Redefining the Nature of Work

When I was expecting my sixth child, the doctor ordered bed rest because of preterm labor. This order produced more than a healthy nine-pound full-term baby boy. Six weeks of bed rest dramatically altered my point of view concerning work. Before this order I’d wasted my fair share of time inwardly complaining about all the work I had to do. Suddenly and without warning, I wasn’t allowed to do any work at all.
Actually, the first day was great. As a mother of five little rascals, the chance to rest felt sublime. The next day I was antsy to get out of bed and do something . . . anything! It took an army of people to fill in for me and I was embarrassed. By the third day I wanted to climb the walls. By the second week I felt the gears of an internal attitude adjustment suddenly shift. I understood for the first time that the ability to work was a gift – a gift that can be taken away at any moment. I vowed to never complain about having too much work to do again.
By the third week I discovered my children needed the busy hurried me less than I preciously thought. My maternal work description needed to include more than productivity. My children rather enjoyed having a mother who was right there where they left me, a mom who wasn’t too busy or stressed-out to be truly present in the moment. While I was in bed and unable to care for my children in the usual ways, I learned what else my children needed from me. Yes, they needed a mother who could fix their meals and clean up after them. More, they need a mother who had unhurried time to hug them, read stories, snuggle and sing songs. While in bed all day, I found my children needed my peacefulness, patience and skin to skin affection. The doctor didn’t order a distressed mother, but that is what my children got. I stopped defining my value by how much work I accomplished during the day.
Most of us define ourselves by the work we do. One of the first questions we ask a new acquaintance is “What do you do?” Yet we often confuse our paid work with our real worth. Our culture tells us that our vocation is a proper gauge to determine how important we are. So, we spend most of our lives on egotistical things like career, car payments or mortgages. We get strapped onto a materialistic treadmill where someone else keeps turning up the speed until we can’t get off. We live in a society that teaches us we can never have enough. We need more, more, MORE! Then eventually retirement comes and we are left to wonder, “Is this all there is?”
If we want only more things - this really is all there is. Yet having more things never satisfies our inner most needs. What satisfies is personally offering others what we have to give – a song, a sincere thank you, a smile, forgiveness, a story, warm meal or a heart-felt hug. If we devote ourselves to offering our time, love and devotion to those in our own homes and communities we will not become bitter, empty or disillusioned.
The next time you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you have too much work to do, imagine being ordered to bed for the rest of your life. After the first day, you wouldn’t like it there. So, put a smile on your face and be grateful. If we make it our life’s work to care for others with compassion and joy we will find the only path to personal refinement and discover the ultimate fulfillment of life.

A Weekend to Remember

Elder Holland came to our Stake Conference this past weekend. It was a weekend to remember. The first session of conference took place in the temple earlier in the week when we invited members of our stake to join together for an endowment session at the Provo temple. When we arrived the waiting room was filled to overflowing. So many members of the stake came to the temple we filled several sessions. It felt like walking into heaven when I entered the celestial room and saw the faces of so many people I love dressed in white.
On Saturday, my sweetheart Ross met privately with Elder Holland. They also held several other Priesthood Leadership meetings. Before the adult Saturday evening session I prepared a meal for our visiting authorities. We invited the family members of the Stake Presidency, secretary and clerks to attend the dinner. As we ate together each family introduced themselves. Elder Holland stood and expressed his sincere appreciation to each wife and child in the room for the loving sacrifices they make each day that allow their husbands and fathers to serve.
The adult session of conference filled the stake center to overflowing. I was so touched by Elder Holland’s sincere and hopeful counsel. A master teacher, Elder Holland told us God loves to mend broken hearts . . . “when we lay our broken hearts on the alter, God gives us back a new one.” He told us to let go of our fears, to pull up our socks, to grow up, to endure and to face our problems with courage. “Stay in the boat and be of good cheer for Christ has overcome the world.” He told us we will all have times when we think we can’t face our challenges, that God doesn’t love us or that God has abandoned us. He told us God is trying to help us become like Him – that when we feel most alone, God is most with us. He told us not to jump out of the boat and dog paddle on our own. “Look to the Master of earth and sky who says, ‘Peace . . . be still.’”
We were asked to prepare for stake conference by asking ourselves how our activities are bringing us closer to Christ and what we can do to better strengthen our families. Elder Holland met with the prospective elders in the stake early Sunday morning and reserved the front chapel for these prospective elders and their families during the combined general meeting later Sunday morning.
Elder Holland told one particularly touching story on Sunday morning concerning the late President Hinckley. He told us that our late prophet came to a meeting in the temple and told his counselors and the twelve apostles that he had cancer but he didn’t want them to tell any one. Then he told them he would be receiving treatments. When some expressed their worries for him and the difficulties of cancer treatments he told them he had no choice because all the Primary children in the church were praying for him and he owed it to them to remain alive as long as possible. He was given three more years.
Elder Holland stood as a witness of Christ. He told us he could not walk away from him wife, children and grandchildren for this work over and over again without an absolute conviction that, “God the Father and Jesus Christ really appeared to the prophet Joseph Smith.” Then he left us all with an apostolic blessing of comfort and joy.

