each, plus the prompt, which (as always) is in red. Fun, eh?

∞§∞

Cliffhanging

4:50 am.

But this welcome was too slow in coming. Sean should be home. Trembling, she grabbed her iPhone, exhaling slowly. Nada.

What good were these stupid cell phones, anyway? They made not hearing from your kids even scarier. Especially when their idea of fun was hanging off a cliff. Literally.

Sean knew how she worried. “I’m alive,” he always texted, teasing her. Maybe there was no reception.

Her limbs froze when the doorbell rang. The knocking (urgent, pounding) froze her soul...

∞§∞

Grandma Doesn't Live Here Anymore

2012-01-06T11:30:00.000-08:00

When my children were much younger, I wrote a number of children's stories in poetic form. At the time, I wanted to write and publish children's picture books, and it was fun to have a goal that kept me going creatively when they were little. Out of that period came a lot of full length story poems, but no publications in book form. (I did manage to get a couple accepted to magazines like Lollipops and such.) Sadly, this one never seemed to land anywhere, yet it is one of my favorites. That's why it felt right to let it land right here today...in my blog...on Memory Lane.

Grandma Doesn't Live Here Anymore

My grandma doesn’t live here anymore.

She left the earth and moved far, far away.

I wonder if she flew through space to get there;

and did it take her long, or just one day?

I wonder if she likes the place she’s gone to.

Before I sleep, I look up at the sky...

And whisper, “Do you see the moon like I do?”

“Do all the stars still twinkle in your eye?”

I climb up on my bed and turn the pages

of fairy tales my grandma used to tell.

Some nights I still pretend she’s reading to me.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she says. “Sleep well!”

When morning comes, I look up at the white clouds

and see a sailing ship, a bear, a face.

My gran and I would lie down on the green grass;

and, oh, how many pictures we would trace!

Do you think she still sees the clouds like I can?

Could she be close enough to touch them now?

I wonder if she fluffs them up for pillows, or

uses them for cotton balls somehow.

Does she still make a wish on every rainbow?

I do. I’d like to take a rainbow ride.

I bet if I could climb up and slide down one,

I’d find her waiting on the other side.

I know she’s out there somewhere, that’s for sure.

Some days I really miss her, then I cry.

It’s almost like she puts her arms around me

and says, “We’ll be together, by and by.”

And I feel warm inside because I know

I’m going to see my gran again someday.

She gave me clouds, a sailing ship and rainbows,

the moon, and all the stars to light my way.

Gifts, Glorious Gifts!

2012-01-05T09:09:00.000-08:00

I don't think anyone's gonna argue with me

that Christmas gifts are a many-splendored thing.

I sorta gave this one (the quilt) to myself.

And these, too, though my husband wrapped 'em up!

My kids really came through for me too (even better than I did)!

Matt and Heather know how much I love my grandchildren.

While Karin and Bobby remember that I love a soft snuggle.

Ryan extends to me the gift of iPOD music in the kitchen.

And Todd lets me feel like part of his med school effort.

My very thoughtful husband gives me the piece de resistance.

(The bracelet, not my mother's engagement ring!)

He knows what I like.

(Creepy hand! I sharpened it so you could see better.)

I love my other gifts too (thanks, everyone),

but I posted these from Dave and the kids to keep it short! (-ish)

for more G posts, click below

The Art of Tuning In

2012-01-04T11:36:00.000-08:00

"Men should be anxiously engaged in a good cause,

and do many things of their own free will,

and bring to pass much righteousness."

D&C 58:27

When I saw that Jen, my good buddy over at Denton Sanatorium, was doing her annual "pick a word that defines your goal" blog hop, I remembered what a hard time I had picking my word last time and felt a bit unequal to the task. That's why I was so relieved when she described her aspiration with a phrase instead...a five-word one with plenty of ways to go. For some reason, that feels easier for me, a concept instead of a keyword.

So, in the unlikely event you haven't already figured it out, what I want to be this year is tuned in...not only to people but to things, experiences, and life in general. I want to be more present in every moment, with a conscious awareness of needs, notions, and nuances. I want to be the person who takes time to watch and actually see, listen and actually hear...and not just when it's easy or convenient. I want to be engaged––fully, at all times, and in every way available to me.

What I don't want to be is someone who's just going through the motions, calling it in, or standing on the sidelines. I want the joy of being out there in the trenches––an active, eager, and reliable participant. I want the blessings of being a person the Lord (and others) can count on to be not only ready and willing but wise and respectful. I want to "get it" and I want to "do it."

I want to be tuned in, to others, to myself, and to God.

I want to be tuned in physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

I am not meant to watch from a distance or to fade into the distance.

Life is too rich for that!

And I don't want to let getting older get in my way.

{be a force}

Making Memories

2012-01-03T07:25:00.000-08:00

Christmas morning is always magical at our house.

Thanks to little guys like him.

click below for more happiness

Cloudy, with a Touch of Rain

2012-01-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

Well, friends, the magic is almost gone. Today the tree comes down and the Christmas decorations get put away. My last child goes home, and the new year begins. I admit to feeling a little melancholy, but that's not unusual for me. I always experience a bit of let down when the season ends. Then I perk up and make a few resolutions!

Yes, despite my Saturday Centus poem to the contrary, I do like to start the new year out with a resolution or two. Historically, these seem to fall in the areas of physical and spiritual fitness. In truth, I rarely manage to carry them through for more than a few weeks (I usually start to fade in March or April), but I try not to beat myself up about that. Hope springs eternal, and I usually get up another head of steam and keep trying. Hey, no one's perfect, right?

Todd is going home sick, a major drag because classes start tomorrow. He'll probably hit the walk-in clinic for an antibiotic before he leaves (no easy task because he's allergic to most of them). Even the trusty Z-pack gives him hives. I just wish the poor guy had a couple more days at home so I could see him on the mend before he takes off and starts abusing his body with too much study and not enough sleep. I'm beginning to think medical school is hazardous to your health!

Speaking of health hazards, I'm sick too...not with a cold, but with a kidney infection. Having had one before, I recognize the signs all too well. In fact, I will probably wind up accompanying Todd to the clinic today, as I suspect my doctor will not be in the office. Not that going to her is any cheaper. Our deductible is so high these days that we don't even meet it by December.

Let's see, what else could I complain about? Sheesh, maybe I should have titled this post, "Woe is Me" or "My Cup Runneth Empty." I think the specter of having to box up all these decorations is hanging over me a bit too heavily, and the only cure I know for that is to get up and get it done. With that in mind, I will sign off and put you out of your misery (or my misery, as it were). But not before I write a little poem to send me on my way...

One melancholy sight to see:

a brittle, barren Christmas tree.

The lights that twinkled are no more,

pine needles lie upon the floor,

the beads and balls have all come down,

and every branch droops to a frown.

Removed, it leaves an empty space,

but hope steps in and holds a place...

a lingering whiff of forest air,

a memory for all to share,

a sense of loved ones gathered there.

∞§∞

Today I will be savoring the scent of leftover pine

and pining (just a little) for my family.

Happy New Year!

{it will be}

Resolution, Schmezolution

2011-12-31T10:03:00.000-08:00

Jenny's revving up for the New Year with her Saturday Centus prompt this week, and I like it! Hope you do, too. (Said prompt, as always, is in red.)

∞§∞

Resolution, Schmezolution

Resolution! Schmezolution!

This year, I’m resolved

to make no resolutions

because failure is involved.

No plans, no goals, no promises.

No journal, chart, or list.

No calendar that goes unstarred

for every day I’ve missed.

No weekly ruminations over

changes not achieved.

No self-defeating burials

of good intentions grieved.

No self-recrimination or

disparagement at all.

No personal experience

of how the mighty fall.

No feeling like a loser as

the year rolls to an end.

No starting fresh on New Year’s Day

and trying to pretend.

‘Cause this time WON’T be different.

Join my cause and face the facts.

The Resolution Revolution:

"Just give goals the axe."

∞§∞

(Not the most redeeming motto, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi...)

