Sending One Off

My oldest daughter Kim asked me the other day if having a missionary gone far away from home will get easier as the months go by.  Will that heart wrenching worry for their safety and happiness ease up some?

She says she knows people in her ward who've sent sons and daughters off around the world. When she sees them in church on Sunday she asks how everyone's doing. She says a lot of them still start sniffling even after months have gone by. One friend's son was returning soon from Chile and Kim asked her when it got easier. The sister wiped a tear away and replied bravely, "Not yet."

I only had that experience once. Sending a missionary off to serve.
It was our shy, quiet, child. The one who always had trouble being comfortable around strangers. The one who got a stomach ache if she was ever too long gone from home. She went clear across the country to live with strangers, speak only Spanish, and try to find people looking for the truth. She didn't speak Spanish before she left.

Now, our son Dane and his wife Lisa have sent our granddaughter, born and raised in the desert, off to serve in the land of blizzards and twenty-below zero wind chills.

And, just this morning, Kim and Scott put their oldest on a plane for Salt Lake and then to Brazil.

They speak Portuguese in Brazil.

They won't see her again for a year and a half.

Kim wants to know if it will get easier.

First, before I answer, I want to thank some people I've never thanked before.

Thank you to the mothers and fathers of all those young missionaries who came to our house so many long years ago. We knew nothing of the truth until a bunch of goofy teenagers brought it to us. You see, we went through about eight sets of missionaries before we were finally baptized. Most of them were teenagers. One mom and dad sent their son all the way from Samoa to talk to us. He could eat 17 tacos for supper I recall. This kid was huge, well over six feet tall, who'd helped his dad on the family pig farm in Samoa before his mission. That boy could eat. And he liked my tacos.

He left his family by the ocean and came halfway around the world to live in a desert for two years just to talk to us about the most important thing there is. Well, and to talk to a few others too. And along the way he learned that he liked tacos. He and his mom and dad had been saving for years for his mission. Now he was flipping a chart over, explaining eternal truths and wiping hot sauce off his fingers.

Well, that young man changed our lives.
For eternity.

I'm reminded about eternity when my daughter, a child of  raggedy old converts, tells me that she's had some of our ancestor's work done in the temple.  Seems that eternity goes back in time as well as forward. Missionary work goes backwards too, I guess.

So, I'd like to thank that young man from Samoa's mom and dad.
In fact, I'd like to thank all the mom's and dads of missionaries.

You loved them. You taught them the truth. You saved and sacrificed for missions. Once, many years ago, one couple sent their boy off halfway around the world. You knew you wouldn't see him for two long years. You worried about his safety and happiness. You wondered how he could possibly survive in a desert. You missed him every single day.

I want you to know that he changed our lives forever. A whole lot of lives changed it seems. Forward and back.
He brought our family the truth. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And now, in part because of that young man and his parents from Samoa, we have two granddaughters off on missions. One to blizzards and one to Brazil.

And Kim wants to know if it gets any easier, having one gone on a mission. Will that wrench and worry ease up?

All I can say is that I'm eternally grateful to the parents of the ones that were sent to knock on our door, so many years ago. And I'm grateful to those goofy teenagers who came. They changed everything for our family.  Changed it for us, our ancestors and our posterity. Forever.
I hope that makes it a little easier.

I think it was Jeffrey Holland who once said something like, "The gospel of Jesus Christ is rolling forth to fill the entire earth on the shoulders of an army of teenagers." And some just barely older than that, I might add.

May Heavenly Father bless and keep that beautiful army safe and well. May he inspire them to work hard and lead them to those seeking truth. May he bless them all the rest of their lives for their missions.

And may he bless and comfort their parents too.

Trick or treat. Smell my feet.

October.

No matter where you live it's one of the most glorious months of the year, isn't it?
Here in the Sonoran desert October not only brings relief from scorching summer heat, it begins the promise of seven months of lovely and good report. Weather reports that is.
We don't have to go off to the beach seeking after them either.  Just open the door.
(All that's a reference to a Mormon thing which I'll explain later.)