Missing Ashley

My daughter Ashley is gone on a choir tour to California this week. She’ll be singing in cathedrals and going on rides at Disneyland and Six Flags. She’ll be hanging out with friends and wiggling her toes in the wet sand on the beach. I know Ashley will relish every moment – from the annoying “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer” song the kids sing on the all-nighter bus ride - to the brilliant overtones she’ll hear resonating off the arches in the Crystal Cathedral.
Ashley lives in the moment and relishes the here and now better than anyone I know. Her smile is like a beam of light that welcomes everyone into her safe harbor. If you have Ashley for your friend you are one happy sailor anchored safely in her love.
Ashley knows how to suck the marrow out of life . . . literally. When she was a baby she used to crawl over to my bare feet whenever I was playing the piano. Then she would suck on my toes while they bobbed up and down on the pedal. Now she plays that same piano with so much grace and beauty if takes my breath away. When she was a little girl she loved her cloth doll so much she sucked the stuffing out of the top of her head. Now she tends her nieces and nephews with so much gusto she can suck the grouches right out of them. Like sudden bursts of sunshine, Ashley’s laughter pops all around you like soap bubbles.
Ashley’s trip to California this week is my primer course in living without her. She will be moving out in a few months to begin a new journey at BYU. She’s ready. I’m not. We have our children in our homes for such a short time. I want to share Ashley with the world, I really do - but for now I want to take this moment to really soak in the enormous treasure she is in my life.
It’s too quiet around here when Ashley is gone. No one can take her place. You’d think having your children leave should get easier and easier the more times you’ve done it. It doesn’t. It just gets harder and harder. This will be my eighth launching party and I’m getting worse and worse at watching my babies leave. I don’t know where her voyage will take her or how often it will bring her home. I do know she is ready for the grand adventure that lies before her. And so I let her go with joy and sadness because now it is her time to sail toward the horizon without me.
I envy her roommates. Ashley laughs as easily as breathing. She throws nutritious meals together in minutes. She invites you to relish the world with her by going for a walk, listening to a new piece of music by Brahms or sharing her latest piece of exotic fruit from the produce department at Reams.
Ashley's bedroom down at the end of the hall isn’t tidy. It doesn’t bother me. Her room is like a mosaic of her treasured life . . . a dried corsage from the Sweetheart’s dance, a piece of sheet music from the choir concert, old Christmas candy, a soft turquoise robe, journal, a picture of Jesus, worn backpack, biology textbook, piles of makeup and a pair of high healed shoes next to a pair of worn sneakers. Behind the door is a teddy bear she has had since she was a baby and some rumpled plaid flannel pajamas. Cleaning out a bedroom when a child is about to leave home comes much too soon. After we pack all her things and haul her to college this summer, I know I’ll walk by her clean room and wonder where she’s gone without me. I don’t think children realize how much their parents love them until they have children of their own. Ashley doesn’t know how much she will be missed. I do.

