tender mercies

The five years my mother was a single mother were quite challenging for our little family in many ways. Mother first took a job at the newspaper and then later enrolled in college. Although we didn’t lack the necessities of life, money was very tight. One of my diversions in those days was making a paper chain out of gum wrappers. I was probably 8 or 9. By cutting the paper outer wrapper of a piece of gum into two pieces lengthwise, giving it a few precise folds, the pieces could interlock (without glue). Adding more and more gum wrappers made a strong, quite beautiful, paper chain. The girls my age worked on their chains diligently, for the belief was that your true love would be as tall as your chain was long.

Needless to say, we didn’t buy much chewing gum, so my true love would not be tall... I was in the habit of looking for gum wrappers everywhere I went. I seemed to find what I needed, for my chain steadily grew, but my practice of picking up “trash” off the streets rather annoyed my mother. That is until one mid-November night. We were out after dark, walking home from downtown. I was scouting the streets for wrappers and found a ten-dollar bill! I picked it up and said, “Look!” My mother snatched that out of my hand so quickly, and dancing for joy, exclaimed, “We will have thanksgiving dinner!”

She didn’t complain about my hunting gum wrappers anymore, and I learned a lesson about the tender mercies of God. Because of His love for each of us, things that are important to us are also important to him. I’m sure it delighted Him to provide that ten-dollar bill for me to find. There have been many other occasions since, when my needs, though seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, have been important enough to Him to provide for. When I get discouraged, I need only ask for help and it will come, in the form of His tender mercies, tender mercies that remind me, “I am here, you are important to me.”

wages

When Nate was in fourth grade and Eli in second, we hired them to pick up the seemingly hundreds of sticks left in the yard by one of Nebraska’s fall storms. The boys were to be paid by the pound. Dollar signs filled their eyes as fast as the big trash bag filled with sticks. Periodically the boys would weigh the bag to see how things were coming along. I think they hoped sticks would be heavier. I don’t know who came up with the grand scheme, but they decided to increasing their earnings by slipping a five-pound rock in there with the sticks. They brought the bag to me to weigh and pay them their wages. I was very impressed. They were very pleased I was so impressed (and not suspicious). But something didn’t seem right, it’s that annoying quality mothers possess, that same thing that gives them eyes in the back of their heads and that lets them know things they couldn’t possibly know. And I knew something was fishy. I found the stone and my being impressed gave way to being terribly disappointed.

They were paid their wages, but not in money, in punishment. Each boy was to carry that rock to school in his back pack for one day. It seemed an appropriate lesson on the wages of sin and the burden of guilt. Nathan took his punishment like a man and carried the rock the following day. Then it was Eli’s turn. He wasn’t long out the door when he realized, that’s too heavy to carry! So he dragged the backpack all the way to school and dragged it all the way home, wearing a huge hole in the bottom too huge to repair, necessitating the purchase of a brand new back pack. Ah, yes, a lesson for mother: be careful of the punishments you inflict on the children, it may be you that gets the raw end of the deal.

bench warrant

One night several years ago I was involved in an accident. A driver turned in front of me and I couldn’t stop in time (minor damage to my car, hers was a little worse off). It was not my fault, but I received a ticket for not having proof of insurance (our glove box sometimes serves as a “black hole”). The officer wrote out a ticket, which I signed (by the light of a flashlight), and gave me a form to fill out with my insurance information and send in to the capitol (which I did the following morning). End of story.

A couple of years later I went in to the DMV to renew my driver’s license and was sent downtown to the courthouse, they didn’t tell me why. At the courthouse they told me that they couldn’t renew my license because there was a bench warrant out for my arrest! “But I can’t be arrested, I’ve got only 45 minutes left on my parking meter!” I phoned the kids to have them put supper in the oven and bid them my farewells; (they started planning my jailbreak). Apparently that ticket from the accident way back when told me I had to appear in court on a certain day, but the officer had neglected to give me the ticket, they still had my copy of it in my file. However, the law is the law, and the judge told me I should have paid attention to the ticket when I signed it and remembered the details even without the ticket in hand, which is true… I paid the fines and avoided arrest and finally got my license renewed. End of story?

A few years later my license needed to be renewed again. The DMV refused because I had outstanding obligations with the law. Not again?!? But I was on to their schemes this time; even though they had no record of my paying the fines from my previous brush with the law, I had kept the receipts and knew just where they were. Case closed, and another would be “criminal” was free to wreck havoc on society…

Let’s hope the story ends there, my license needs to be renewed again in 2012, I’m not looking forward to it…

"sisser siff"

My son, Jesse (the champion collector), had a difficult transition into nursery at church, probably because we were in three different wards during that time. It also made the transition into Sunbeams quite the challenge, too. He hated Primary. He’d undress. He was inattentive. He was like a little lost soul. At in-service meetings the leaders discussed the inactive children and the many ways to help them be involved in Primary. No effort was made for the little lost soul, Jesse, after all, he came every week. I was with a group of ladies one day, discussing problem-solving methods and posed Jesse’s problem to them. They were full of advice. One suggested I lock him in the bathroom after church, for the amount of time he misbehaved during church. Another suggested as soon as he reached his fill of church I lock him in the car for the rest of the time. There were other suggestions, punitive and cruel, none of them appropriate in my estimation of things. It made me sick to hear it, sick to think what these mothers were doing to their own children. I went home to Jesse, took him in my arms and cried and cried, so grateful he had come to my home, to me. I would not punish him for struggling in church, I would help him through it, I would help it to be a good experience for him, I would help him love church.