October once brought me gold aspen leaves shimmering against a blue sky.
It's one of my most treasured mountain memories.
Then too, the smell of fall in the high country woods is something I'm so grateful not to have missed in my lifetime. That mixture of cool wet earth, leaves underfoot and far off wood smoke is one of the best smells in life.
Like a mountain creek in summer or the ocean any time.

That line of thinking brought my wandering mind to other good smells.
Life's full of them if you notice.  
Like pine branches or any freshly cut wood.
At Christmas I always go to my local tree lot to buy or beg the trimmings from their trees to put in vases and decorate around the punch bowl. Our house is so little that the cuttings send fresh pine smell to fill even the back bedroom.

And one of the most comforting smells has to be supper cooking in the oven when you walk in the door hungry after a long day.   Especially pot roast, barbequed chicken, or baked ham.  Or loaves of bread baking. Or pans of rolls. Does anything on earth smell better than that?      
Well, brownies maybe.      
Or cupcakes.
No, bread wins.
Isn't it amazing how just a pot roast smell can make life seem so much better?
I remember a crockpot being a big help creating that "Welcome home, dinner's ready," smell when I was teaching.

And what about a clean baby?
My oldest daughter once took her children to a pediatrician she'll always remember fondly. She said whenever she brought a newborn in for a checkup he would never fail to sneak a sniff of the baby's head during the exam.
She saw him do just that.  Grandma's do too.

They say that smell is one of the most powerful triggers of memories.  I think that might be true.
I'm going to admit something crazy about one of my favorite smell memories. Even weird.  Don't tell anybody.

When I was 17 and dating my now husband of fifty years, I stole one of his shirts and slept with it because it smelled like him.  It was glorious.
Remember I was very young.
For some reason though, now that I'm sleeping with the actual man, the smells have changed.
It's not the same, I can tell you.

But other great smells come to mind.

Campfires when you're sitting around them with a stick and a burning marshmallow on the end.
Or laundry, dryer sheet fresh, warm from the dryer.
Even better, as I recall from back in the day, fresh and sun warm from a clothesline.

Soap smell on a clean fifth grader when he comes to your desk to get help with math is great. This happens only before recess. Then the clean kid smell changes to sweaty kid.
Then too there's the hopeful, heady, aroma of too much aftershave on a gangly teenager.

Larry says, "A new car," is the best smell, but I think cars just smell like machines and oil.
He likes bacon frying too. Especially early in the morning if he's still in bed and someone else is cooking.  Usually he's the only early riser now.

And, I remember that he's always loved the smell of perfume on a beautiful woman. Never fails to notice and make a comment. And, if asked, he swears the smell he's looking so wistful about is me. The man may be a liar but he's not stupid.
He also recalls fondly the morning smell of coffee. That was before he joined the church. He says he's grateful it never tasted as good as it smelled since he had to give it up when he was baptized.

Rain just as it starts to fall is glorious.
And the smell of desert mesquite after one of our summer gully washers.
That one's best in the cool of dawn, but it'll make you roll the car windows down no matter what the time or temperature.

Or a salty, sea-weedy ocean breeze.  Or grass being cut.

Or Larry's barbecue chicken when he's out on the patio grilling. That one can drive the whole block crazy.

Then there's popcorn popping, which always makes me want to put a Disney movie on the TV.

And come December slicing a lemon or lime fresh from our trees will fill the whole kitchen with one of my favorite smells.
If it's winter and there's snow outside you'll still think of lemonade.
Cucumbers will do that too. Only then it's summer salads you'll remember.

Flowers like petunias or alyssum are winter smells down here in the lowland. Up in the mountains at that time of year I would hear people say "Smells like snow."   I never did get that.
But mint, basil, and tomatoes on the vine fill my patio pots in January if you happen to crush some leaves while watering.
And come March, orange blossoms send their sweet scent into the night with every breeze.