;)

A Most Embarrassing Predicament

2011-12-30T09:29:00.000-08:00

Now and then I do something that is beyond embarrassing, and this story definitely qualifies. My husband, a close observer of my life and times for 41 years (45 if you count the dating), believes I have a unique ability to bring these things upon myself, but I still maintain that this experience could have happened to anyone...would have happened to anyone, under the same conditions. Particularly disturbing is the fact that my little mishap occurred one afternoon when the two of us were attending an elegant luncheon and team-building meeting for the most senior executives of his former employer. Dave had recently been made the new CFO, and both of us wanted to make a good impression.

We were seated in the large and lovely, private banquet room of a posh hotel, thoroughly enjoying ourselves. The food, company, and view were excellent, with every need anticipated by the type of waiter who somehow manages to fill your glass without interrupting the flow of conversation. Shortly before dessert, I excused myself to use the restroom. Not surprisingly, it was large and lovely too, with marble floors and counters. There were no stalls, just one gleaming throne in the center of the room, so I quickly locked the door, availed myself of a disposable seat cover, and prepared to get the job done.

My outfit that day was a silky black culotte, a style which was popular at the time. In purchasing the split-leg dress, it had never occurred to me that the logistics might be a little difficult. Still, it didn't take me long to realize that I would have to unzip the one-piece garment, pull the entire ensemble down as if it were a pair of slacks, then do my utmost to keep all that extra material from touching the bathroom floor. Ever resourceful, I managed to accomplish exactly that. Having taken care of business, I went to reassemble myself and realized that something rather...unfortunate...had occurred.

Apparently, while the highly misleading toilet seat was oval as oval could be, the porcelain base beneath it was round as a penny. In other words, the top seat overlapped the porcelain bowl by several inches, meaning that one had to sit back rather far to hit one's mark. Entirely unaware of this dynamic, and carefully perched towards the front of said seat whilst endeavoring to keep my dress off the ground, I had quite effectively soaked both my outfit and the floor. Nary a drop had landed in the bowl for which it was intended, and beneath me was one alarmingly depthy puddle (thanks, water-filling waiter!) and one sopping wet piece of apparel. I was horrified and amused at the same time, laughing and panicking all at once. How was I going to get myself out of this mess without anyone being the wiser?

As I began frantically wiping up the floor with the seat covers (there were no paper towels in the room at all...just those linen, scented ones), one of the wives in my party knocked on the door. "Just a minute," I yelled as sweetly as possible, continuing to clean desperately. (May I mention that toilet seat covers are somewhat less than absorbent?) (And TP squares are smaller than you think??) But I pressed on, wishing as never before for a mop. Or a sweater. Or even a plush towel.

Once I finished that task (I'm still not sure how I did it), I ran the culotte dress over to the sink. Operating at warp speed, I washed the entire thing in soap and water, wringing it out as dry as possible. Amazingly, the material was such a shiny, silky polyester that it didn't even look wet. Of course, having to put it back on felt pretty uncomfortable, but I was so happy to have the matter taken care of that I didn't mind the cold clamminess at all. In fact, a wave of relief that could only be described as ~~smug~~ self-satsified engulfed me. Once again, I had beaten the odds, emerging unscathed from a dilemma of infinite proportions.

I opened the door to the waiting woman (actually women, now, because more had come) and tried to act natural. It wasn't easy, but I think I pulled it off. When I was seated once again next to my husband for dessert, I couldn't resist the urge to lean over and share my experience. "I just went to the bathroom all over my dress," I whispered nonchalantly.

To my disappointment, he didn't even look surprised. (Truth is, I'm kind of an accident waiting to happen.)

But I always seem to come out smelling like a rose.

Or in this case, like pina colada Softsoap.

;)

Bring in the New Year!

2011-12-29T10:40:00.000-08:00

Sing out the strains of Christmas past,

as yuletide dreams set sail.

Bring in the New Year, fresh and free.

Let happy hearts prevail!

click below for more New Year's posts

Wise Men (and Women) Seek Him at 10 AM

2011-12-28T09:06:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, shamefacedly, that I was a little disgruntled by the notion of attending church at 10 AM on Christmas morning, right in the middle of our gift opening tradition. How would we tear the kids away from their presents in time to get them showered and dressed for sacrament meeting in time? In fact, with only two showers available, how would we get 21 people fed and ready at all? One thing I was fairly sure of.......It was going to be a colossal pain.

I also confess to questioning (three or four times at least and with a certain degree of annoyance) the bishopric's decision to schedule our Sabbath observance mid-morning, making my own, sure pronouncement that mid-afternoon would have been far better. What on earth had they been thinking? Sheesh.

Despite my concerns, somehow we all made it to church on time. What's more, hearing a proud dad bless his new baby (one he and his darling wife dreamed of for years and were finally able to welcome at Thanksgiving), remembering Christ by partaking of the sacrament with dear friends and family, enjoying one of the most touching programs it's ever been our pleasure to see, and rubbing shoulders with people we love dearly turned out to be the best possible prelude imaginable to the giving and receiving of gifts celebrating the birth of our Savior. What on earth had I been thinking?

The final solo, O Holy Night, was an appropriate one...for we spent a rare and holy Christmas morn.

PS. Next year, I think we will precede the opening of our presents by singing Joy to the World or another stirring carol. Afterward, we will go around our family circle with each one of us offering the very first gift of the day to that newborn King whose birth we are celebrating. (This year, my gift to him should have been humility...or gratitude...because I definitely missed the mark by not welcoming the opportunity to celebrate Christmas on a Sunday.) After all, Christmas is not about logistics. It's about Love.

All Dressed Up for Christmas Morning

2011-12-27T08:40:00.000-08:00

Just before church on Christmas morning,

we took a little picture of the kids.

Sullivan was doing the hokey-pokey...

and dancing around to please the crowd.

Carli finally got him to settle down a bit for the photo.

Then Brycie indulged in a little hero worship.

(He's pretty fond of his "best brudder.")

Our pretty Carli did a masterful job of taking Sully in hand.

But it took some doing to keep him in the picture.

Come on, Sully...Just one more!

Ahhhhh......Free at last!

for more happiness, click below

Gifts from the Book of Life

2011-12-22T02:05:00.000-08:00

I promised I would post another one of the Christmas Eve stories I write for my family each year, so I hope you have a few moments to welcome this one in and let it speak to you. Hopefully, you will be glad you did! Last year's (about a sweet little angel and the magic that is Christmas) can be found here.

GIFTS FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE

“Remember, my friends: The scripture following the Lord’s prayer in the Bible is just as important as the prayer itself, perhaps even more so, for it reminds us of a life-changing truth,” counseled Reverend Williams.

“The passage reads like this: ‘If ye forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’ My sincere hope this week before Christmas is that each one of us will forgive and be forgiven, and may we find gratitude each day for the blessings that are ours, in Christ Jesus, amen.”

“Amen.” The congregation shifted in their seats, preparing for the closing song. It had been a long sermon; or at least, it had seemed like it, which was unusual when listening to their pastor. On a normal Sunday, he had them eating out of his hand, moved to tears one moment and laughing uproariously the next. Not that this week’s message hadn’t been a good one, for it had, but something indefinable was missing, no doubt about it. Of course, that was to be expected, considering. The truth is, it was a testament to Reverend Williams’ devotion that he was among them at all, under the circumstances. Most people would have taken at least a month off after the funeral…but Reverend Jim was dedicated. They all knew that. And they could certainly support him through one less than engrossing sermon. More than one, if need be.

The Reverend cleared his throat loudly to get their attention. “Next Sunday, we’ll begin the holiday service promptly at 10:00 am, which should allow ample time to get together with our”….the pastor paused and swallowed hard… “with our…our…families…and share Christmas Eve.”

His listeners, holding their breath as he stumbled, gave a collective sigh of relief when he managed to recover. Poor Reverend Jim. How was he going to get through the holidays without Buddy when he couldn’t even get through one sentence? Their hearts ached with love for him…and concern. He’d had such a hard time before, and now this. How much could one person bear?