The turning point came when Sister Sue Stiff became his teacher. She was very patient with him, very kind to him. She, too, wanted him to love church. Each week she sent him a kind letter, telling him how much she loved having him in her class, how much she loved him. She decorated the letters with pretty stickers. Week after week they came and then one day, after I read his letter to him, he took it in his hands and looked at the writing he was to young to read, he looked at the stickers, then he clutched the letter to his bosom and exclaimed, “I love Sisser Siff!”

I have been forever grateful to her for her kindness to him. I try, too, to be kind to the children, especially kind to those who struggle. I greet them by name and tell them how glad I am to see them, I let them sit by me on the piano bench when they get restless, let them have a life saver. Perhaps I can be the “Sister Stiff” in their lives and help them through that rough day.

And I am very careful about offering or asking for advice…

light

When I was in my second (and last) year of dental hygiene school, I lived on the medical center campus, in an apartment building across campus from the dental school. For a few weeks at a certain time of year and in the late afternoons, I witnessed a peculiar phenomenon. As I’d walk home from school between the many buildings on the medical center, I came to a certain place where there would be a great pillar of light stretching high into the sky, reaching seemingly to heaven itself. It was huge and bright, a glorious thing to behold and I looked forward to the sight of it each day, for it was such a thrill to see, that it melted away every pain and trouble of the day’s work. I surmised that it was caused by the sun’s reflection on the many glass skyscrapers in the area, the pillar of light being created when all the reflections hit each other. And I happened to be at the right place at the right time. As the earth’s axis shifted with the season, the phenomenon ended. But thinking on it since, and even now, I can still feel the thrill it gave me, and the power the light had over me.

I have a dozen or so crystals hanging in my picture window in the living room. The afternoon sun shines in and the light is refracted through the crystals onto the walls. A breeze will make the crystals dance and the rainbows scatter and move. It, too, melts away the cares of the world.

There is power in light, more than just to illuminate our living. We know it to be the power of life itself, with the power to rejuvenate and strengthen all living things, including us, in both body and spirit. Even in death, we are told to go toward the light, toward life, the next life…

double-check

One Halloween weekend when Eli was a junior in high school, he was away for a singing competition with the high school madrigal group. It was several hours away and the group traveled in two vans and spent a night there in a hotel. Competition went well and afterwards the whole group stopped for supper before making the long trip home. Eli and his friend, Ben, dashed to the men’s room for one last pit stop and came out to find everyone had left. Both cars were gone from the parking lot. They didn’t worry just yet, surely someone would notice they were missing and come back for them within a few minutes. But after a while, they realized that no one had noticed they were missing, probably everyone had just assumed the boys were in the other car. That is exactly what happened. So on Halloween night they were stranded in a far away place, nowhere to be and with very little money…

Eli called home, hoping we would come to his rescue. Dad was perturbed at the whole situation, so wasn’t much help, plus we were in the middle of selling the car Eli used (adding insult to injury). We tried to reach one of the drivers by cell phone; it was turned off. We called Ben’s folks, the boys called us back again… Finally, after a few more phone calls, it was arranged for the boys to spend the night there with a distant relative of Ben’s mother and the boys could be retrieved the next day. No harm done, a funny story to tell to the grandkids, right?

And tell it to the grandkids we will, for Eli married one of the girls in that car, the driver is now his father-in-law!

understanding

Over thirty years ago a friend told me that she wished most in life to be understood. I thought that was an odd thing, for it was fairly low on my own list of priorities. But over the years, probably because of many experiences with being misunderstood, I’ve come to realize the value of her yearning. Being understood is the key to being valued, respected, and even cherished. Misunderstanding fosters confusion, distance, even resentment. Knowing someone (even knowing yourself) well enough to understand them is a priceless gift, that takes time and effort, and a measure of compassion.

It reminds me of an incident with my oldest son, Nate. He began his study of the trumpet in 5^th grade through the school’s music program and with a $35 trumpet from Good Will. He enjoyed it very much and kept up with it through middle school in the marching, symphonic, and jazz bands. When he got into high school we got him a beautiful new trumpet and he started taking private lessons from one of the best teachers in the area. He progressed very nicely, becoming a fine trumpet player and musician. He was a valuable asset to the high school bands, marching, symphonic, and jazz. He had the nickname “Natedawg”.

At the band awards banquet and concert the end of his senior year, he received many outstanding local and national awards for his accomplishments in music (his name is on a permanent plaque at the school). While there was much in the way of cheers and congratulations for him from his friends and peers as award after award was presented, I could overhear several parents whispering among themselves, “Again? Who is this kid?” and “he must be the teacher’s pet”. Then came the final performance of the evening, a solo by “Natedawg” with the jazz band as back up. It was truly amazing. His tones were strong and clear, he hit those high notes with ease and perfection, his flourishes were flawless. His emotions came through in subtle nuances of gentle passion as his trumpet became an extension of almost his very soul. As the final, perfect note gave way to rousing applause and a standing ovation, I could tell that those doubts about “this kid” had given way to understanding.

Learning is the means to an end: understanding; as the proverb says, “Wisdom is the principle thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding.”