What are some of your favorite smells?

The Articles of Faith were written when the Prophet was asked what Mormons believe.   The last one is my favorite.   It ends with, "If there is anything virtuous, lovely or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things."  At the very least I think that means we should notice and appreciate them.

Well, the wonderful smells of life are lovely and of good report.  Praiseworthy too.  They make me grateful for beauty, home, comfort and family.  I think I should seek after some.

So I'm going to try to create some good smells today. Give Heavenly Father a hand so to speak.
First I'll plant a patio pot with allysum and then I'll put a pot roast in the oven.

And I won't forget to thank God for blessing me with both of them.

* PS
A daughter called to say that I forgot a very important smell.

She remembers telling me once when she was young that she was embarrassed to go to church with her father because he smelled like cigarette smoke. I shared with her that a bishop once told me that tobacco smell in a Mormon church was the most beautiful scent of all.
It was the smell of someone trying to repent, trying to live the truths Father taught.

If any of you are struggling to live those truths you now know, come to Sacrament meeting.  Sit by me and Larry.  It took him a while but he finally conquered a 4 pack a day habit. He hasn't smoked in nearly 40 years. But it's only been 20 years since he quit reaching up to his empty shirt pocket for a cigarette. Seems habit is a very powerful force.

After winning that valiant fight he took his family to the temple.
All of his now grown children go there regularly. Two of his granddaughters are now on missions.

Hang in there. Father loves you. He'll help.

This Will Be Fun Too!

The apostle Joseph Wirthlin said in a conference talk, “Come what may and love it.”  At the time I really didn’t get it. But since I truly believe that the Lord inspires his leaders to deliver messages that He wants us to hear, I figured that somehow I needed to learn this principle. 

So I began to think about it. 

After some thought I guessed I might be doing alright with “Come what may, grit your teeth and hang on,” or “Come what may, tolerate it and try to keep a smile on your face,” or “Come what may and pray hard that it goes away soon.”  But, love it?   All of it?   No.   And why love it?   What’s wrong with hating the rotten times anyway?

My mind went back to a “stone day.”  You know, the ones described in that old country song. How does it go? “Some days are diamonds and some days are stones.” Well, this day was one of the rocks.

It was just a few years ago. I was teaching high school. It was after I’d dismissed my kids with the last bell. I’d made an appointment with a colleague to come to my room to meet with my husband and myself. I’d asked her to come on a personal matter. 

She was the visually impaired teacher, a dear woman, with extremely limited sight herself. She arrived at school every day on the city bus, sometimes using her white cane to cross the street and get to her office. All of her students were blind or with severe vision issues. I didn’t know her well, except that she always seemed to be cheerful and smiling and was ready to go the extra mile with any of my kids and their teachers.

I’d asked her to come because my husband had lost his job. After a lifetime of doing work that he didn’t care about just to support his family, he’d finally found a job that he truly loved. And after eight years he’d lost it. He often said that he’d pay the company to let him work for them.  He spent 12 hours a day driving huge, 18 wheel, belly dump trucks. They were usually filled with steaming, smelly asphalt or tons of crushed rock. He hauled this stuff all over the city and state to build roads and freeways with it. I never understood why he loved it but he did. The man had been to college for Pete’s sake! I remember once driving up the mountain on Highway 260 through a construction zone. There was a long line of trucks waiting to dump their black goo.  State Patrolmen stopped traffic. Flaggers in their hard hats and orange vests waved cars through behind a pilot vehicle.  As we passed the line of waiting trucks one driver jumped out to stand on the step next to his seat. He waved wildly and yelled, “Hey Babe! It is Babe isn’t it?” It was Larry. As I waved back all I could think was, “I don’t understand it but there goes a happy man.”