The Reverend continued: “The closing song, ‘Joy to the World,’ can be found on page 242.”

As the pastor returned to the bench, he grimaced wryly. Right, Jim. Joy to the World. Perfect choice. As long as you don’t have to sing it. But he did have to sing it, and he had to give the Christmas sermon next week too. Even more unlikely, he had to give it in a way that wouldn’t ruin the holiday spirit for all of the people he loved so much, people who’d gotten him through the accident nearly ten years ago…and its fallout. He’d never have made it without them, and Buddy wouldn’t have either. They’d been there for his son when he hadn’t been…when he couldn’t be. It wasn’t their fault he was struggling again now, trying so hard to keep things together. It wasn’t their fault Buddy had gone and gotten himself killed.

The pain was almost physical as Jim’s memory conjured up, for the hundredth time that week, their last conversation:

“Don’t do it, son. Please. It goes against everything your mother and I taught you. There are better ways to resolve conflict, more righteous ways. And besides, I need you. I need you here…I need you alive. I’m serious, Bud. I’ve already lost your mom and Katie. I couldn’t survive losing anyone else.”

“I lost them too, Dad. Remember? You’re not the only one who’s hurting…I feel it, too. every day of my life. Which is why I can’t just let it go. Listen to me, Dad. Those people came into our country and killed people…fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers. And we know how that feels, don’t we? Of all people, you should understand why I have to go to Afghanistan. And you know what? I think Mom would understand. In fact, I know she would. She always understood.”

Wincing in spite of himself, Jim could still hear the unspoken sentence: “But you never did understand.” And it was true, at least this time. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all. Maybe he never would.

The last strains of the closing hymn interrupted Jim’s memory, and he was glad to let it go. His clear tenor picked up the last refrain: “…and ever worship God, and ever worship God, and ever and ever worship God.”

I’m trying, he thought dejectedly. I am. But I’m so angry. With God. Even worse than when Christy and Katie died, and I barely made it then. Just barely. And Buddy. I’m mad at him, too, mad enough that I can’t even cry over him, and that’s crazy. He’s gone, blown up somewhere in the desert, and all I can do is yell at him in my head. Maybe that’s why I’m not praying. I’m too busy yelling at my son…my stupid, willful, wonderful, needlessly dead son.

With an effort, Jim ended his silent rant. “As a man thinketh, so is he.” Lately, this was not a comforting thought. And, sadly, the self-castigating sermon on forgiveness hadn’t even helped.

“Merry Christmas, Reverend. So sorry for your loss.” Jim was startled to find himself on the front steps of the church, shaking hands with the members of his congregation as they filed out the large, wooden door. Talk about being on automatic. Or maybe he really was going crazy. Why not? He had good reason. His whole family was gone. What was that thing about lightning never striking twice in the same place? No wonder he couldn’t give a decent sermon.

When he could avoid it no longer, Jim left for home. The outwardly familiar walk was surprisingly beautiful, even peaceful. The wintry night held a fragrant and distinctive scent of burning wood, pine, and fresh, cold air. Yep, it was Christmas, all right. Funny how those holidays just kept on coming. The candy canes and mistletoe stopped for no one. Not for a little girl whose life was snuffed out by a drunk driver, and not for the brave mother who tried to save her. And most especially not for the ones left behind. That first Christmas without his girls had been harder than he’d thought possible, on him and on Buddy. But they’d made it through, together. Or he thought they had.

Just then, Jim’s eye was drawn to a rainbow of lights, sparkling through a large bay window near his home. He caught a glimpse of a young family from his church, gathered around an unruly tree that looked big enough to grace the town square. Surprising himself with a soft chuckle, Jim found the first bit of warmth he had felt in days. He was reminded of Christmases past, but he was also thinking of Christmas present. He dearly loved the people he ministered to, and he wanted to bring them joy on the Savior’s birthday. He wanted to prove to them, and himself, that Christ’s love was big enough for everyone, in every situation. But how could he bring the spirit of Christmas to others when his own spirit was so empty?

Arriving at his doorstep, Jim turned the key and stepped into the silence that had become his life. Bud had been deployed for almost nine months, but his unit was due home for Christmas, and anticipating that day had given the house an energy it now lacked. The house stood hollow and lonely, like an old spinster with no prospects.

The doorbell rang, and Jim rose obediently to answer it.

“Ready or not, here I come, Jim,” chimed Marianne, “I even brought dinner!” Most of the members of his congregation called him Reverend, but Marianne was an old friend, a good one. She and Christy had been pretty much inseparable for years, and it still hurt him to see her sometimes. Mostly it helped, though. Sometimes he even thought of marrying her, but now the thought seemed very distant.

“Are you hungry, Jim? Do you think you could eat a bit?” Her voice was warm and caring, and he felt some of the tension in his heart ease.

“Haven’t got much of an appetite, but I’ll try.”

“Good. It’s important to keep your strength up.”

Setting the casserole down on the kitchen counter, she turned around and headed for the door. Almost as an afterthought, she handed Jim an envelope. He looked down and was surprised to see his late wife’s handwriting on it.

“It’s the card Christy gave me when my sister died,” Marianne explained. “I don’t think I’ve ever shown it to anyone, but it really helped me. She was always so smart about things, wasn’t she?”

Jim nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Marianne patted his shoulder understandingly, then turned to leave.

“Stay strong, Jim. Stay strong for them all…Christy, Katie, and Buddy. They’re counting on you, and so are we.”

His eyes filled with unshed tears.

“Good night, Marianne. And thanks.”

Closing the door softly, Jim headed for the old easy chair where he usually wrote his sermons. He placed Marianne’s timeworn letter from his wife carefully in his lap, almost afraid to open it. And he didn’t open it; at least, not right away. Instead, he stared at the intricate flower pattern on the paper and studied the arcs and angles of Christy’s handwriting. He could almost see her small, capable hand, moving quickly across the paper as a Bic pen tried to keep pace with her thoughts. And what wonderful thoughts they had been.

Suddenly, he wanted to know what she had said to Marianne. He needed to know. Maybe there was a message for him, too, a message so powerful it was passed down through the years just for today, just for this moment. Or maybe Christy’s words to Marianne were simply that, words to Marianne, with no special meaning for him. Either way, he had to find out.

With trembling fingers, he slid the thin paper from its envelope and laid it flat in front of him. The ink was faded and hard to read, and it looked like some of the words had been smudged by tears, but Jim was still able to make them out. As he read, a smile came to his face.

“For Marianna-banana”, it began, “the best friend––and sister––ever:

“Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am a diamond glint of snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awake in the morning hush,

I am the swift, uplifting rush

of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starshine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there; I did not die.

– Mary Elizabeth Frye

A brief note, written neatly at the bottom, was pure Christy:

“It’s true, Marianne. Lucy’s spirit lives on. She’ll always be with you, whenever you need her. That’s how it is with families, because families last forever; I’m sure of it.”

Jim brushed at his eyes hurriedly, then returned to his wife’s words.

“So pay attention, my friend. Look for Lucy’s brilliance in the sunrise; listen for her quiet wisdom at dusk. See her goodness in the kind acts of others; feel her love for you in the touch of a friend’s hand. And remember…

“This friend’s hand and heart are here for you, Marianne, whenever you need them. They always will be, and when the time is right, so will Lucy’s.

“I love you.

“Christy”

Reverently, Jim folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. As usual, Christy had cut right to the chase. She’d always been five steps ahead of him, and apparently nothing had changed. Maybe she was more present in his life than he’d realized. Maybe Buddy was, too.

With a firm sense of purpose, Jim walked up the stairs to his son’s lonely room. He hadn’t been able to handle going in there yet; he’d been too hurt…too angry, but now he wanted to go in and face him, in a sense. If Christy was right, and families were forever, then he and Buddy had some things to iron out.