Happy Birthday Letter to a Five-Year-Old

March 20, 2009

Dear Sammy,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
I am so excited you are turning 5 years old today. You are such an awesome little boy and I love you so much. The last time I saw you, you ran into my arms yelling, “Grandma!” and gave me the biggest hug in the whole world. I felt SO happy I almost danced a jig.
I still remember the day you were born. Your mom’s family was at a party at your Uncle Jordan’s house. When we got home from the party, your parents called me from the hospital and told me that you were about to be born. We were worried because you weren’t supposed to be born for several more months. We prayed so hard that you would be safe.
When we got to the hospital, you came into this world so fast. You were so tiny that the doctors and nurses had to help you breathe and eat. We worried you might die but you didn’t. You surprised everybody because you were SO strong. You had to stay in the hospital for a long time so you could grow bigger and stronger. Your mommy stayed with us while you grew and grew. Our whole family was so happy you were born. We thanked Heavenly Father for you every day.
When you were a baby sometimes your Mommy and Daddy would let you come and visit me. You would peek at me from your car seat and look deep into my eyes for a long time. Then you would smile at me like you missed me and were happy to see me. I felt like I had sparklers inside my tummy every time you smiled at me. I was so excited whenever I found out you were coming to my house. You were my first grandchild with dark brown hair like me. Did you know your mother used to be my baby and sometimes I still want to wrap her in a blanket and rock her to sleep?
I came to your house after your little sister was born. We snuggled on the couch and read books together. We also danced to your favorite songs and went for walks in the leaves. When you fell asleep on my shoulder I thought I’d slipped into heaven and I never wanted to leave.
One of my favorite things is when you call me on the telephone. When I hear you say, “I love you Grandma,” I feel like a soft bunny inside. Then I want to reach through the telephone wires and hug you so tight your eyes will pop.
Sammy, you are such a handsome, wonderful, energetic, sensitive little boy. I am so proud of you for learning and growing even when things are hard for you. I think about you every day and my heart gets so lonely for you sometimes because you live far away. Sometimes I go look at the French doors in the dining room at my house where you left your hand and nose prints. I touch them and think about you. I don’t wash them off.
Sammy, I am so glad that you are my grandson. Every day I thank Heavenly Father for you. I love you as big as the universe and beyond.

Hugs and kisses,
Grandma Baadsgaard

P.S. My real name is Janene because I was born in January. If you were named after the month you were born your name would be Marchy instead of Sammy.

March Miracles

Spring tip-toed into my world while I was sleeping. Crocuses bloomed in my flower garden. There was no blaring trumpet to announce this glorious event, just a simple flower. After a cold dark winter, there is no sweeter sight than a delicate flower. Yet there is another sure sign of spring – mud. Now that the temperatures have mellowed and the frozen ground is soft, my children and grandchildren have tracked mud in the foyer, up the stairs, all over the car seats, across the tile and even clogged the sinks and smeared the counter tops.
There was a time I lamented March mud. There was a time when I was annoyed about anything that kept my life a constant challenge. I am not annoyed any more. For I have learned we can’t have spring without some mud. Flowers need earth, water and sunshine to grow. We can’t put earth and water together without making mud. In a similar way, all of us need trouble in order to mature.
This past weekend I flew to California to speak to a large gathering of women. On the airplane, I sat next to a beautiful young African woman from Kenya and Sudan. She was currently living in Utah. She told me about her childhood growing up in a country with constant violence and poverty, her years as a refugee and finally seeking asylum in the United States. She had learned to speak English and was now going to school to become a nurse hoping to be of service to those with various cultural and religious backgrounds. Her wisdom, desire to bring light and her hope in the future gave me the feeling I was in the presence of royalty. She had taken the mud she was given as a child and created a beautiful garden.
Once I arrived in California I was privileged to meet so many amazing women. As we honestly shared our challenges with each other, I felt a bond that will stay with me forever. Even if I never see these women again, I will always remember and love them.
On the flight home I thought about my daughter who had experienced a ruptured appendix on her wedding day. I thought about another daughter who daily faces the fragile medical condition of her little boy who was born without a brain and still another daughter dealing with the unexpected lay-off of her husband. They have all chosen to embrace their experiences and learn and grow from them.
We all have days, weeks, months or even years of rain. There are times when we all wonder about the mud we have to deal with. Eventually we discover challenges don’t go away; they simply become new ones. So we have a choice - we can wait for the storm to pass or we can learn to dance in the rain.
Each person has a heavy load to carry. When we show more kindness for each other’s struggles we will ultimately discover more courage for our own. Eventually winter fades away. Then the first crocus seems even more the miracle. Yet even in the midst of our personal winters there is purpose and meaning. Patience, wisdom and peace are coming. Like dormant bulbs in the cold earth our hearts are about to open because of our winter wait.

Update on the Newlyweds

Aubrey was released from the hospital on Thursday. They came to our house where they opened their presents and watched a video of their reception. Each guest spoke to them and offered them condolences and congratulations.
Aubrey smiled and said, "Oh now I almost feel like I got to be there."
On Friday they cut their cake surrounded by their family and made a toast to each other with sparkling cider. Then they drove down to LA together so Kyle could be back to work at the hospital on Monday.
Aubrey is getting a little better day by day.
They went for a walk on the beach yesterday.
True love truly is the only thing that lasts and the greatest miracle of all.

