quilting bee

As a girl, one of the things I most looked forward to about growing up was becoming a member of the women’s organization, Relief Society. In my young mind that would be the milestone marking the time I finally “arrived” at the stage of life called “womanhood”. So you can imagine my joy, when I turned 12 and was invited by our ward Relief Society sisters to join their summer quilting group. I was invited to be one of “them”! For one morning a week, through the whole summer, I, an ordinary girl, could rub shoulders with the noble and great. My young hands, already well-acquainted with the needle and thread, caught on quickly as they tutored me in the techniques of hand-quilting. As I worked side by side with those wonderful ladies, I soaked up every aspect of the experience. What a thrill it was to listen to their chatter, I was in awe of their wisdom, their goodness. I was warmed by their laughter and encouraging words to each other, and to me!

I learned a most powerful lesson one memorable day. That morning Sister Turley excused herself from the quilt, explaining that she had a commitment and would have to leave early. After she had gone, another sister got up from where she was working and came to examine sister Turley’s stitches. She shook her head and announced to the rest of us, “These just won’t do! I’ll have to take them all out!” She would have started that painstaking process then and there, but decided to finish the area she was working on first, and went back to her spot. Just a few minutes later, Sister Turley came back in, sat down where she had been working, and explained, “My car wouldn’t start, so I will keep working until my son gets here to pick me up.” My heart skipped a beat as I realized the horror of what could have happened.

It was a very powerful lesson. And not just the lesson that I’d better keep my stitches worthy of that sister’s scrutinizing eye! The lesson was this: None of us is perfect; Sister Turley had many strengths (she was, by far, the best musician the ward had ever had, then, and probably since). So then, shouldn’t we, out of our love and appreciation for her as one of the noble and great, accept her offering on the quilt, even though it was imperfect, because it was offered out of her love, and was the very best she could give?

(this is an excerpt from a talk given at Fountain Colorado Stake Conference, Nov 12 2006; to receive a hard copy of the complete talk, send a request to loveylou627@gmail.com)

chance encounters

My mother is the kind of person who likes to chat with strangers. The opportunity to do this presents itself quite frequently, most often while waiting in check-out lines at stores. I was often embarrassed by this as a child, but nevertheless have found that I do the same thing, which embarrasses my children (I also greet the store clerks by name; my children grew up thinking I knew everyone in the world).

This practice has led to my meeting some very lovely people and having some very sweet experiences. The day before Thanksgiving 30+ years ago I was in a very long line at the grocery store. A lady and her beautiful little girl were waiting also and we struck up a conversation. The little girl was actually her foster daughter. They had been together several years and it was obvious that they loved each other very much. This was going to be a very special Thanksgiving for them because the courts had just determined the little girl was now up for adoption into a family. She whispered to me out of earshot of the little girl, “Tomorrow we are telling her that we are the family that is adopting her!” I thought of them the next day, as I have many times since. What a wonderful Thanksgiving that was for that family, dreams coming true, lives forever changed, wonderful possibilities opening up for them for years and generations to come. I was very grateful to have heard their story, for indeed, there is much to be grateful for in this world.

Over the years I have come to wonder if what I call chance encounters aren’t really chance at all, for so often I meet just the person or hear just the story, or have just the sweet experience I need at the time. There was the gentleman I met walking to work one day 30+ years ago, the lady I met on a plane 2 years ago, and countless others whose lives have crossed mine for only a brief moment but have left an impact to last a lifetime. Perhaps these chance encounters are really tender mercies from the Lord, to remind me that He is mindful of each of us. Talk to a stranger today!

God knows his children

It seems hard for us to fathom sometimes the depth to which God knows each of us individually. There are so many of us, we are very complex individuals, no two of us alike… Yet it is true, and I came to understand it on a small scale with an experience I had with my son, Eli.

As a child Eli had a terrible time with money. He was forever losing it. He went through so many wallets and coin purses, all with money in them, that, well, let’s just say that whoever found them was very delighted at the “finders keepers” rule and he made a lot of people delighted. I was reluctant to take over his money for him, he wouldn’t hear of that anyway. We tried keeping his money in his pockets, but it would always end up in his hand and get set down somewhere in a store while he looked at something and he wouldn’t remember where and… you get the picture.

In eighth grade, the band and choral group at the middle school went on a trip to Disneyland. Eli belonged to both. His older brother, although already in high school, was invited along, too (he had also belonged to both and they wanted to feature him as a soloist on the national anthem for their performances). The students were told how much money to bring for their meals and were given a choice: they could hang onto the money themselves or have the chaperones hang onto it for them and dole it out as needed. Both my boys opted for the former. I could see that being a problem for Eli. Knowing Eli would surely lose his money, I secretly gave extra to his brother, Nate, which he could dole out as needed if/when that happened.

The second day of the trip I got a phone call from Eli. He had been in the arcade and set his wallet down just for a minute and when he looked for it, it was gone, stolen! I told him that he could get some money from Nate and he wouldn’t starve. Crisis avoided.