Anyway, this happy truck driver was also a diabetic. And twenty-five years of diabetes had finally taken its toll. He came home from work one Friday and on Saturday his retinas hemoraged. That was it. He couldn’t see. Big trucks were gone. Income was gone. Even simply hopping in the car to go to the store was gone. Total blindness was a distinct and terrifying possibility. Surgery was soon scheduled but the doctor said driving was over.

We were both scared about so many things. The fact that our income had just been cut in half was the least of them.

Anyway I’d asked the vision teacher to come in to see if she knew of some resources or programs that might help. Larry and I waited in my classroom silently, both thinking of dark possibilities. As I sat there my heart was breaking for this man I’d loved for so long. 

In walks this bright and beaming blind lady carrying a huge suitcase. She started talking the minute she came through the door. “Wait til you see the goodies I have to show you!” she chirped. She pulled out all sorts of “gadgets for the blind” from devices to turn your TV into a huge print magnifying glass to pill bottles with braille markings. She kept pulling for a long time, chatting and explaining nonstop all the while. Then she informed us that she’d already made an appointment with a career counselor to start training for jobs that didn’t require sight. It would begin with aptitude testing and there were hundreds of career choices she assured us. I don’t think she stopped talking the whole hour that she was there. Seems there’s a whole world out there we knew nothing about. People who can’t see are actually working, going places, having families, living busy, happy and worthwhile lives. We hadn’t realized. 

Then she said something that’s stayed with me ever since. Larry was telling her about his beloved big trucks.  She put her hand gently on his arm and said brightly,  “I know, I know.  Driving big trucks was fun.  But this will be fun too!”

Yes, she really said that.  “This will be fun too.”  She couldn’t be serious, I thought! Being blind and all the loss that meant.  Being unemployed.  Starting over after 55.  That was going to be fun?  I looked hard at her. I could tell she meant it!

Later on the way home, I realized that when she said that short sentence something changed. What changed was that I began to feel better.

Maybe everything wasn’t ending. Maybe, even if the worst happened, life could still be good. Maybe we could still have fun together. It looked like the worst had happened to this sweet lady and we’d seldom seen anyone so upbeat.

After she finished I offered to drive her home. She refused, saying that the city bus ride was very important to her. (Having to depend on public transportation was one of the bitterest possibilities for Larry, who had loved cars since he was 16.)  She explained that being so busy it was the only time she had to listen to the audio books she got from the library. She was almost finished with one and couldn’t wait to see how it turned out. That was also when she studied audios for her ASU class.

So.  Come what may and love it.  Why is that important enough for Heavenly Father to have one of his apostles speak to the world about it?

Why?   I thought hard.   Well, I decided, maybe it’s because if you can do that you’ll be happy. And I know Father wants his children to be happy.

Every one of us will surely have some “stone” days coming our way. That’s a given. Those stones may even turn into weeks or years. Somehow this dear lady actually found joy in hers. What does the scripture say?  “Man is that he might have joy.”  I don’t think there’s a footnote that says, *This applies only when everything’s going well and you don’t have any really hard problems.

My colleague wasn’t a member of the Church. But she sure knew what Joseph Wirthlin was talking about. Think about it.

What is it about gratitude?

Tis the season!  Here's a leftover thought I tweaked to go with that turkey sandwich.


There must be something about gratitude.

When I was new in the gospel I remember being puzzled a bit by the scriptural story of Christ’s healing of the lepers.  You know the one…….ten were healed but only one of them came back to express his gratitude.
Jesus made it a point to inquire of the one grateful man about those who hadn’t returned to thank him.

What puzzled me at first was that Jesus even mentioned this.

It seemed out of character to me.
Jesus never wanted anything for himself.   Certainly not public praise.  Why would he be concerned about those who were ungrateful?
Was he offended?
Did he want credit for the good he did?
He saved ten people from a fate worse than death.   That was what he wanted to do wasn't it?
Why did he care that most of them never even looked back?
After thinking hard for a while I decided this.

There must be something about gratitude.

There must be something in it for those who feel it and express it.
Maybe there's even a little something in it for those who receive it.
Something important must be involved here. Something essential even.