The door swung open on Bud’s childhood. Posters, trophies, souvenirs, books, baseball mitt, lava lamp…every vestige of his boy’s life bombarded Jim’s senses. It was as if he could even smell him. The sadness was overwhelming, but so was the comfort. He’d been so angry with Buddy that he hadn’t been able to reach out…to feel his spirit. In fact, Jim hadn’t been able to feel much of anything.

Maybe that’s why he’d chosen not to look through the box of personal effects in the corner, the one the marine corps had brought. It had seemed like too much to even think about, but he was thinking about it now, and there was no time like the present. Determinedly, he walked over to the corner and sat down beside the box that held what was left of his son’s life.

At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary there, but nothing there could ever be ordinary, because it had belonged to Buddy. His class ring, camera, shaver, a picture of the family, a few letters…nothing of particular value, unless you were his father. And what was this? It looked like a present of some kind…Yes, it was. Wrapped in a brown paper bag and tied with a shoelace. A Christmas present, marked with Bud’s impatient scrawl: “Merry Christmas with love to Dad, from your favorite son.”

Jim could nearly hear Buddy’s voice saying it, and the loss swept over him again, made deeper by the knowledge that he was receiving his son’s Christmas gift from the grave. But what had Christy said? “He did not die. He does not sleep.” And it was true. Buddy’s spirit was alive in that room. And it was alive in the gift, as well.

With infinite care, Jim unwrapped the unexpected but treasured gift from his son. On the front page was printed the words “Gifts from the Book of My Life: A Good Works Journal, by Bud Williams.” Good works journal? What could it mean?

Filled with curiosity, he turned the page and found out.

“Dear Dad:

Since we didn’t leave each other on the best of terms, and because it’ll be awhile till I see you again, I’ve decided to keep this journal. I know you want me to be a good person, maybe even a minister like you some day, but I’ve had to choose what’s right for me. And, in a way, I guess I’m writing this to prove that I can still be a good person, even in the marines. I just want you to know that the things you and mom taught me will stay with me, wherever I go.

My idea is to make a journal of the good things I do this year, and to be sure I have something worthwhile to enter in it, every day. Then, when I come back home, I’ll give it to you for Christmas. Great gift, huh? The gift of knowing you raised a good kid, one who’s working at getting even better.

Merry Christmas, Dad. I’m going to make a difference out here.

Happy reading!

Love,

Buddy

P.S. It’s a cool idea, huh? This way, every gift given to others is also a gift to you!”

Moved beyond description, Jim was reminded of another Giver (and Receiver) of gifts. “For inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Bud’s idea made sense, a lot of sense…And it sure beat feeling sorry for yourself.

Jim turned the page and read the entry for Day 1. It was humbling, to say the least.

“My first good deed is to forgive you, Dad.

“When I told you I was going to join up, you jumped to a lot of conclusions about me. You said what I was doing was unrighteous and out of line with what you and mom had taught me. But you were wrong, Dad; I care a lot about what you guys taught me. I just wanted you to understand how I felt. Our country had been attacked, and I wanted to do something to help. I needed you to be proud of me, but you weren’t. I wanted you to 'get it,' but you didn’t. We lost Mom and Katie to a drunk driver, and there was nothing we could do about it. This time I wanted to do something.

“I’m forgiving you today because I understand now. You’re afraid. Afraid of what war will do to me, that I won’t be a good person.

“You’ve always wanted me to go into the ministry, but I have to find my own way. And you’re scared of losing me, but that’s in God’s hands. It always is.

“I’m glad to forgive you, Dad, because you’re a good man who means well. And because you love me, and I love you, and we’re both representin’ down here for Mom and Katie.

“Rock on, dude!”

Jim was overcome. What a priceless gift his son had given him. Forgiveness. And more. Pages and pages of good works, pieces of a young life that would never be lost. How joyful he, as a father, felt to read them. Stories of helping Iraqi children whose parents had been killed, of volunteering in hospitals and schools, of helping out wounded soldiers, even risking his life to save others. It was incredible…yet, strangely, believable. Though Bud hadn’t lived to write it, he’d been killed in action while trying to rescue a friend. Fervently, Jim promised himself to make that last entry in the Good Works journal on his son’s behalf.

Buddy’s gift brought something Jim had never expected to feel again, not any time soon, at least. JOY. Plain, and not so simple. He treasured the opportunity to read for himself what kind of man his son had become. He’d be a better minister because of Bud’s example…a better man. He’d also be a better father. (Yes. He was still a father. And a husband, too. He always would be.)

With a deepening sense of PEACE, Jim read on. Midway through the journal was an entry that meant the world to him:

“Hey, Dad…I’m beginning to realize that I have a ministry of my own out here, with the soldiers. I might even make it official. Like father, like son, huh? Same job, different arena. What d’ya think?”

Needless to say, Jim thought it was fine. He smiled gently as HOPE returned to his heart. Maybe Bud had found yet another new arena. Heaven needed good ministers too, right?

Hope. Peace. Joy. Precious “Gifts from the Book of Life.” But the greatest gift from his son’s journal was that Jim was finally able to forgive…God…Buddy…even himself. He wanted to be a person the Lord trusted to minister to others, and he wanted it badly enough to let go, to let God heal him. In the meantime, he would keep a Good Works journal himself – a gift to his own Father, his Heavenly Father.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. At 10:00 sharp, the Reverend Williams began his sermon, and his congregation recognized immediately that he was “back.” His theme was Gifts from the Book of Life, and his message was basic, but profound.

“Let me begin,” he said warmly, “with a story about my son and your friend, Bud Williams, a fine young man who understood Christmas…and redemption…and gift-giving…”

Thirty stirring minutes of hard-earned wisdom, wit, and spirituality followed. Buddy’s gift––and the beauty surrounding it––were well and gladly shared, but now it was time for the living…time to go home and prepare for Christmas Day with their families.

The Reverend always knew when it was time to close, and he prepared to do so:

“What was that observation Buddy made...the one about giving?” he asked rhetorically, then answered his own question.

“Every gift to others is a gift to you, Dad.”

Addressing his son right in the text of his talk, Jim said, “I want you to know that I get it, Bud. I finally do get it, and nothing that happens to you, me, Mom, or Katie can ever change what is and always will be true: God gave us the greatest gift imaginable, His Son, who lived to teach us and died to save us. Our gift for Him is to receive His priceless gift and use it for good, our own and others’. And every gift we give, no matter how or to whom it is given, will be a gift to Him.

But here’s the even greater wonder…the miracle of all miracles: Every gift we give to Him becomes a gift to ourselves. We are the beneficiaries. Because of His selflessness, we have the opportunity to become like He is…to live with Him and our families, forever. Christ’s love is big enough for anyone and everyone, for anything and everything. And that is the meaning of Christmas.”

Looking out on his congregation, Reverend Williams embraced each one in spirit. Looking upward, he embraced each member of his family, in exactly the same way.

His final words were a testimony: “Born in a manger, he came to earth under the humblest of circumstances. The Son of the Almighty would become the Savior of all mankind. At His coming, the angels declared, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people, for unto you is born this day in the City of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord’.” A star rose in the evening sky, while the hosts of heaven sang jubilantly, “Glory to God in the Highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.” Kings came bearing gifts for the holy Child, but the only begotten Son of God would give freely, far more than He could ever receive. “He walked the roads of Palestine working miracles. He healed the sick. He brought sight to the blind. He raised the dead. He blessed the little children and condemned any who should offend them. He left His mark upon the world, which can never be erased or diminished. Concluding that brief life was the agony at Gethsemane and the terrible suffering of Golgotha, to be followed by the glory of the resurrection. No other had ever done before what He did. He rose from the grave, and through His great act of atonement came salvation for all men. Our eternal lives are in His hands and our eternal progress lies in obedience to His teachings. He is the implementation of our Father’s plan of happiness. He is our Savior of whom the angels spoke that first Christmas Eve. He is our Redeemer, our Lord, our God. He is our King, Emmanuel, who has saved us when we have been powerless to save ourselves.” (President Gordon B. Hinckley’s quote.)

The deep and abiding spirit of Christmas was palpable as each member of the congregation bore silent witness of the Savior’s mission…and the birth that made it possible.