A Wedding Day of Miracles

There’s a couple I know spending their honeymoon in the LDS hospital in downtown Salt Lake City right now. The nurses on the surgery floor have taped two felt hearts, a large golden bow and a banner that reads, “Honeymoon Suite” across the hospital room door. They moved the couple to the far end of the wing so they could get a little more privacy and at least hold hands on their wedding night. The bride is in one bed recuperating next to another bed the nurses rolled in for the groom so he wouldn't have to be too far from his bride.
The doctors and nurses who work in the emergency room said it was the first time they’d seen a patient arrive in the ambulance wearing their wedding dress.
As you can guess, this wedding day didn’t turn out quite as expected.
Aubrey and Kyle waited 31 years to find each other. After struggling through school on a dime with crowded apartments and tight budgets they are both doctors now. Aubrey has a PhD in Anthropology and Kyle is a resident anesthesiologist in LA. How they ever found each other is a miracle. They were born a few days apart but on different sides of the United States . . . Aubrey in a small town in Utah and Kyle in a small town in Pennsylvania.
They both attended BYU but never met each other. He went on a mission to Spain and she finished her master’s degree. Then she accepted a scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania and he went to medical school at Penn State. They never crossed paths. Sometimes it was hard to keep believing they would ever find each other.
Aubrey was living in Washington DC when she was invited to a birthday party in Philadelphia. Kyle was invited too. That was the first time they saw each other and something clicked. They found ways to get together even with extremely busy schedules as she finished her dissertation and he finished his first year of rotations. Then he started a three year residency in LA and she started a job at the Metropolitan Museum in NYC.
They decided they didn’t want to live without each other any longer. They choose Valentines Day, called the Salt Lake City temple and the plans began . . . red roses and Dutch irises to decorate the hall for the reception and red velvet cupcakes and chocolate dipped strawberries for refreshments. On a special date Kyle served Aubrey chocolate dipped strawberries just before their first kiss followed by dancing, a love song and a poem.
They decided to take pictures at the temple on Wednesday because a big storm was forecast for Saturday. Aubrey got sick late Thursday night but she brushed it off as food poisoning or the stomach flu. Then there was the wedding supper with both families on Friday night. On Saturday morning she felt weak and crampy but excited for the big day. On the ride to the temple she complained of pain in the lower abdomen but hoped it would go away.
Once inside the temple, her mother had to dress her because it was too painful for her to stand. Right before the ceremony she raced to the nearest bathroom. The vomiting and pain were intense. Then there was a small break in the most extreme pain. Her father called for a wheelchair while her mother asked the workers to adjust the temple alter as quickly as possible.
The feeling in that sealing room was electric as these two beautiful souls made covenants to God and each other. Rings were exchanged and a short trip to the celestial room was made. Then the pain became so intense the paramedics were called, the ambulance arrived and she was carried out on a stretcher with her groom at her side.
They talked about not wanting to miss the reception while tests were run in the emergency room but the surgeon on duty told Aubrey and Kyle they wouldn’t be attending their own reception that night. Aubrey would need to be rushed into surgery as quickly as possible. She had a ruptured appendix and the situation was serious.
The reception went on without the bride and groom. Each guest was video taped and friends and family took lots of pictures so Aubrey could see the elegant red rose and purple Dutch Iris bouquets that decorated the hall.

A ruined day? No.
There were miracles everywhere.
The marriage still took place!
They planned to fly out the next morning after the wedding to Spain for their carefully planned honeymoon. This emergency could have happened on an airplane or in a foreign country.
AND they had pictures because of the storm warnings.

There are no ruined days – there are only miracles.

