Pioneer Day Primary

The Lt. took this picure in Guatemala

I do love Sunday, and Fast Sunday is the best of all the Sundays, except maybe Christmas Sunday.  In our ward, there are a lot of people who are related.  This is fine until they all go somewhere else for a family reunion. 
Then I lose a whole bunch of my Primary teachers.  They all got substitutes, but I had 2 other teachers missing who didn't.  We also had about 15 visiting kids.  I discovered the missing teachers about halfway through the first hour of primary.  Luckily they were from classes where there are 2 teachers, so the kids weren't alone, and I was able to find some last minute helpers to fill in. 

You'd think that being ultimately responsible for the instruction of more than 80 children on Sunday would be very tiring.  I do have one or two teachers that like to stir up drama and occasionally they'll stress me out, but I really love teaching the children and somehow it is energizing, not draining.

Last week was the Sunday after Pioneer Day  .  This is my favorite sharing time of the whole year.  I wore my pioneer dress and apron and gathered all the children on a blanket and told them stories of real children who crossed the plains 165 years ago.  Our theme for the year in primary is "Choose the Right"  so for this lesson, I talked about how the pioneer children chose the right, and so could we.  One of the stories I told them was about a family who went through the hole in the rock.  It is a great story.  You can read it here.  I think pioneer day might be the kids' favorite sharing time of the whole year also.  I didn't have to ask anyone to be quiet, at least.  They were all listening and still.    And there you have my theory of teaching.  You don't need lots of bells and whistles--just a good story that is true that you care about and the kids will care about it too. 

We each can learn much from our early pioneer ancestors, whose struggles and heartaches were met with resolute courage and an abiding faith in a living God. Thomas S. Monson

Tell ye your children of it, and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation. Joel 1:3

Trophy Days

Twelve years ago, I was a brand new mother, sitting at church, with my new baby boy in my arms. Somebody said gloomily from the pulpit, "They don't give out trophies for being a mother."

I think the gist of what they meant was that being a mom and raising children right is important, even though the world doesn't recognize it as a prestigious job/occupation/career.

But as I sat there, I thought to myself, Maybe they don't hand out trophies, but there will be some "trophy days." The day my child turns 8 and is baptized a member of the church, that will be a trophy day. The day my son turns 12 and helps to pass the sacrament for the first time, that will be a trophy day.

I don't mean trophy in the sense that everyone would recognize my "achievements" and heap praise on me as the winner of something. But trophy in the sense that the happiness I would feel on those days would be like the happiness you feel when you finish a race and you feel that all that hard work and sweat and days of running in the rain and running in the heat were all worth it. Or when you receive highest marks on your piano solo at Music Festival and all those hours of practicing until your back ached and your fingers were too stiff to move are *nearly* forgotten/forgiven in the glow of those highest marks.

As I decided what days my trophy days would be, I admitted to myself that they would be few and far between--an allowance for that person who thought there weren't any trophies at all.





Now 12 years have passed. I am mother of not 1 but 6 children. I have a new baby. My little baby that was is now a 12 year old boy and will be ordained a deacon on Sunday. In another month a daughter will turn 8 and be baptized.

Those trophy days aren't few and far between at all.

And there have been many more trophy days that I never dreamed of twelve years ago.

Days of finding little scraps of wrinkled paper love notes on my pillow.

Days when a child comes home from school with a poem they had to write about the color brown, and they wrote about brown hair waving in the wind.

Days when I ask the kids to clean up and they actually do it without complaining or fighting.

Days when I'm sick and my 3 year old curls up in the bed next to me and pats my neck with her little hand because that is the best kind of comfort she knows how to give.

Days like last Sunday, when the DH was gone to guard drill and I had an early morning church meeting. I set breakfast on the table, woke up the children, and asked them to eat and dress themselves for church, promising to be back in one hour. When I returned home, they were dressed with shoes on and even hair brushed, ready to get in the van. (p.s. I did take the baby with me)


On Sunday, when I shared these thoughts, I said at the end, "Every day is a trophy day when you are a mom." That was just nerves, realizing I'd said what I'd thought and didn't know quite how to end and get away from the microphone... and maybe a bit of the emotion of the moment making me feel like that if I were a perfect human, I would find those trophy moments every day. I know that every day isn't a trophy day.
But they are there, generously sprinkled in, and they are what remind me to be happy when the struggle of life has made me forget.

Mother's Prayers

I've been thinking more about Mother's prayers. I know of at least twice when my mother's prayers saved me from danger, and I'm sure the same can be said of most of my brothers & sisters.

