Family Home Evening for our Empty Nester Friends

                                                            Some of my favorite people - 

                      our empty nester family home evening group met at our cabin this month.

Farm Credit Reunion 2022

Some of the great men Ross worked with at Farm Credit.

              We had a reunion with Ross's Farm Credit buddies and their awesome wives.

Spanish Fork 50 year high school reunion

                           Riding on the float in the Spanish Fork Pioneer Days Parade 

                            with high school friends we haven't seen in 50 years.

                                                 Winter stillness in my own backyard.

Empty Nester Family Home Evening Group 2021

The True Spirit of Christmas is Giving

I've been collecting donations for the Dragons Pantry

that serves the needs of students and families in Nebo School District,

Tabitha's Way that helps families through tough times and Sock Fest.

My heart is so touched by the generous donations of my neighbors.

This is the true spirit of Christmas in action.

The treasures of autumn

Good Friends, Food and Conversation at the Cabin

Loved having dear friends over at the cabin
to enjoy good food and a great conversation
about the truths we learned at General Conference.

Teaching Primary Children about the Payson Temple Corner Stone Box

I loved teaching the Primary children about the corner stone box at the Payson Temple this week.

What Remains After the Forest Fire Behind Our Cabin in Loafer Canyon

This is all that remains of "Big Tree"
the largest white pine west of the Mississippi.
We loved taking hikes to this tree with our family
through a shaded forest filled with lush vegetation.
Now the forest is gone.

I'm standing in the charred remains of the forest behind our cabin among the black ghosts of trees.

My husband Ross is standing on top of the mountain behind our cabin
looking out over the burned terrain
after the raging forest fire last summer.
These beautiful mountains were once thick with trees and foliage.
The forest floor is now covered with sterile ash
and the charred remains of old growth pines
that will never return.

All the beautiful trees are gone like a dream in the night.
Tall stately pines that took hundreds of years to mature
into our beloved forest are now gone.
There is no wildlife or sounds of birds.
Even the wind is still as if to mourn our loss.

Yet if I look at my feet, I see a single blade of grass
brave the desolation and destruction.
Life will go on.
Though life will never be the same on our mountain
there will be more beauty to come.

As recent fires in my life
have raged
threatening to destroy my peace and joy,
yet
I will go on.
For the refiners fire burns away all the dross
and only love and hope remain.

I Still Live In Pumpkin Country

I still  live in pumpkin Country.
We moved out into the country 25 years ago.
Slowly,
 and now - not so slowly,
 the subdivisions have been getting closer and closer to my home.
Lately, huge metal dinosaurs have been making assault roads and lots for new houses along the southern border of our  two acres.
I have been trying to have a good attitude -  believing that perhaps a new best friend will move next door.
But mostly I've been missing
the quiet country roads and open fields filled with wheat, barley and alfalfa.
I miss watching Mr. Olsen drive past my house at twenty miles an hour with no one to honk or make him hurry along.
They built a high school just down the road and young people are always in a hurry.

But there are a few hold-outs.
I am one of them
- the pumpkin growers are another.
Pumpkins make me smile.
Lately I've been watching the farmers pile these orange orbs of sunshine into boxes and drive them to market.

 People keep asking me 
when we are going to sell our property.
But I can't bear to leave these two acres
where my children grew up.
Where else could we pull the children with red cheeks on their sleighs in the winter?
 Where else can we pick raspberries and climb apples trees in the summer?
Where else would I find such a rustic old barn and a 1950's trailer?
 Where else would I find my own private forest of thirty foot pines lovingly planted by my husband from tiny three inch starts.

Where would the quail and doves in my trees go if our sanctuary was gone?
Where else could I look out my kitchen window and see a long row of lilacs blooming in the spring?

Where else would I gather my growing family of forty-five loving sons, daughters, and grandchildren?
As the adults fill my home on Sunday evenings and fill my heart with the beautiful noise of seven conversations going on at the same time - the children discover fairy treasures left for them in the secret garden under the aging pine.
This is my home - my family - my love.

WHERE DID SUMMER GO?