I was very grateful that I knew Eli well enough to prepare ahead and get him through that learning experience. And I began to understand how Heavenly Father can know each of us so well, well enough to place us in the right circumstances with just the right opportunities, just the right people to help us learn and grow into our very best selves.

Eli grew into a very careful money manager and has been financially independent for many years now. He put himself through school, is married with a daughter and is going back to school for his masters degree in psychology. But of course, I already knew everything would work out for him…

"At the Park" afghan

This reversible, double-knit afghan is for my granddaughter. It is my own design and features the fun things to see and do at the park, from kites to swings, butterflies to squirrels. It took approximately 150 hours to knit and measures 30"x40". Next week I start the one for my other granddaughter!

Grand Canyon

The first car I ever owned was a ’74 Ford Maverick, white, I named “Flossy” (because I was a dental hygienist). One summer my mother and I decided to take Flossy on a road trip. My step-dad planned our itinerary for us, which included a visit to the Grand Canyon. We had a great time, taking turns driving, the non-driver navigated and read aloud the novel everyone had been talking about, “The Thornbirds”.

Then we got to looking at the map and the itinerary and we started to think (not such a good idea, you can over think some things). He has us going to the North rim of the Grand canyon, but we are coming from the south. hmmm. Look at the map, there is a road that goes there from the south and just ends right there, hmmm. The road picks up again right there on the north side, hmmm. How old is this map? I bet they’ve finished connecting those two roads by now, don’t you think? Yea, and I bet Dad just doesn’t know that, that’s why he had us driving around instead of through, right? Yea, I’m sure the road is finished. Let’s take the shortcut. Aren’t you glad we thought of that? Think how much time we’ll save!

So we went to the south rim. My, the canyon is big, really, really big! ! No wonder they call it “Grand” (although we thought just “grand” was misleading—“grandiose”, “monstrously huge” may have given us better clues). I don’t think they’ll be building a bridge across there… Dad was pretty smart sending us to the north rim. Our little shortcut cost us time and we nearly ran out of gas getting back to our scheduled itinerary.

I remember reading of the Donner Party. A surviving member of the group wrote to a relative afterwards with this advice “Don’t take no short cuts.” I concur.

from sea to shining sea

I lived in Germany for 18 months when I was newly married. We lived on the main floor of a house in a little town called Asperg, not far from Coffee Casserne where my husband was stationed in the army. An Englishman lived in the basement apartment and our landlord, his wife and adult son lived in the top two floors. Our balcony looked out over lovely gardens and just the other side of the bridge over the train tracks were the charming shops of downtown. It was a wonderful opportunity to enjoy the German culture and people. Armed Forces Radio was an important link to my homeland as were my friends from church. I kept in touch with family through letters, no e-mail back then and it was much too expensive to have a phone.

I don’t remember being homesick, a new baby kept me busy, until Independence Day. In church we sang “America the Beautiful”. As I sang the words to that beautiful tribute, all the longing I had for home came to the surface in overwhelming gratitude for our great nation. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of the tremendous blessing it is to be American. When we finally moved back to the states I was filled with peace and security, a measure of which I had been without while on foreign soil.

I thank God every day that I live here; I thank him for those valiant souls who paid the price for our freedoms; and I hope I never take these blessings for granted. Still, when I hear that song, my heart swells with humble gratitude for this nation. I hope we each as citizens can, in word and deed, “crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea”.

Douglas

Douglas is my cousin, the fourth child and only son of my mother’s oldest sister, my Aunt Harriet. He was born on the 4^th of July 1953 (a Yankee Doodle Dandy), exactly one week after I was born. He was a big baby. Sometime that fall, after my accident, but before Thanksgiving, Douglas died. He had been very fussy, inconsolable actually, for a couple days and Harriet took him for a ride in the car to see if that would calm him. He fell asleep and died. No one ever knew what caused it, Harriet couldn’t bear the thought of an autopsy, and so we say he died of SIDS, although that doesn’t seem quite right.

I think of Douglas every Independence Day, as I’m sure Harriet does (a mother cannot forget her child). And I wonder about him and what his life could have been. I wonder how close we would have been. I wonder, too, about the two babies, born so close together, both struck by tragedy, one dying, and one living. Many believe that some spirits are just too perfect to remain on this earth, that they are so valiant as to not need this proving ground, this probationary state. My mother did not believe me to be any less valiant than Douglas; there were just different plans and purposes for our lives. That seems to make sense.

Douglas visited his sister, Kerry, one night about 5 years later, when she was in distress, staying at a relative’s house and very homesick. He comforted her. It comforted us all to know he was near and mindful of us. I believe we have many of our loved ones, spirits, around us. I have felt their help at times as well as their caring, watchful eyes.

And so each 4^th of July, I remember the cousin I never knew and hope that he can enjoy the fireworks. I imagine them to be a tribute to him and all the other children whose lives were way too short.