There is a story from the Book of Mormon that always gets brought up on Mother's Day, probably because it is one of only 3 times that a mother/mothers are specifically spoken of. Alma 53 & 56 tell of these mothers, who were Lamanites, who had converted to the gospel of Christ. They had raised sons to love God, sons who obeyed every commandment with exactness and who were valiant and trustworthy. These sons were still young, but they had committed to go to war to protect their families from an invading enemy who would destroy them & take away their liberty.

These Sons explain to their captain why they do not fear death. "...they had been taught by their mothers, that if they did not doubt, God would deliver them. And they rehearsed unto me the words of their mothers, saying: We do not doubt our mothers knew it."

I've thought about this scripture a great deal. How did the mothers know their sons would be protected? The Book of Mormon makes a clear distinction more than once that faith or believeing is different than knowlege or knowing. The prophet Alma and the prophet Ether both explain that at first you have faith and believe or hope for things that are not seen. But once the Lord answers your prayers, you have faith no longer, because you KNOW, it is no longer just belief.

So these mothers knew that the Lord would protect their sons, and the sons believed their mothers' word. How did the mothers know? I have prayed for blessings before, with faith that the Lord could bless me and would bless me if it was His will, but I didn't know that the answer would be "yes." I hoped the answer would be yes. There has been one time when I prayed for a blessing that I felt my family truly needed and it was a right thing to ask for. Yet as I prayed, I knew the answer was "no" or at least "not now."

I believe those mothers knew because they pleaded with the Lord for the lives of their sons and were given a promise through the Holy Spirit that their sons' lives would be spared if they had faith. The mother's testimony gave strength to their sons and they were all saved.

What I think is the prayers of mothers are powerful indeed.


p.s. This isn't church doctrine. It is just me pondering on the scriptures, but I did a little search and this guy agrees with me.

Images from:
praying hands from here
"Two Thousand Young Warriors," Arnold Friberg. copyright 2002 by Intellectual Reserve, Inc. All rights reserved

Everything's Up to Date in Kansas City

A little over a week ago, we took a family trip up to Kansas City, MO, to see our new temple. It was a lovely trip, the temple was beautiful, and the spirit we felt was wonderful.

I delayed posting about our trip because I didn't know what to say about how special it felt to be together with our children in that beautiful, beautiful House of God. I still don't know what to say. The only words which come to mind are these:

And no tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, ... and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time .....(3Nephi 17:17)

Only, if know that if you have been there, you do know that joy.

Golly! I love my family so much.

To judge or not to judge,it's not a question

image from here

This week I have caught myself a couple times passing judgement on others around me. Doin' too much gossipin'. I've had to remind myself that I don't know the whole story and those people are probably doing the best they can. Perhaps there's something I need to find in myself and root out--something I'm trying to hide from by stirring in everyone's business but my own.

~~Don't Find Fault by Edgar A. Guest

Don't find fault with the man who limps or stumbles along the road,
Unless you have worn the shoes that he wears or struggled beneath his load.
There may be tacks in his shoes that hut, though hidden away from view;
Or the burdens he bears, when placed on your back might cause you to stumble, too.

Don't sneer at the man who's down today unless you have felt the blow
That caused his fall, or felt the shame that only the fallen know.
You may be strong, but yet the blow that was his, if dealt to you
In the selfsame way or at the self same time might cause you to stagger, too.