                                  WHERE SUMMER WENT

When summer break ends, parents tend to get overly sentimental and utter things like, “Where did the summer go?” Mind you, these are the same parents who claimed they’d go raving mad if they had to endure another camping trip with their barfing children. These are the same parents who thought they’d die of embarrassment when the neighbors called to inform them that their young children were running through the sprinkler without swimming suits . . . again.

Well, just in case you’re wondering, I’ll tell you where summer went.

Summer floated down the irrigation ditch along with my young son’s tennis shoes and childhood.

Summer flamed, then flickered out like old street lamps with flashes of exploding fireworks and ebbing orange embers in a dying fire.

Summer soared away like the injured sparrow my children brought home to mend – later watching with still breath as their old friend flew too high for returning.

Summer danced over hammer-smashed rocks, grasshopper collections, and weaving hollyhocks, like mountain rivers to the valley floors.

Summer hopped from family reunion to family reunion like backyard pet rabbits stopping long enough to nibble on the garden fare best suited to their liking.

Summer grew up, cut off from home roots, like toppled corn stalks in the field and heavy melons fallen from the vine.

Summer dozed off in an ocean of blackness like children in sleeping bags wishing on falling stars in the backyard and telling scary stories in the dark.

Summer swirled upward like backyard barbecue smoke laden with the steamy smell of thick, dripping steaks filling the air.

Summer aged from green to brown like dying tulips that save their buried hears for next year’s blooming.

Summer raced past us like hot August afternoon rainstorms filling flowers bed, gardens, and ditches with life-giving water, and then moving on.

Summer paraded past like colorful floats, precision marching bands, and candy-throwing clowns. Stretching our necks, we peer down Main Street, unsure that the celebration has ended.

Summer was cut short like faded blue jeans with threadbare knee-holes.

Summer melted away like soft butter left too long on the kitchen table when it is one hundred degrees outside in the shade.

Summer rustled past us in the morning air like freshly washed sheets on the line. Now at sunset, someone has taken in the linen, carefully folding it away for the next change of season.

Summer grew wild like tender asparagus along the ditch bank, ready to be plucked and savored at just the right instant. Now grown old, the ageing plant has gone to seed and survival.

Summer unfolded like the yellow rose in the white vase by the kitchen window. Early sunlight from the eastern sky uncurled the tightly closed bud, revealing the flower within. Now, the soft pedals have fallen.

Summer is going out. Children are growing up. Garden vines lie heavy. Harvest is near.

And that is where summer went.

SOUL IN THE MAKING

We often speak of an artist's finest work as their masterpiece when in reality their greatest creation might be a life they've touched. I know from personal experience that an artists's finest handiwork might be the result of an ordinary conversation on an ordinary day. I took Introduction to Drawing from a graduate student in the early seventies at Brigham Young University. I do not remember his name. He was not well-known, rich or tenured, yet because of two conversations we shared, the trajectory of my life changed forever. His ability to see into my soul enabled me to contemplate new possibilities and take flight.

I was wearing multiple layers of worn thrift-store clothing, working three jobs and taking a full load of classes when I stepped into my first drawing class. I’d always longed to be an artist but believed my mother’s opinion about my lack of talent. To my dismay all the other students in class were excellent artists. When asked to display our work, I was embarrassed by how my creations compared to the others. Still, an eager student, I relished the learning process and quiet awakening of every drawing assignment.

A few weeks into the semester, my teacher asked me to stay after class.

“Would you consider becoming a model for the art department?” he asked me.

“Why would you ask me?” I replied.

“Because I’ve noticed you have a perfectly proportioned body.”

I told him I’d have to think about it. After class I walked home alone deep in thought. I’d never heard a positive comment about my body before. After opening the front door to my apartment, I headed straight for the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Then I looked in the full-length mirror. Slowly, one piece at a time, I removed layer after layer of thrift store clothing. Someone appeared in the glass that I’d never seen before. I dropped to my knees and sobbed as past comments from those who might have loved me filled my mind.

“You’re fat and ugly. No boy will ever want to marry you.”

For the first time I wondered if those words were a lie, if I might be something more. Though I did not have the courage to be a model that semester, I would never be the same. On the last day of class, my teacher had each student bring their portfolio and present our drawings in the hallway outside our classroom. One by one I placed each piece of work on the cold floor and waited. My teacher carefully studied each piece, then looked up at me and smiled.