“Surely these are sacred gifts…from the book of life eternal.” Reverend Williams’ voice, filled with awe, was little more than a whisper, yet it pierced his listeners to the very soul. His closing thoughts were beautiful in their simplicity.

“What can I give him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.

If I were a wise man, I would know my part;

Yet what can I give him? Give my heart.”

And so he did. And his people did.

Minutes later the clock struck the hour, chiming as if to join the congregation in its closing song: “…Then pealed the bells more loud and deep, God is not dead, nor doth He sleep…” This time, Reverend Jim was singing in full voice, and his heart was singing too.

Merry Christmas, Bud. The words rang softly, sweetly. Merry Christmas, girls. And a blessed, merry Christmas to us all.

The End

for more Christmas posts,

click below

Christmas Time Is Here...

2011-12-20T09:16:00.000-08:00

My presents are wrapped, my house is nearly ship-shape, and my heart is happy to greet my family and begin celebrating Christmas together. Yes, I am still coughing, but I was able to sleep in my own bed last night instead of sitting up in a chair, and I call that progress!

More progress is that I just put the finishing touches on my annual Christmas Eve story last night, and I am deeply satisfied with the results. (Whew!) It won't be available on the blog until next year (I don't want to tip my hand to the fam!), but on Thursday I will post a really lovely one I wrote for a Christmas past, in case you are looking for something to share with your families Saturday night.

And now, here is what I'd like to share with YOU:

This Christmas JOY comes once a year.

Some like to call it yuletide cheer,

but I call it a heart of gold

for Christ, the newborn King of old.

The golden glow surrounds your heart

and makes of it a better part...

more happy and more filled with love...

more certain of a life above.

It fills you up and makes you whole,

ignites a knowledge in your soul

that all is well and e'er will be:

A Child was born for you, for me.

Then spread the message all year long

in thought and deed, in word and song.

There's much to do and much to be.

Where truth meets action, men are free.

By keeping Christmas through the year,

you draw the Savior's presence near,

make of the world a better place,

and in your heart prepare more space

for Christmas JOY, December's cheer,

that truly comes but once a year.

I know all too well that some years are easier on the heart than others, but I hope every one of you feels at least a glimmer of Christmas JOY this year. Truly, one of His greatest gifts to us is the peace that passeth all understanding. And what is Christmas about, if not His gifts?

"And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus" (Philippians 4:7).

PS. I'm going to begin the process of catching up with everyone's blogs today. Forgive my absence; I felt better doing my coughing and hacking without a computer on board!

click here for more happiness

A Perfect Brightness of Hope

2011-12-19T10:07:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas week, which means this will be a Christmas-posts-only week at Sue's News, Views 'n Muse, too. (All Christmas, all the time...and happy to do it! In RED print, yet!!)

I'm still bosom buddies with my crummy Christmas cold, but that's not stopping me from feeling the spirit of the season. In fact, I think it's helped me along a bit. I've been given lots of quiet time to reflect on the birth of our Savior, and it has been good.

A Perfect Brightness of Hope

How bright the sky, how still the night

when all the world received His light.

One star stood out from all the rest,

while choirs of angels sang and blessed

a lowly stable, bleak and bare...

and Mary’s Babe who nestled there.

The King of heaven and earth was born

to save us all that Christmas morn.

∞§∞

How bright our lives; how still our hearts

when we receive what He imparts

and hold ourselves above the rest

to walk with angels and be blessed.

May every home, replete or bare,

be strengthened by His presence there.

And may our souls embrace His birth

and count Him King of heaven and earth!

Merry Christmas to all of you...

Ode to a Tree

2011-12-17T08:33:00.000-08:00

Still feeling pretty crummy, but I thought I'd grab a few kleenex, savor a cough drop (ugh), and check in on the Centus. Glad I did, too! This Christmas tree is definitely getting me in the mood...not necessarily for Christmas...but still! ;) Jenny has given us 50 words to respond to the following picture prompt:

Mama Mia, what a tree-a

It should grace a pizzeria

Pepperoni…provolone

Maybe even some bologna

Visions dancing in my head

Sweet tomatoes…orange, red

Peppers, please…not sugarplums

(Afterwards, break out the Tums)

∞§∞

Just Breathe. (Oops, I can't!)

2011-12-16T02:00:00.000-08:00

I wanted to delve into the past and write a beautiful piece for and about Dave in honor of our 39th wedding anniversary today, but I'm a little too sick to get the job done. I'm not even up to going out for dinner, which is kinda sad.

Oh well, today's walk down memory lane will just have to be a picture.

Happy anniversary, Dave.

We looked pretty good together, didn't we?

(Methinks the condition of this picture gives our age away!)

So does this one...

Sheesh. What happened to us?

(Maybe you should shave your beard??)

;)

Seriously, though. This one's for you, Dave...

Our Love is Life: A Marriage Vow

© Susan Noyes Anderson

Our love is deep and constant as the sea,

yet fresh as mountain air in early spring

and free as meadowlarks who, taking wing,

come home to find their rest in nest and tree.

Our love is life, for earth and sky are we,

and air and water––and two hearts that sing.

These are the lasting treasures that we bring...

I give myself to you, and you to me.

You give yourself to me, and I to you.

On this, our wedding day, with loved ones near,

the dream we found together has come true.

Our hands are joined, and now our path is clear:

to make love live and breathe in all we do.

This is our marriage vow, for God to hear.

(It's a reprint, but you are always my inspiration...)

Love you, Dave.

xox

Frisco, Friends, Fun, and Fa-La-La-La-La

2011-12-15T08:28:00.000-08:00

Guess who took me to San Francisco for dinner Monday night?

Yep, that'd be this guy...the hubby.

We ate to our hearts' content, then met up with his Singles Ward

and got in line for the trolley

so we could make merry.

(And how do we make merry?)

By caroling to every shopper in that beautiful city by the Bay!

(mostly at the the top of our lungs)

Yep. 65 of us loaded onto one tightly packed cable car so we could

shout our fa-la-la-la-la's to the good people of San Francisco.

When we hit the end of the line, 65 of us all got off.

And then got back on again for a final picture.

Or maybe THIS was the final picture...

At any rate,

we snapped a quick photo of the bishopric before

heading on down the street to one of our favorite hangouts,

where the "world famous ice cream" melted in our mouths (so to speak)

and the hot fudge was nothing short of criminal!

I know. I should have taken a picture of my sundae.

But I took one of my son instead.

∞§∞

(Good-looking devil, isn't he?)

click below for more F posts

A Gentle Night in Bethlehem

2011-12-14T11:47:00.000-08:00

A Gentle Night in Bethlehem

Tonight I walk beneath a gentle sky

where stars are warm and whisper, “Peace, be still.”

The silence beckons softly, as the moon

shines clear and bright upon a distant hill.

My eyes look up, and in the glow I see

reflections of another gentle night,

when o’er the quiet hills of Bethlehem,

one star proclaimed the everlasting light.

The Everlasting Light, Emmanuel…

A Child was born, by prophecy foretold.

A humble cave was shelter to a King

who lived and died to make our hearts as gold.

A mother who had never known a man…

A father who received her, and believed.

Together, they would walk a lonely road,

in service to the Babe that was conceived.

Thou rev’rence was their due, it went unpaid.

Few people understood what was in store.

Then Caesar, who had never understood,

levied a grievous tax upon the poor.

So Joseph went with Mary to be taxed,

the glory of their calling still unknown.

And willingly, though she was great with child,

she bore the weight for all of us, alone.

She carried every hope and every dream

across a barren land and then pushed on

through pain and sorrow, Joseph at her side,

to Bethlehem, until her strength was gone.

The time was nigh, the Baby would be born.

Where would the weary travelers find their rest?

Inside the city, none would take them in,

and so a lowly stable was their nest.

A child was born of Mary, as foretold,

and in her loving arms He gently lay.

The Hope of all the world had come at last…

a baby, cradled in the new-mown hay.