Congratulations Aubrey and Kyle.
I love you.
MOM

Winter Stillness

In the northern hemisphere winter is normally viewed as the season to get through as quickly as possible – a sort of white knuckled hang in there and grit your teeth through this lousy time of the year. After the anticipation of Christmas is over and the New Year celebration is so much left-over confetti, the rest of the long dark cold winter stretches before us with no quick end in sight.
Perhaps because I was born in the winter and maybe because I always like to stick up for the little guy who no body likes and everybody picks on – I want to give you my take on the least appreciated season of the year. For I have learned to love winter.
I believe we can be thankful for anything if we are paying proper attention. For example, soon after I was born I discovered I was in for a lot of dish washing - for the rest of my life! I hated washing dishes. Then I decided I didn’t want to spend an enormous part of my existence doing something I loathed. So I decided to teach myself how to enjoy doing the dishes. After all, what we enjoy is a choice.
So I began noticing the comforting way the warm water in the sink soothed my chills in the winter or how the cold water cooled me off in the summer. I watched rainbows bubbles pop in the suds while I made dirty pots and pans shine. While scrubbing, I transformed the fork into a bad guy, the knife into a gallant knight and the spoon into a princess as I created fantastical stories. When I finished cleaning up in the kitchen I always looked back for a moment to appreciate the beauty and order I’d created from the mess and earlier chaos. Now I love doing the dishes.
Winter used to be my least favorite time of year. So I decided if I could love doing the dishes, I could love winter. I began by paying better attention. I noticed mosquitoes were never pestering me in the winter. Because I didn’t have to spend time working in the yard, I appreciated the extra time to focus on in-house projects. Rousing basketball games were everywhere. The days were short so the nights were long and deep - perfect for reading a good book next to the fire. I relished the calm quietness of snow, the way it covered the bare tress and gardens and transformed a bleak grey world into a magical shimmering land of white. Noxious weeds become jeweled orbs and spider webs become glistening lace. Because of winter, I’ve learned how to wait for spring with trust and patience. So now I can wait for God to reveal the meaning and purpose in personal times of grief and loss.
So when you are tempted to complain about winter, don’t. Walk outside on a star-lit night and feel the stillness. Breathe deep before the morn. If you find no joy in winter, you find no joy in pain. If you find no joy in pain you have not learned. Trust. All that lies beneath the snow will someday return to living and the time for believing without seeing will be over. For now - welcome the stillness and be at peace.

Being and Sharing our Best

When my children were small they had an uncanny way of knowing when I was about to leave the house.
“Where are you going Mommy?” one of my children would always ask before I told them I was leaving.
“Why do you think I’m going somewhere?” I answered.
“Because you have lipstick on,” my child said.
That’s when I realized I always put on lipstick before I left the house. That comment got me thinking. Why do I try to look my best for strangers and not my own family? I rarely fixed myself up or wore my nice clothes at home. I decided to change my habits. Eventually the children stopped asking me where I was going when I put lipstick on because I wasn’t going anywhere.
This change of heart also helped me notice I was saving my best linens, bath towels and dishes for special holidays or when house guests were staying in my home. I decided the people who actually live at my house certainly deserve to enjoy our nicest things. So I began using my best sheets, towels and dishes for everyday. Yes, sometimes those nice things got stained, broken or ruined but I could always replace them. I couldn’t replace the time I had with my husband and children. I stopped waiting for special occasions or house guests. Enjoying and using my best all the time reminds me to value myself and the members of my own family. When I live this way, every day is a special occasion and each person in my home is treated like an important guest.
When my mother-in-law died her daughters divided up her only set of nice china and gave one place setting to each surviving child. I asked my sister-in-law why I’d never seen those beautiful dishes or eaten off them.
“Mom was afraid they’d get broken and she wouldn’t be able to buy new ones.”
We all tend to put off using or sharing our best things. We protect and save until we die. Then nobody ever gets to eat off our nice dishes or see us in our fancy dress or nice suit – not even us! We wait too long to delight in what we already have. We collect and store instead of use or give away because we harbor some illusive fear that our good things will be ruined. Perhaps the real ruin is in hoarding. If we don’t offer our best to those we love today, the opportunity may be lost forever.
“You and your husband are good savers,” an older woman told me once. “But don’t forget to enjoy your money as you go along. My husband and I never went on vacations or bought each other nice gifts because we were responsibly and dutifully saving for retirement. That’s when we were going to start enjoying our lives together. Well my husband died the day before he retired and now I am left with all our savings but no companion to share it with and no fun memories to keep me warm at night.”
There is no tomorrow – but only today. Life is short. The day to buy that special gift, go on that dreamed about vacation or use your best china is today. None of us know if we have a tomorrow and by then the opportunity has past. Those closest to us deserve our best every single day.