“You are the only person in this class who earned an A.”

I dropped my jaw.

“But I’m the only person in this class who doesn't know how to draw.”

“You are the only student in this class who is a true artist,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are the only one who did more than I asked and tried new techniques that might not work out. You were the only one who searched for truth deep inside yourself and wanted to share. I don’t know what art form you will pursue after my class, but I do know that you have the soul of an artist.”

I walked down the steps of the Harris Fine Arts Center that summer evening with a new image of my future. Something deep inside knew this man spoke the truth.

Sometime later, when I tried to locate this teacher to thank him for what he had done for me and present him with the gift of my first published book, I was told that he had passed away. I was too late to thank him that day. I hope I am not too late to thank him now, and to express my deepest gratitude to all who lay aside personal ambition to do God’s work. Are we not all artists? Is not the highest of all art the ennobling of the human soul?
Now when I’m painting pictures with words or looking into the lives of my ten children or twenty-five grandchildren, I think about my art teacher. Perhaps it is fitting that this gentle giant of a man will remain anonymous. For the greatest creator, the finest artist in the universe tells us that we are His best work and glory – His masterpiece.

Springtime Harvest of Love

Today I walked outside to get the mail and saw quail trailing across my driveway and into the protection of our towering pines. I heard the doves cooing in the locust tree and saw baby robins in a nest. Twenty three years ago my husband and I bought two acres in the country and lovingly planted hundreds of trees, bushes and flowers - and ten beautiful young children. Now all the native birds gather here  . . . so do those ten children so quickly grown and their spouses along with many, many grandchildren. When you plant with love there is always a season of harvest far beyond your dreams. 

It is Cold Out There!

One of my greatest disappointments is that I've lived in Utah all my life and I've never gotten used to being cold. My parents hail from Canada where, by their sworn testimony, they had to dig tunnels through the snow to the outhouse in the middle of wild, dark Canadian blizzards with their bare hands by the age of three. By all odds, I should have inherited a little Eskimo blood, but no such luck.
In the middle of one of the biggest storms of the century, there I sat shivering on a chair near my front room window wrapped in two afghans, drinking warm milk, when I noticed a strange sight on the deserted street in front of my home. Cars were abandoned in ditches right and left, but one lone car drove courageously forward in the darkness - two lone headlights on this treacherous bend of road.Suddenly this lone ranger car zipped into my driveway and out jumped my mom and dad in their shirt-sleeves, grinning from ear to ear, "We Canadians never let a little snow stop us."
The thing I hate worst about being outside in cold weather is being cold. The thing I hate next is watching animals without galoshes or earmuffs or anything standing there in the cold. I know, I know, I heard and you've heard that animals grow an extra thick layer of fur or hair or something to keep them warm during the winter. But how do we actually know that they're not cold. Have you ever asked a horse standing out in a snowy field, "Hey! You cold, fella?" Ever had one answer you?
So we don't actually know, after all, do we? I mean, horses and cows also live in places like California, too, and they get along just fine without ever experiencing a cold chill.
The other worry that always nags at me during this time of year is that somehow mankind will start running out of ways to heat our houses. I can see it now, the Eskimos and Canadians will start taking over. There will be a mass migration south for all winter wimps like myself. Whole northern cities will lie desolate just waiting for the strong silent Canadian Mountie Patrol to take up command posts.
I've noticed the farther north one travels, the less people pay any attention to the cold weather. It seems like people who have the most snow are the ones who are best at knowing what to do with it and in it.
Herein lies my problem. I firmly believe winter wimps should be allowed to go home from work and school, sit on their heat vents and drink hot chocolate at the first sign of a cold spell. We could stay warm at home, thinking wise thoughts and figuring out the great mysteries of life. If winter wimps were able to stay home without guilt during the cold winter months, maybe we wouldn't have so many boring office Christmas parties where you end up smiling so much your mouth hurts, and exchanging price stipulated gifts with total strangers.
The Canadians and Eskimos could have all the parties and get-togethers they want, but the rest of us could stay home and stay warm.Pin It

Jesus Christ's Love For Each Of Us

When all my children were small, I could never find baby Jesus in the nativity set during the holiday season. I usually located the tiny wooden babe in a manger tucked away under my daughter’s pillow or hidden under my son’s bed. I finally understood that each of my children wanted Jesus for themselves. So I purchased a nativity set for each child.