The Son of Mary and the Son of God–

a newborn King descended from on high.

For lo, an angel voice proclaimed the birth

to shepherds watching o’er their flocks nearby.

And they were sore afraid, but they did hear

glad tidings, for the promise had been kept.

Their eyes beheld a star, a wondrous star…

above that sacred place where Jesus slept.

A host of angels filled the evening sky

rejoicing, shouting praises through the air.

As time stood still, the earth and heavens were joined…

for you and I, and all of us, were there.

The Wise Men brought Him gifts of purest gold;

rich frankincense and myrrh were in their hands.

They sought the newborn King to honor Him,

making their way in haste from distant lands.

Deliverance was the promise He fulfilled

when He descended from His throne above,

but He did not do battle with a sword.

Our Lord came bearing gifts of peace and love.

And peace and love were in the air that night–

that wondrous night when earth and heaven met.

Remember Him on this and every day…

and tell His story, lest we all forget;

and tell his story, lest we all forget.

Mrs. and Mrs. Claus Party Down

2011-12-13T10:06:00.000-08:00

Mrs. Claus (yep, that'd be me) is here to say

that she and Mister Claus

found themselves smack, dab in the middle

of a rollicking,

frolicking,

line-dancing,

romancing,

Christmas dance on Saturday night.

Not that we were sorry to have landed there

(though Rudolph was a bit miffed when they wouldn't let him in).

But we managed to calm him down, and the food was great!

(The company, of course, was better still!!)

Even the DJs seemed like good guys.

And everybody there looked to be having

a hopping good time!

Thanks to all the young adults in our singles ward

for a fantastic night at the ward Christmas party!

(And yes, you owe me BIG for dressing up as Mrs. Santa.)

Sorry for the poor picture quality. It was dark in there!

Click below for more happy posts

Sue's News, Views 'n REviews

2011-12-12T09:51:00.000-08:00

I resisted doing Emilisq and her gang's Review Extravaganza last year because I didn't want to go back through all of this year's posts and try to pick favorites. To tell the truth, I don't post anything unless I really like it, so choosing the ones I prefer is kind of torturous for me. After all, these are my babies, right? Nonetheless, because I am exceedingly fond of my friend Emily, I am going to give it a go.

So, without further ado, here is the first quarter...

Beginning with January:

I wrote a lot of poems that month, even more than usual. Tragedy hit one of my dearest friends when she lost her adult son, and I think I was in a state of enhanced creativity trying to find some comfort (for both of us). I have placed an asterisk next to the ones specifically written in response to the grieving.

Life Flight*

The Seasoning

Mr. Sandman Strikes Again!

On Wishes, Sorrows, and Tomorrows*

Age: The Lottery Ticket

Perspective

Peace, My Child*

Marriage: Our Love Is Life.

I also introduced my mom's new blog (Grandma Robbins' Nest),

Mama's Got a Brand New Blog

and even wrote a passably funny post about mammograms:

Ouch!

I shared the funeral of my wonderful friend's equally wonderful son, where we said farewell for a season,

Blessed Are They That Mourn

and wrote a Saturday Centus post based upon my friend's loss...

Perishable.

Finally, I had a wonderful experience with being the Lord's hands:

Tender Mercies.

February was a good month, too.

Naturally, there were more poems:

Rhymetime

Grandkids Make Me Happy

Crossing the Bridge Over Troubled Water (another one about my friend)

A Quilt Made of Love

To Todd (for my son).

I also took my readers on a wonderful beach trip to...

The Best Beach House Ever (and boy, I'm not kidding!),

then told my "true love" story with

It All Began on Valentine's Day,

and shared the joys of being...

Heart Attacked.

Later, I reminisced about my childhood with...

Like Sands Through the Hourglass

and showed pictures of the evolution of my family in

Blast from the Past.

March came in like a lion.

Again, poems a-plenty:

Of Youth and Springtime

The Happy Tree

Looking for the Sun Today

Vistas

Lent, Me, and Joie de Vie.

And I waxed philosophical with...

Time, Tulips, and Testimony,

then shared my sister's production designer decor in...

A Bit of Savor and One more Favor,

bragged about my nephew's newly released single...

Into the Valley by Classixx,

and annoyed every mom out there with my notions of parenting with

Unsolicited Advice from an Old-Style Mom and Unrest in America.

Whew. That was a lot of posts. I hope you get a chance to check a couple of them out. I actually ended up enjoying looking back over three months of blogging, but I can't promise to do the other three quarters. It's a lot of work!!

The Eye of the Beholder

2011-12-10T08:09:00.000-08:00

Well, what d'ya know? A regular, old-fashioned Saturday Centus from The Matlock...with nary a trick in sight! Kinda refreshing, right? 100 words plus the prompt to tell the best story a Centusian can muster. (This week, I threw in a bit of Christmas for good measure.) The prompt, as always, is in red.

∞§∞

The Eye of the Beholder

“I don’t like Christmas.”

Julie started at the sudden sound, midway through the flight. Her seatmate's tone was confessional, a distinction she recognized immediately. Airplanes and salons had a lot in common.

Still, she’d have felt more comfortable with scissors in hand. Mentally brandishing a pair, she took the bait. “How so?”

“The shopping. I hate shopping. And Christmas muzak. And expectations. To say nothing of decorating. Putting up lights is my personal definition of purgatory.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she said softly, remembering the twinkling trees and handmade gifts of her childhood, the fire casting warm shadows on every face in the family circle.

Memory Lane: An Ode to Sideburns

2011-12-09T07:24:00.000-08:00

Recently I was searching like a mad ~~woman~~ for my outline of this year's Christmas story, which I had scribbled down in the car last summer and subsequently misplaced. (Seriously, I went a little crazy thinking I had lost it.) In the process of searching every nook and cranny of my office, I ran across something that made me laugh at loud...a motherly note I had written to Ryan back in 1999. He was a freshman in college and nervous about upcoming midterms. Anyway, I thought you might get a kick out of it, too. (Should I mention he was sporting a set of sideburns so obnoxious that I longed to take an electric shaver to them in the night?)

Here it is. This is its first (and last) outing in public, so I hope you will make allowances for the outdated references. Some of the people I mentioned are still well known, while others were flashes in the pan. Ah, the vagaries of pop culture! Maybe you will remember a few of them fondly...or not. ;)

An Ode to Burns

Who said that sideburns ain't that cool?

Brigham had ‘em; he’s no fool.

John Wayne liked to grow that hair,

and Elvis had a lovely pair.

Mr. T could sprout some fuzz,

but not as much as Tom Green does.

Backstreet Boy, AJ McClean,

claims his are the best he’s seen…

(Lincoln never would agree…

His sideburns are history!)

James Dean had that sexy stubble;

Stalin had ‘em (double trouble).

Harrison Ford can sprout some thistles;

Affleck claims that his draw whistles!

John Travolta’s make girls boogie;

James Brown’s make them boogie-woogie!

Bruce Lee’s burns kick(b0x) the Rock’s…

while Neil Young’s match his curly locks.

These burns are many, and they’re great.

They’re ugly as sin, which means first-rate.

And yet, to Ry’s, they hold no candle…

Those Anderson burns…TOO HOT TO HANDLE!

Ryan Anderson has the only true burns.

but then we must never forget:

The only good burn is a dead burn.

(If the razor don’t fit, try Nair.)

With loads of love and as much burn tolerance as I can manage

from

YOUR MOM =)

PS. Good luck with finals!

How's that for an annoying missive from your mother? To their everlasting credit, my kids still like me. At least, they appear to. Indeed, their tolerance knows no bounds.

Happy Friday, y'all...

;)

Euphemistically Speaking

2011-12-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

Euphemistically Speaking

I’ve reached an agreement

with all of my peers.

Old ladies we’re not;

we are “women of years.”

;)

(Euphemisms come in mighty handy for the "Elderly"...)

heehee

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On Letting in the Light

2011-12-07T09:03:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite quotes is by Leonard Cohen, who also wrote one of my favorite songs. The song is Suzanne, which a very cool, pre-Dave boyfriend once said reminded him of me. (Yes, this was in my "deep" college days.) ;)

The quote, which I like even better than I like Suzanne, reads this way:

"Ring the bells that still can ring; forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."