I thought some more.

One thing that came to mind was a recollection of a Friday many years ago when I was given a very special gift.  As far as presents go it surely wasn’t fancy or expensive, but I’ve never forgotten how it made me feel.

I remember I was leaving my classroom after a really difficult week.  I can’t recall exactly what made that week so hard, but I know I was exhausted.
Among other things, I think it involved several days of state testing for my poor kids. Report cards and parent conferences went late into several nights.  Irate colleagues were upset about something.  Irate parents were upset about the colleagues.  More kids than usual were in trouble.  And the always endless faculty meetings actually became scary when you realized that everyone battling it out in the current argument about lunch duty had a college degree.

Anyway,  I was leaving my classroom…..late again.
As I locked the door I remember thinking that I hope my family didn’t need anything from me this weekend.  Things like patience, energy, or kindness.  Or an interest in any of their problems.
All that remotely resembled a functioning human being was left in a puddle on that classroom floor.  I had nothing left.

As I turned the key I decided to cross the hall to check my mailbox before heading home. I flipped on the light in the dark mailroom and there in the wall of cubbies was the gift I've remembered all these years. In fact, in every mailbox there was a gift.  In every mailbox there was a bright red apple and an envelope.
I went to mine and opened the note.
I read….“Thank you so much for all you do for our kids. We know it’s sometimes hard. You make a difference to them and to us.” It was signed… Grateful Parents.   
Well, I’ve been given many gifts over the years, some expensive even, I’m sure. Most of them I can’t recall. But I’ll never forget that apple and the way it made me feel. As I opened the door to leave the mailroom the doom and gloom I’d been wallowing in began to lift a little.

Lifted.  By an apple and a thank you note.  From way down in the dumps I was lifted.
There’s something about gratitude expressed that lifts people, isn’t there?

I walked down the hallway heading to the parking lot and there outside the office door stood our dear principal talking to one of the staff.  I knew his week had been even tougher than mine.

I called, “Hey Sarge, have a good weekend,” as I passed.

He looked up and with a big grin said,  “Well, it's Friday. And the boat we been a'rowin's taken on a load of water. But, by gum, we’re still afloat.”
I chuckled, waved, and went out the door.

The last time we’d had such a terrible week he’d said with a big smile, “Well, here we’ve been shot at every day now and we ain't dead yet.”
Sarge was well known for his wise and pithy counsel.

But as I walked to my car I realized something important.

Even though he was joking I’d heard a note of genuine gratitude in the tone of his voice.
He was only half kidding.
He really was grateful to have made it through a tough week.
He seemed tired but hopeful.  He was looking forward to the weekend, to his family, and to his fishing pole probably.  He wasn’t running on fumes…..he was ready to rest, fill up and have a great weekend.
Yes ….there’s something about gratitude that changes your outlook. That puts your life in a clearer, more positive light.  It seems that gratitude and attitude are related.
There's that lift again. There must be something about gratitude that lifts whether your giving it or feeling it.

As I drove home I began to think.  I remembered a story that I’d heard once in some church meeting.
It was about a woman who’d been invited to a very special banquet held in her honor.  She’d been given an elaborately engraved invitation.  It explained that at this banquet all kinds of wonderful dishes were being prepared for her.  All of her special favorites would be served from lobster to strawberry shortcake.
But there was a rule.
She could take as much as she wanted from any of the dishes offered but she had to take at least one`bite from all of them.

On that special night she entered the beautiful banquet hall, gazed in amazement at all the dishes and then did the strangest thing.
She took a crystal plate, placed it on a silver tray, and walked slowly up and down that laden banquet table. She passed by the lobster, strawberries, and all the luscious desserts that she adored and went straight to a covered dish at the end of the table.
She lifted the lid.  Inside was liver and onions.  She detested liver and onions but she knew the rule.  At least one bite from everything offered.
She began to cry……“ Liver and onions! I hate liver and onions!