When I was a young mother my children often called out to me in the blackness of their bedroom for comfort and reassurance when they felt lonely and scared. As adults my children call me on the phone when life is hard and they feel sad or afraid. My deepest desire is that I find the words Jesus would say if he were with them.

For I know that each of us needs our own Jesus. Christ gives hope to a troubled world yet He also gives hope to each of us personally. No matter what has happened to us or what we have done, He offers redeeming love, healing and peace.

I went to a choral and orchestra concert at the concert hall in SLC a few days ago. When one choir sang, "Christ the babe was born for you," I felt the meaning of those words sink deep into my soul. For I also need my own Jesus.

I was so profoundly moved by Christ's love for me that I wept openly in that crowded public hall. That was the moment, my moment, when I felt my Savior's love just for me.

And that is my greatest wish for you this season - that one quiet moment when you least expect it, you will feel down deep to the core of your soul - the love of your Savior . . . . just for you.Pin It

Jay Lessley, You Are My Hero

Jay Lessley, a man who forever changed my life for the better, died in a airplane crash today.
A number of years ago he found out what was happening to me and said, "Janene, don't you know that you don't deserve to be treated like that? There's something you can do to stop it and I'll help you."
That is how my personal journey to healing from abuse and neglect began.
Thank you Jay. You will be missed.
You are my hero.

BIRTH and DEATH - a holy baptism of raw pain and transforming joy

Last year about this time, I attended the funeral of my grandson Caleb and the birth of my grand daughter Lily within hours of each other. Now each spring I am transported back to that time. I know through personal experience that our entrance and exit from this stage called life is sacred - a holy baptism of raw pain and transforming joy.

DEATH

I watch as the monitors in the hospital room flash Caleb’s vital signs. Glowing numbers appear and disappear - lower and slower.

The lights go out. 

“Don’t leave me,” Mathew sobs while he holds his dead brother in his arms. “You’re my best friend.” 

Can’t hold on to life. Can’t protect my loved ones from this exquisite pain. 

“Oh God, please help us.”

All we can do is cling to each other. Grief – a giant wave washes over us – we can’t breathe. Cold and trembling on the shore.

I see my daughter’s eyes.

Another wave.

“It was such a privilege to be your mother,” April whispers gently kissing Caleb and pulling a soft yellow blanket around his shoulders. 

Another wave.

Holding Mitchell’s tiny hand while we walk from the hospital.

“I wish Caleb could come alive again,” Mitchell says.

“Me too,” I answer. 

BIRTH

Ashley calls in the night. 

“Mom, my water just broke. Can you be with me?”

Another wave.

Hospital again. Monitor flashes Ashley’s vital signs. 
Labor contractions crest and fall. 
Minutes tick by as the waves gradually get closer and closer, 
the pain - stronger and stronger until she can bear it no longer. 

Ashley cries out in pain.

Another wave.

I cannot protect my loved one from this exquisite pain. All we can do was cling to each other.

"Oh God please help us."

“Push!” I promise. “Push through the pain. Lily is almost here. You can do it.”

Father's hands reach out and grasp his newborn daughter. Lily in her mother's arms. Exquisite joy. 

Birth and death. 

Light and dark. 

Joy and sorrow.

We can’t have one without the other.

I went alone to see Caleb's new headstone at the cemetery this week. I miss him. Yet this I know. 

Caleb is near. Lily is here.

Cycle of living, season of song, embraces and whispers, 

“Life goes on.”