Besides appealing to my poetic sensibilities (I do love a deft rhyme), these words epitomize my philosophy of life, or rather, of how life works. I find it hopeful, somehow, that a rather lugubrious Jew and a glass-half-full Mormon could coalesce around any given statement, especially one so close to the very core of personal experience and point of view. It's heartening!

Even more heartening is the understanding that life on earth is not meant to be perfect, and neither are we. Perfection is neither expected nor possible in this world, and it is only through the Savior's grace that we can hope to attain it in the next. Our turn on a necessarily imperfect earth allows us to make the mistakes and endure the trials we need in order to become God's children in very deed. It's part of the plan.

That's why, at Christmas and every other time, we should by all rights ring the bells that still can ring. Yes, we are inherently flawed, but our cracks allow the light of Christ to shine in and through our souls, healing us and others in its wake.

And that makes me want to shout Hallelujah (another of Cohen's wonderful songs).

A Christmas Devotional for FHE

2011-12-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

Last night the young adults from the ward my husband is Bishop

of came to our home to watch the Christmas devotional on TV.

We call our Monday night get-togethers Family Home Evening, and

since many of them live away from home, being with "family" matters

a lot, especially at Christmas. How we love spending time with them.

As you can see, we had the TV going in two rooms!

What a crowd. You can bet this chair didn't stay empty for long.

Those guys on the couch look pretty relaxed, don't they?

But not quite as relaxed as the ones on the floor!

Oops! Look like somebody caught my camera peeking in on them!

Of course, we fed 'em, too. (These guys were the last to chow down.)

(It was prettier before we removed the pineapple.) We made four of

these, but we still have a whole one left in our refrigerator. They went

through almost all of the four batches of funeral potatoes though!

Wish I had taken a picture before instead of during!

Sorry the photos are kind of grainy, but it was dark, and I used my phone instead of my camera because I was too lazy to get up and do it right. We did have a wonderful evening, and that last person left in the wee hours of the morning. No wonder I am yawning as I write!

for more happiness, click below

I'll Be Home for Christmas

2011-12-05T09:51:00.000-08:00

I'll be home for Christmas.

You can plan on me.

Please have snow and mistletoe

and presents on the tree.

Christmas Eve will find me

where the lovelight gleams.

I'll be home for Christmas,

if only in my dreams.

I'll be home

for Christmas,

if only

in my dreams.

This beautiful song by Kim Gannon, Walter Kent, and Buck Ram burst into popularity in 1943, and it has always captured my imagination. It's easy to imagine how soldiers and their families, then and now, would warm to the lyrics that remind lonely listeners of home and hearth. Surely nearly everyone can relate to the joy of being home for Christmas...or wanting to be.

This year my entire family will be with us for Christmas, and I am grateful. I hope you enjoyed catching a little glimpse of the Christmas memories in the making that will greet them. We just finished our decorating last night, and I simply cannot wait to welcome them all home.

(pictures by me)

Oh Happy Day!

2011-12-03T09:25:00.000-08:00

I am going to the outlets with my son today, so Jenny couldn't have picked a better morning to throw us a 16-word, autobiographical Centus curve! Yes, we are supposed to tell about when we were sixteen. (And yes, I truly was...once.) The prompt is the picture.

Bye, now. I'm off to retail heaven with one of my favorite guys!!

∞§∞

I turned sixteen in May, 1968, a month before graduating high school. Oh happy dayriver's license!

The Olive Tree - A True Parable

2011-12-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

On Fridays, from now until the idea loses its appeal, I will be taking a walk down memory lane, remembering something from the past that either amuses, touches, or teaches me. This will be a regular series, but I won't force myself to stick to it rigidly. Still, most Friday mornings will be devoted to my reminiscing a bit for your (and my posterity's) reading pleasure. I do promise not to turn these offerings into parables every week! Sometimes, we will just laugh together, or even cry a little, and I hope you won't mind joining me.

When I was growing up in Santa Monica, California, our family home had a beautiful olive tree. My sister and I were fascinated by its fruit, which looked appealing but was hard and bitter to the taste. When we asked our mother how long it would take for the delicious morsels to be ready for eating, she smiled and explained to us that it wasn't a question of ripeness. Apparently, the olives needed to be cured before they would taste like our favorite treats on the relish tray at Thanksgiving. Needless to say, we were disappointed, but we were also resourceful.

By the next morning, we had cooked up the best plan two 4 and 6-year-old girls could formulate. Looking back, it seems to me that our minds were as fertile as the ground upon which the tree in question was planted. Of course, we had no idea that processing olives correctly involved either salt or lye, but we definitely got the other ingredient right...water. In our childish imaginations, we came up with the idea that changing those rock-hard olives into the soft ones we were yearning for would take a very special kind of water to get the job done, and the water we chose was toilet water. Only genuine water from the toilet would do the trick, and so we carefully stored a couple of child-sized handfuls of olives at the bottom of our toilet bowl overnight, hoping for good results. When morning came and there was little progress toward softening, we decided to wrap the olives in toilet paper and dry them in the sun. Still no notable results, so we upped the ante and added a final element to our curing. In fact, we spent a couple of hours dropping the olives from our second-story bedroom window, retrieving them, and then repeating the procedure, convinced that this surely would complete the magic formula for our success. When none of it worked, we were crestfallen. We couldn't understand how our brilliant processing plan had failed.

Our naive and ill-fated attempt to perfect these olives without the assistance of someone who understood what was needed reminds me of the equally naive and ill-fated attempts Heavenly Father's children often make to perfect themselves without His assistance and understanding. When our hearts are hard and bitter, His is the only process that will cure us, and His grace is the only agent that will soften sufficiently to make of us the good fruit He desires. His is the divine plan of salvation, and our only success is in following it.

"...I am the way, the truth, and the life: No man cometh unto the Father, but by me" (John 14:6).

Divine Nature

2011-12-01T11:02:00.000-08:00

Divine Nature

Proof of divinity is all around.

God's handiwork transcends His mystery.

We hear His voice in every sacred sound:

the trill of birds, the pounding of the sea.

His whisper reaches us in sunrise stillness,

when all the earth awakens from her sleep.

Betimes He warns us with an eagle's shrillness,

or speaks to us in rumblings, soft and deep.

We see His radiance in sunset glory;

His Light enlivens moon and stars and sun.

Each shining lake that shimmers tells His story.

Each mountaintop proclaims Him as the One.

We feel His tender touch in gentle breezes

that muss our hair or cool a rosy cheek.

His every gift to us is balm that eases,

to know Him is the sustenance we seek.

And yet the proud heart is not counted wise.

Only the humble and the reverent see.

Look for Him in a newborn baby's eyes,

then find Him in your own divinity.

click below for more D posts

Time and Tender Mercies

2011-11-30T10:31:00.000-08:00

The older I get, the more I realize that God not only has plans for each one of us, but that those plans can be rather intricately organized. In ways we can't even begin to imagine, our lives and their various trajectories are interwoven, creating pathways that bend and loop and cross one another's in ways that may seem coincidental but are most often what the scriptures call "tender mercies." Where an agnostic might refer to these things as "meaningful coincidence," I frequently experience them as answers to prayer or reminders that the Lord is watching over us, caring for us on a very personal level.

While visiting my son and daughter-in-law's ward last Sunday, I was fortunate to attend a Relief Society lesson that impressed me once again with the perfect synchronicity of God's dealings with His children. The teacher was relating a true story about her mother-in-law. She began on a humorous note, saying that this very devout woman's family always thought of her as a "scripture fanatic." "She was crazy," our instructor insisted, smiling fondly. "My husband's mother was on her knees days and night, praying for and about nearly everything you can imagine." Apparently the unusually faithful lady filled many sets of scriptures with notes and dates, carefully recording most answers to prayer that she received, as well as when she received them. "Seriously," our instructor insisted, "my mother-in-law was a bit extreme."