Then she did the strangest thing.

She pulled up a chair in front of that loathsome dish and sat down. She filled her plate with a huge helping of the detested liver and holding her head in her hands cried louder and louder……Oh no, I can’t bear it!  Oh no…..I hate liver and onions!
Then she picked up her fork and began to eat, wailing all the while. 

The banquet workers couldn’t believe their eyes!  She had passed by all of the wondrous things offered without seeming to notice.  All their careful, loving preparation of those exquisite dishes had gone unnoticed.
Instead, she sat in front of the one thing she hated and wept.

Well, I guess there must be something about ingratitude too.
Something essential.
It somehow distorts your vision, I think.
It makes the blessings surrounding every one of us seem to disappear.
It puts a magnifying glass on the negative and robs us of happiness and the ability to deal with life.

I know that woman.

I’m ashamed to say that I’ve been to that same banquet a time or two in my life. Maybe even this week a little.
And I can tell you that she’s not happy eating only liver.
Now I want to shake her and say “Look at all the beautiful strawberries!  Be grateful!”
Because there's definitely something about gratitude.

Almost to the turnoff to home now I began to think about tests. We'd been knee deep in state testing all week. Oh well, that's just the way things are, I guessed. The kids better get used to it.

After all, life itself gives the hardest tests.  You know the ones.

Then I began to think of those really hard "Life" tests.  And I began to think about gratitude and what a difference it made on the really tough questions.

In the years when we lived in our small mountain community two young people from wonderful families were called home to Father unexpectedly.
One was an amazing and beautiful young woman in her first year away at college. She was the oldest daughter and a light to everyone who knew her.
She was killed in a highway accident.
Another was a shining, bright, precious little boy.  A toddler not much more than a year old.  He went home after a drowning accident.
Both young people had large and loving families left with broken hearts.
And now all of them must take the test.
Then I remembered back to my own childhhod.  I was eleven, oldest of four. My father, then only 38 years old, husband and father, was killed in a car accident on his way home from work.
My brokenhearted family had to take the test too.

All had been given the same test.
They must take it in the darkest hour of their lives.
The answers they gave would make a difference for an eternity.

There were tears on every face. There was almost unbearable sadness at this parting.
But on some faces there was something else too.
For those who knew the truths of the gospel there was hope.
And gratitude.
In their darkest hour some answered with gratitude!   I could see it through the tears.
I saw those who knew the truth giving that answer to life's hardest question.

I saw gratitude that those beautiful young people were a part of their families and would be forever.

I saw gratitude for the mission of Jesus Christ, who conquered death and made it posssible for all of us to do the same.

I saw gratitude for the Temple and the sealing ordinances performed there that bind families together forever.

I saw gratitude for the certain knowlege that they would see their dear ones alive and well someday. They would hold them in their arms again. Not one hair on their heads would be lost.  So that the day told about in the scriptures, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," would surely come.  For that's the only way they truly would be comforted.
I saw gratitude for the peace and comfort of Father's love.

My own family didn't have the light of the gospel when our loved one died. There were the same tears and broken hearts. But despair was the answer my mother gave. Life gave her an incredibly hard burden to bear. Surely one of life's most difficult tests. But she felt only despair.
She seemed to answer with with every breath, "This can't be happening to me!  I can't go on!  I can't bear this pain!  Stop this pain!"
And so she tried to stop the pain with alcohol.  She tried every day.
And the beautiful life she and her children had known ended when their loved one died.

Yes, there certainly is something essential about gratitude.
It seems to be the right answer on some of the really hard questions that life gives you. It seems to go hand in hand with hope. It seems to be a key to survival. It might be an important part of happiness even.

It seems to be an eternal truth.

Christ may have been thinking of this when he asked about the nine who didn't return to give thanks.
He never cared about himself. He was always thinking of the happiness of others.
Maybe he was worried about the nine.

Because there's something about gratitude, isn't there?