Pin It

Spring Will Always Come Again

SPRING WILL ALWAYS COME AGAIN
One fall my husband and I went for a ride in the mountains near our home. The road was rough with large boulders in the path, streams to cross, steep grades and numerous rock slides. Yet there were moments when we’d come around a bend in the road and suddenly there was our own private preview into heaven . . . deep green pines nestled in golden quaking aspen paired with brilliant splashes of red maples.
Quite unexpectedly snow fell the next day - soft and deep. Luminous leaves turned brown and the breathless mystery of a Rocky Mountain autumn was gone. Mountain trails closed and a harsh winter of white and waiting was upon us.
A few days later I walked into our church and saw my neighbor Bill seated in a chair next to his wife’s casket with his head bowed.
"I don't know what to do without Ann," Bill wept as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He died two weeks later.
While I sat at the kitchen table with Ann’s daughters planning her funeral, I looked into their beautiful dark eyes and saw glimpses of their petite Italian mother staring back at me. I realized the best parts of Ann lived on. At the funeral her children remembered their mother’s soft hands and her famous spaghetti dinners. In the end, it seems it is the little things we do for each other that turn out to be the big things.
As her grandchildren and great-grandchildren sang "I Am a Child of God" at her funeral, I knew Ann’s efforts to love and nurture her family had born fruit. Though she sometimes felt discouraged with her efforts, in the end she had led her posterity a little closer to heaven.
 

The seasons of life pass quickly. How brief each moment, each life. Death is waiting around the corner for us all. We can not dismiss or ignore death without losing the key to love. As winter increases our appreciation for summer and fall, so death intensifies our love for each other. We are always aware that those we care for will not always be with us.

Life is excruciatingly short. Our appearance on this stage is brief - our tenuous entrance and exit nearer together than we suppose. Like restless leaves trembling in the autumn air, a precious life is here one moment, then gone on the next breeze. Eventually we will all be separated from those we love.
I've heard it said that we die when we've learned what we came to learn or when we've taught what we came to teach. Perhaps we must do both. We are each given an equal endowment of twenty-four hours a day. What makes life precious is that we don’t know how much time we have left. Not knowing gives our fragile existence urgency. We feel the constant stirring to use our inheritance wisely - to live and love as if there is no tomorrow.

On the day of Ann’s funeral I watched the last leaf fall from the willow tree and rest softly on her lawn. Then a light snow fell. Winter and separation had come - but not to stay. Like the closing of the day and the setting of the sun, rebirth and reunion await the dawn.

Spring will always come again.Pin It

BEAUTIFUL LIFE STORIES OFTEN BEGIN WITH HEARTBREAK AND PAIN

I once knew a woman named Blanche who was confined to bed for years. While I was in bed because of premature labor, we became telephone buddies. Before bed confinement, Blanche had been in a wheelchair for thirty years because of a mistake during surgery. After she returned home from the surgery, her husband left her. Blanche was left to raise her four children alone in her wheelchair. She had every reason to focus on what she had lost. In fact, she did for a while. She tried to sue the doctor. She was depressed and disheartened.

Then one day she told me that she looked into the eyes of her daughter and realized everything her child had lost.Blanche realized her daughter needed a mother who was happy and a mother who had forgiven the doctor and her father. She had every reason to be bitter after everything she had lost. Instead, she decided to focus on what remained.

In her later years she became bedridden. Blanche had one window in her bedroom from which she could see a single tree. During our telephone conversations, she would describe in intimate detail the intricate changes the seasons would bring to her tree.

"It is such a miracle to be able to see," Blanche said. "I have so much to live for."

Blanche used the same detailed descriptions when she spoke of her grandchildren. She saw beauty and blessings everywhere she looked because she chose to see with a grateful heart, even when her entire landscape was limited to a tiny bedroom where she was forced to use a bedpan. Blanche knew the only true power we possess is our ability to see life as it really is. Life, as it really is, is downright amazing under any conditions.

Blanche also understood the value of creating our own celebrations. She often called me to wish me a happy Tuesday. She didn't wait for holidays or birthdays to celebrate or share her love of life. She understood we have to be in charge of our own joy, and create our own celebrations-for life is short. She had determined to respond positively to the events and people in her life.

Pain is part of each life. Though pain is universal - suffering is optional. Our character development and personal growth is in our hands. Though we can't always change our difficult circumstances, we can always change our attitude. When we can can't change our circumstances, it is time to change our hearts.Pin It