It wasn't until the single-minded woman passed away that they realized how very close to the spirit she had been. As they read the notes and dates set down in her Bible and Book of Mormon, they came to realize how many answers to prayer she had received, and how much personal revelation the Lord had granted her. In ways large and small, that amazing woman had prayed her husband and children through ups and downs they hadn't even realized she was aware of at the time. Every set of scriptures inscribed by the beloved (but never entirely understood or appreciated) matriarch of this family was a lasting witness to each of its members that God lived and loved them. Relating these words brought our teacher to tears, and she went on to share something even more beautiful with us. In turn, I want to share it with you.

One evening, our instructor's father-in-law dropped by her home during family scripture study. Naturally, they invited him in to read along. He didn't have his own scriptures at hand, so they offered him one of his recently departed wife's self-annotated volumes to use. The lovely young woman teaching our class became quite emotional as she described what happened next to her husband's father, a man who had been missing his wife tremendously. Feeling abandoned, he had wandered over to visit that night seeking comfort. The man had imagined, close as he and his wife always were, that death would not entirely separate them. His conviction had been that they would have spiritual communication of some sort from beyond the grave until they were together again, but he had been disappointed. Though his head told him otherwise, his heart felt as if she had forgotten him, and he even began to question whether she had loved him as much as he loved and always would love her.

Needless to say, his spirit was depressed, and he had been praying for relief when he received the impression to visit them that night. As he opened his wife's book to the chapter and verse the family was studying, he found a little scrap of paper nestled there and read it with great interest, over and over again. His entire demeanor changed, and our teacher remembers being curious. After their study was completed, he enlightened his family. Apparently, this grieving husband had received the most tender of tender mercies, a timeless message from his wife, written years before and yet somehow sent to him in the present, from beyond the veil of death. "I always knew that you were mine," it said. 7 words on a piece of paper, but they meant the world to him. And he knew that they were meant FOR him...in that moment, in that time. Tears streaming down his face, he shared them with his family. Tears streaming down her face, his daughter-in-law shared them with us.

My heart was touched, not just by the story, and not just by the tender mercy itself, but by this evidence of divine complexity in the planning and execution of our lives. We cannot even begin to imagine the blessings the Lord has in store for us, nor can we imagine the ways and means by which these things will be brought to pass. Who knows how many years ago she left that paper in her scriptures? And what are the chances that he just happened to come over right during scripture study, that they just happened to hand him that particular volume out of the many his wife owned, and that they managed to be reading on the very pages where the note had been secreted for who knows how long?

The message to me is that the Lord has our backs, even when certain periods in our lives don't feel like it. His concept and usage of time is infinitely different from ours, and His planning is beyond strategic. I am grateful that years and experience continue to teach us that something good will always be waiting in the wings...or between the pages...of our lives. And I will be watching with increased awareness for His hand in my own life.

An Old-Fashioned Christmas

2011-11-29T08:34:00.000-08:00

I picked up these cute Christmas coasters in Old Town last week while visiting my kids for Thanksgiving. Pretty cute, huh? (And even cuter in person!) They remind me of a good, old-fashioned Christmas, and that makes me happy.

Christmas time is here,
happiness and cheer,
fun for all that children call
their favorite time of year.

Snowflakes in the air,
carols everywhere,
olden times and ancient rhymes
and love and dreams to share.

Sleigh bells in the air;
beauty every where;
yuletide by the fireside
and joyful memories there.

Christmas time is here;
we'll be drawing near;
oh that we could always see
such spirit through the year.

-Vince Guaraldi

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Thanksgiving Trip Round-Up

2011-11-28T08:30:00.000-08:00

Our hostess with the mostest.

Our host, take 1.

Our host, take 2. (Rico Suave style)

Our excellent grandson, just home from Disneyland.

Close-up of excellent grandson.

Carli and Jeremiah, at The Muppets, a very silly show.

Dave (the hubby) and Ryan (son 2).

Kitchen setting.

Family room setting.

And that's all you're getting.

Cause that's all I've got.

(I was slightly remiss in taking photos!)

On to Christmas------------>

There Oughta Be a Law

2011-11-26T07:42:00.000-08:00

It's Saturday Centus again, and since the hubby and I will soon head over to visit our grandkids, I'll be sticking with the tried 'n true poetry post today. That rascally Ms. Matlock is up to no good this morning, doing her darnedest to gross us out with pictures of potatoes so soon after Thanksgiving, but it won't work on me! I happen to have unusually good stamina for potato overload. More's the pity.

The prompt, as always, is in red.

∞§∞

There Oughta Be a Law

How could they do it to me? Geez!

There oughta be a law.

The way these hucksters bleed you dry

is stuck up in my craw.

It's all about their bottom line.

Their customer? Who cares?

The only thing they fret about

is selling all their wares.

It really is a pity to

be caught up in such greed.

Accountability is key.

Payback is what they need.

Arrest these peddlers of plaque,

these fiends who trade in fat.

Jail all who query, "Super-size?...

Would you like fries with that?"

∞§∞

Nothing Beats These Tasty Treats!

2011-11-25T09:53:00.000-08:00

From a distance.

Up close and personal.

∞§∞

Just a little sample of the mouth-watering delights Heather

offered us for Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. Need I say more?

And I didn't even take pictures of the pie array...

...because I was too busy putting a big dent in it!

Another Thanksgiving Prayer

2011-11-23T10:05:00.000-08:00

A Thanksgiving Prayer

I’m thankful for my mother,

and I’m thankful for my dad.

I’m thankful for my sisters,

and for all the fun we’ve had.

I’m thankful for my brother, Tom,

(even when he’s jerky).

But most of all, I’m oh-so-thankful

not to be a turkey!

Okay, I freely admit that this poem and "inspiration point" are not necessarily compatible. ;) Guess I just couldn't resist the opportunity to fake you guys out.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanks, Indeed...

2011-11-22T07:44:00.000-08:00

When asked by his preschool teacher what he was thankful for,

Bryce replied, "Everything. Except for the not awesome things."

heehee

;)

click below for more happiness

A Study in Celibacy

2011-11-21T08:14:00.000-08:00

Magpie Tale's photo prompt

∞§∞

A Study in Celibacy

We wanted to experiment

with abstinence and self-restraint.

At first, surprised how well it went,

we muddled through without complaint.

The climate changed, and so did we.

Love’s "higher plane" was torture, squared.

Our celibate ability

was quite impaired; our tempers flared.

The tension swept through days and weeks.

Our longing triggered an eclipse.

Two heads, together, made some tweaks...

true meetings of the minds and lips.

But ix-nay on the hips. No hips.

∞§∞

I'm flying with that Magpie gang again.

For more responses to the picture prompt, click below.

Grateful, We Gather: A Prayer of Thanksgiving

2011-11-19T10:46:00.000-08:00

I was glad to see Jenny pick a Thanksgiving theme for our Saturday Centus today, because my life is full of blessings for which I am grateful. The prompt is "We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing," a hymn that originated in the Netherlands and is likely based upon Psalm 100:4-5.

Whenever I think of gathering, the first thing that comes to mind is family, for mine is a particularly warm and wonderful one. The second thing I think of puts family in a larger context and is expressed in the final line of my poem today.

∞§∞

GRATEFUL, WE GATHER: A Prayer of Thanksgiving

We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing,

for richly He's blessed us, in years now gone by.

The warmth of our hearth and the love of our family

are more than good fortune; they're gifts from on high.

Beside us to guide us, His hand reaches o'er us...

protecting, directing...our good He secures.

No matter the storm or the tempest that threatens.

in Him are we anchored, and safety endures.

With love do we praise Him and ever extol Him,

our Rock and our Anchor in days that are past.

We trust Him today, and we'll trust Him forever,

until at His feet, we are gathered at last.

∞§∞

"O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered

thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens

under her wings, and yet would not" (Matthew 23:37).

***

first picture is by Norman Rockwell

last two pictures are by Greg Olsen