STATES OF GRACE

I once watched a professional stoneware artist working at the wheel, throwing pots. I asked him questions about the formation of the outer walls and how he made the varied shapes he was forming. He told me he only pays attention to the center and the outside walls take care of themselves.
Too often our attention is directed to our outer walls, or the way we appear to others. We find ourselves worthy only if we match up well against everybody else. We compare and compete then find ourselves lacking, never convinced we’re good enough. If we pay attention to our own personal journey, how we compare to others won’t matter any more. We don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to be the best. We don’t have to compete with others. We have only to be better than we were yesterday.
I remember a day when the parents of the students in my daughter’s ballet class were invited to attend a performance demonstration to see the progress of the dance students. There were obvious differences in the levels of ballet technique and performance competency as the girls followed the teacher’s commands and performed a choreographed dance for us.
My daughter had struggled with shyness for years, along with learning to cope with legs that were several inches different in length. Taking ballet was her idea. She’d found the courage to take classes as a beginner with other girls who had been taking ballet for ten or more years.
Watching her dance that day was amazingly beautiful to me. It didn’t matter how she compared to the other girls. Even her teacher could not possibly know what she had overcome to get to this personal level of grace. Someone attending that class as an observer could not possibly make a judgment that was accurate about her competency or accomplishments. Then I realized only a parent who truly knows and loves their child can accurately assess their progress. So it is with God; only our loving heavenly parents can accurately assess our progress.
As I watched my daughter turn a pirouette that day, my heart caught the very instant she stopped, stood still and smiled at me. Time stopped and she was the only ballerina on the dance floor. That shining moment of grace still dances in my heart to remind me that we all have a parent in heaven watching us with great love like I watched my daughter that day.
The time between our entrance and exit on the stage of life is fleeting and precious. Those around us are dancing as fast as they can but generally no one notices. We all need an audience who knows how hard we’re trying and how far we’ve come. Instead of looking out there for applause we need to look up there. The master potter is at work and is lovingly placing the soft clay of our souls into the hot kiln of life so we can each emerge the unique shining vessels we can become.

Calling Jesus

One Sunday the children in my class of three-year-olds at church were having a heated debate. During the course of most Sunday lessons I am called many different names by my young students including Mommy or Hey You. I am comfortable with all of these names but the children often feel they must educate their fellow students about my “real” name which happens to be the one they like to call me.
One tiny thin-boned little girl took a deep breath, placed one hand on her hip, pointed the other at her rowdy male classmates and stated emphatically, “Her name is Sister Baadsgaard!”
“No she’s not,” a boisterous little boy answered jumping to his feet with his fists forming punching machines ready to defend his claim. “Her name is Grandma!”
Another little boy with big blue eyes and long eye-lashes who rarely spoke whispered, “Her name is teacher.”
That day at church we sang, I’m trying to be like Jesus by Janice Kapp Perry. The words welded those children to my heart as I sang, “I’m trying to be like Jesus; I’m following in his ways. I’m trying to love as he did in all that I do and say.”
The children in my class didn’t know the words to that song and they didn’t appear to be watching the chorister. One boy poked his neighbor. One child crawled out the back of the folding chair and another started disrobing. Though it appeared they weren’t listening, they were. It occurred to me that these children were already like Jesus. I was the one who needed to live the meaning of that song.
During his ministry Jesus often asked for the children to be brought to him. Then he told the adults to behold them with new eyes and become like a child – humble, submissive, teachable and quick to love and forgive. Jesus always had the time to love and bless people one by one; each soul received his individual time and attention.
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 porcelain 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 baby Jesus for themselves. So I purchased a nativity set for each of them.
When my children are young they call out to me in the blackness of their bedroom for comfort and reassurance when they feel lonely and scared. As adults my children call me on the phone when life is hard and they feel sad or afraid. I try to tell them what Jesus would say if he were on the other end of the line. Yet I always feel inadequate and limited in my ability to bless.
That’s why each of us needs our own Jesus. Christ gives hope to a confused world and to us. Because of Jesus we know love conquers fear and the meek will eventually inherit the earth. It doesn’t matter what we call him but if we call him. Whether we call him Savior, “Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6) or simply friend – if we call him, we’ll never be alone or comfortless again.