Dont' be too harsh with the man who sins, or pelt him with words or stones,
Unless you are sure, yea doubly sure, that you have not sins of your own.
For you know, perhaps, if the tempter's voice should whisper as soft to you
As it did to him when he went astray, it would cause you to falter, too.
~~~~~~

My amazing cousin has written a short essay about this and is trying to win a scholarship. You can vote for her to win here:

We could all do with more mercy and more understanding. I know I could.

Luke 6:37

Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven:

Ether 12:27

And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.

Music and Spring

I grew up listening to Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. I think it was my dad's goal to make sure we kids knew what good music was. I never really paid attention to exactly what we were listening to, I just listened to it. What I mean is, at the time, I couldn't have told you whether I was listening to Mozart or Beethoven. I just knew I liked it. I do know that my favorite album he had was a collection of famous waltzes from ballets. I've searched for that collection for several years and not been able to find it. However, this post is not about that collection. This post is about a moment in my life and the power of music and how grateful I am.

So you, my faithful readers, may not know that I was in the National Guard for 8 years. Which means that I went to basic training for 10 weeks (they told me 8, but there was a week zero, plus a few extra days on the end) and then Advanced Individual Training (AIT) for 5 weeks. I was 19 and had never been away from my family for even half that amount of time. I plunged into an environment where swear words and anger were the majority of what I heard and saw. I was pushed well beyond what I had believed were the limits of my physical endurance. During the weeks of basic training, I learned to escape the anger and cussing by singing children's songs from church in my head. On my own during KP duty, I dared to whisper the words under my breath.

When I got to AIT, things were a little different. We had more freedom and we were allowed to listen to walkmans in our free time. (Yes, this was before iPods.) Three of the four other girls who slept in my room had walkmans and their favorite music to listen to was this rap star, Tupok. I guess I'm lucky they didn't let us have boomboxes, or I'd have had to actually listen to him too--as it was, I had to listen to them singing (does one sing rap?), and those girls did not edit his songs for cussing, maybe because they would have had to skip 2 out of every 3 words.

I was feeling more and more down all the time. I was missing my family and surrounded by all the anger and cussing and yuck. Also, because of training schedules and misinformation and bad luck, I hadn't been able to attend church for 4 weeks. I was really getting desperate. One Saturday, we were allowed to go to the big Post Exchange. As I wandered around, I saw a stack of CD's on sale. Right in front was one that read
Antonio Vivaldi
The Four Seasons

Across my mind flashed an image of a cassette tape with the words "The Four Seasons" printed on it. I knew this was music my dad owned. I knew I had listened to it before. The CD was on sale for $3.00. I am sure now it was there for me, at a price I would pay. (I rarely ever spent money back then. I didn't even know how to use the debit card my credit union had sent me and most vendors don't take checks from WAY out of state.) I bought that CD (they took my check), not even knowing what it would sound like. I think maybe I had a vague idea that "The Four Seasons" were like "The Mammas & The Papas." I just knew my dad owned it and I needed something from home. I went back to the barracks, borrowed someone's walkman, and snapped the CD in. It turns out I knew the music well; I just hadn't known its name.

The first chord was as familiar to me as my own bones and my whole soul sang along with that beautiful music. It lifted me right out of the dark pit I had sunk into and gave me the strength to keep on. The next morning, I was finally able to catch the right bus at the right time and attend Sacrament Meeting. It was a miracle --two miracles sent just for me.



For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads. D&C 25:12


The Lord is my strength and song, and is become my salvation. Psalms 118:14

Thoughts on Johnson Grass

source


When I was a kid, one of the chores my brothers & sisters & I had every morning through the summer was to weed a row in the family garden. Since my parents grew an enormous and super abundant garden, this was no small task. I believe most of the rows were 50-70 feet long. It was a chore we all hated, and I remember many a time weeding my row with rebellion in my soul. Now I look back on those times in the garden as a family as some of the best times we had. We were all outside working together. We would sing silly songs like

"There's a Hole in my Bucket"
"If I get to Heaven Before You Do" -we made up extra verses to this one
"Johnny Verbeck"

and pretty songs in a round like
"I love the mountains"
"White Coral Bells"
"Horsey, Horsey, on your Way"

But I digress. Going back to when it was a hated chore--no one wanted to weed, but no one was slow to get started because the last one out got the worst row. Some rows had more sticker weeds than others, and those were no fun. But the worst row was the row with the most Johnson Grass choking it.

Johnson grass looks a great deal like a young corn plant. But as you can see in the picture above, it has huge roots, including fat white tuber roots. You cannot just grab the top of a Johnson grass plant and pull it out of the ground. The top will rip off, leaving the root behind, and the plant will grow back. If you carefully loosen the roots and pull out the whole root & plant, you still cannot just drop the Johnson grass on the ground like an ordinary weed. If the roots are still touching the dirt, they will latch back on and the plant will revive and grow. The only way to kill Johnson grass that we knew of, was to extract it, complete with roots and throw it on an old piece of tin Dad kept at the end of the rows we were weeding. On the tin where it was prevented from touching the ground, the Johnson grass would wither in the sun and die after a few days.

I think that people are a lot like Johnson grass. Here we are on Earth, growing. Sometimes life rips our leaves off. Sometimes Satan puts us through such a hard time that we feel completely uprooted. But as long as we keep praying and reading our scriptures--as long as we keep digging ourselves back into that good nourishing word of God--we will revive and keep growing. It is only when we become separated from the nourishment we need that we wither and die.

The difference is, we are not weeds in God's garden. He wants us there! It is Satan who is trying to pull us out. And it is our choice if we allow ourselves to be thrown up on that piece of tin and scorched. Satan can rip us up and rip us apart, but he can't separate us from the Lord. We separate ourselves from the Lord or we can cling to Him and find renewal.

This is me recommitting to be more faithful in studying daily my scriptures.
<3 GlowWorm