Licking Honey Off a Thorn

I finally went to the doctor. I’d been experiencing pain in my shoulder for a couple of years and it kept getting worse. I don’t like to go to doctors. I believe most pain goes away if you give it enough time. I’ve learned - sometimes it doesn’t. Pain, doctors tell me, is the way our body signals that something is wrong and needs attention. If we couldn’t feel pain, we’d leave our hand on the hot stove.
Emotional pain is like that. Sometimes we ignore our pain hoping it will eventually go away; but buried pain never dies. One woman told me she was depressed, bitter and angry for years. Her husband had abused her then left her for another woman. She said one day it dawned on her that God had not abandoned her; she had abandoned God. She was going it alone even though her Heavenly Father was there, willing to help. A realization came to her one night when she looked up at the stars.
“Where are you, God?” she asked defiantly.
As she gazed into the night sky, she suddenly and powerfully felt the love of God. She realized the stars in the heavens were always there, even during the day; but their light and beauty were revealed only in darkness. In a similar way, she understood God was always there but only in the black times in her life did the absolute perfection of divine devotion reveal God's most brilliant and ennobling love.
Childbirth can be described as an ocean of pain that ebbs and flows like waves. At the crest of each wave, the labor pain is at the peak - then it gradually subsides. There is a small break between waves, where the laboring mother is allowed to regroup and then brace herself for the next pain. The closer she gets to actually giving birth, the closer the waves of pain come together. When the mother is actually delivering a new child, the pains don’t have any break between them. That’s when the mother wonders if she can hold on any longer. But she does - and because she does, new life is born.
We all need to be reborn, given new life through pain, whether emotional or physical or both. When we develop a new heart and rebirth of purpose, it follows the difficult times, the peak of pain when there is no let­up, when we think we can’t go on. But we do. So we are reborn many times in life, reborn to joy - all following great pain.
Each life has meaning and purpose under any circumstance. We are asked to find that purpose and meaning through pain. God invites us to choose betterment over bitterness, growth over self-pity, and inner peace and joy over jaded attitudes. Hell is self-absorption. Heaven is other-absorption. So we choose.
The doctor I went to ordered physical therapy and medication. I learned to stretch and exercise my tendons and muscles in new and healing ways. The calcium deposit in my shoulder won’t go away but I can better deal with it by facing the truth, educating myself and maintaining new healthy routines. In a similar way, many problems in life don’t go away. We will keep becoming more than we were if we face the truth, educate ourselves and maintain new healthy routines. I heard someone say once that life is like licking honey off a thorn. Without pain we would not experience the fullness of joy. Without joy we would not discover the meaning and purpose in pain.

Lessons from the Farm

One of the great things about living on two acres is there is room to grow a garden, tend a mini fruit orchard and raise animals. Our family knows from personal experience that eggs don’t come from cartons at the grocery store and apples often have worm holes. When we are personally acquainted with the natural world, we learn perfection in nature or ourselves is more a process that a product. We can cut out the worm hole and still enjoy the rest of the apple. We can accept our humanness and still be happy.
Growing a garden certainly teaches us that we literally reap what we sew. Though we never get corn where we planted potatoes; we sometimes do get volunteers from previous plantings and some very interesting combinations of present plantings. We have harvested squashes and melons that have cross-pollinated forming totally unique varieties like canta-watermelons or crookneck zucchinis. Buried seeds from a previous year will sometimes grow into a new seedling without being purposely planted again. If we keep planting and working with hope our lives will often produce a harvest we did not expect. The magic and mystery is that we never know for sure what unexpected gift is coming.
There is another part of the law of the harvest no one talks about. We can labor very hard tilling, planting, weeding and watering but sometimes a sudden frost or storm will destroy all our hard work. This turn of events often requires that we hang on until we can plant again next spring. Sometimes children walk into forbidden paths, illness strikes or the people we love die. Eventually we reap what we sew– but sometimes it takes more time than we thought to see the return on our investment.
Our mini farm has also taught us about the law of the jungle or survival of the fittest. The birds in our neighborhood know the exact morning we plan to pick our cherries. The night before, these birds swarm our tree, strip it of every single piece of fruit and leave piles of pink poop under our deck railing to taunt us. Sometimes we’ve been tempted to eat green cherries just to get our share. Finally we decided to call our crop a free will offering. Likewise, when people steal from us, we can eat bitter fruit and become sour like them or consider our bounty a gift - and move on.
Gophers tunnel into our garden and devour the root vegetables. My husband sets traps but they keep coming. Raccoons strip the leaves off our corn and devour every kernel on the cob before it makes it to our barbeque. Foxes and stray dogs think our pigeons, rabbits and ducks make a tasty supper. There are predators out there. Bad things happen to good people and hearts are broken by tragedy or betrayal. We don’t always get what we deserve but we are invited to learn from both the bitter and the sweet, trusting that God will someday make sense of it all.
Nature and life is not always a boundless harvest; sometimes it hails and destroys our crop or death comes too soon. Life is hard; yet life is also sweet. In the end it is not the gardener with the flawless garden who wins but the one who has overcome the most without giving up hope. Who we become is our ultimate harvest.

PLAYING IN THE SYMPHONY OF LIFE

There are times in all our lives when we feel alone and discouraged. There are days when we question whether anyone understands or cares – when we can’t remember the melody or find the will to sing it. At times like these I believe it helps to join in the strength of those around us.
I play second violin in an orchestra. The other members of the group who play in that section sit in front, behind and on both sides of me. When I lose my place in the music I listen carefully to the musician next to me while I scan the notes on the page to locate where we are in the score. Before long I can jump back in and start playing again. The player next to me can’t stop playing to instruct me without losing their place. So when they can tell I’m lost, they will whisper the number of the measure we’re on.
We can’t always solve the problems of others but we can listen carefully so we are aware when someone around us has lost their place. We can learn to be more in tune with the needs of those around us and we never know what positive influence we have. For example, one day after I’d given a talk at BYU Education week, a woman approached me and said, “You don’t know me but when I was a teenager I read something you wrote that helped me more than you’ll ever know. I was going through some awful things and had decided to end it all. Then I read the article you wrote in the New Era called ‘Holding On’. So I did. Those words literally saved my life.”
Though we are often unaware, those around us are starved for attention and compassion. We can’t always stop our life and rush to save them; but we can in effect whisper the number of the measure we’re on by offering a kind smile or a gentle word of appreciation, affection or encouragement. Before long, they will be able to find their place in the music and start playing again. A symphony simply does not have the same power without every instrument playing their part.
When our orchestra is playing disjointed and out of tune during rehearsals, our conductor will make us stop, memorize a few bars and then ask us to close our eyes and play the music without looking. He will further instruct us to listen to those next to us and also across the orchestra so we can hear how our part fits into the whole. It is amazing how much better we all sound when we do that. When we are focused only on our part and our eyes are glued to the sheet of music in front of us we are too concerned with self – unable to play the notes together as beautifully as we could.
If we want to get in tune with those around us we have to occasionally get our minds off ourselves long enough to truly listen. Then we will notice subtle expressions of need and hear the silent cries of those across the way. When all of us listen this way, we can play the score of life with infinitely more harmony and grace.
So, at those times when we feel abandoned, we need to glace around us. We are not alone; we are surrounded by caring people. When we are lost, they will help us find our place in the score and when they are lost we will help them. If we listen carefully with our hearts and glance up to the master maestro, the melody is never far away. There is love all around and inside us. All we have to do is listen.

LIFE GOES ON

Sometimes when I crawl in bed at night I can’t go to sleep because I mentally rehash every trouble or concern in my life until each muscle in my body it so rigid I can’t relax. Then I worry that I’m worrying too much. Before long, I’m checking the clock again noticing another hour has passed. Eventually I have to tell my mind, “Stop thinking! You can not solve one single solitary problem in your pajamas while you’re in bed in the middle of the night. Let the day go. Face tomorrow when you wake up.”
Sometimes this personal reprimand works and sometimes it doesn’t. If it doesn’t I close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting alone at the beach on the Oregon coast watching the waves roll toward my bare toes wiggling in the sun warmed sand. Then I begin a relaxation game. First I become aware of each muscle in my body beginning at the top of my head and working down. I tighten each muscle then release. Next I imagine my arms and legs dissolving like sand into the sea. If I have another worry thought and tense up again, I have to start all over.
Once I’m relaxed I listen for my inner rhythms, the steady beating of my heart - the constant rise and fall of breathing. If I turn off my worry thoughts long enough and allow myself to simply experience the moment, my tension dissolves and I feel as though I’m floating. This gentle cadence of pre-sleep relaxation takes me back to when I was a child and had the simple faith to drift comfortably into slumber knowing God was watching over me.
Like the waves on the beach, like the beating of our heart, life is continual motion. We can not hold on to yesterday any better than we grasp a wave in the palm of our hand. Nothing is still; nothing is unchanging. There is no way to stop the constant pulse of the cosmos. Yet the Master of the Universe mercifully allows each day to end so we can regroup and refresh before the next wave.
There are times when unexpected challenges come at us like sudden storms at sea. When we feel most adrift or afraid, it helps to take a deep breath and go deep. Somewhere anchored inside each of us is stillness. Like the eye of the storm, this private quiet center allows us to be at peace even during the height of the tempest or against the stiffest wind. Hope and gratitude allow us to ride out the storm until the dark clouds part and sun shines through again.
So, when we’re lying in bed at night worried about the storms in our life, we have to tell ourselves, “Stop thinking and start listening. We can not solve one single solitary problem while we’re looking outside ourselves for the answer. Take a deep breath, go deep and feel the stillness.”
Storms come and storms go. The tide comes in and the tide goes out. If we are searching we’ll find hidden treasures in the quiet tide pools among the rocks when the tide is out and we never know what new gift the next tide will wash up on the shore. No matter what happens to us – life goes on. Sometimes we are on the beach watching the waves roll in and sometimes we have to get up and dance in the rain.