So Very Blessed

Today while running errands I listened to Dennis Prager.  A caller was telling a story about a friend of his who is a quadriplegic.  To sum up, his friend was wheeled into a room with a young man who was also a quadriplegic.  The friend tried to initiate a conversation with the young man only to discover that the young man was paralyzed from the mouth down, so could not speak.  The friend kept track of this young man.  Eventually the young man was given an optical device where he could use his eyes to look at letters to spell what he wanted to say.  Those who provided it for him asked him if he could do anything, what would it be?  

Would he like to go to Disneyland? 

No

Would he like to go to Disney World?

No

They really wanted to do something for him so they told him they would do anything or take him anywhere he wanted to go.

What would he like to do most in the world?

He typed....

S M I L E

Wow.  

I smiled all the way home.

I smiled at my children when I got home.

I am smiling right now.

He's The Man

who caught my heart...

and made it go pitter-patter...

and helped me make babies...

20 years, 4 weeks, and three days ago.

He's The Man who didn't have any clean shirts because I hadn't done the laundry for two weeks.

He's The Man who, instead of becoming irritated, recognized the deer-in-the-headlights look I always get when life gets the best of me.

He's The Man who said, "why don't you just wash and dry the laundry and then bring me up the baskets and I'll fold and put it all away."

He's The Man who caught my heart again...

And made it go pitter-patter...

911

Today, amidst the chauffeuring and running of errands I listened to the radio. The station I was listening to played some segments of radio and TV broadcasts for this day 8 years ago. I started thinking of where I was.

I was in my house, very pregnant. My mom was visiting. She was there to help with the baby when he came...which would prove to be a very long wait (he was 2 1/2 weeks late). We may or may not have been doing school with the kids. The phone range. My husband ordered me to turn on the TV. I turned it on and saw the devastating site of the towers on fire. While we were talking one of them collapsed.

Today the radio personality talked about how in the months after the attack flags were seen everywhere. Patriotism was running rampant. WE WOULD NOT FORGET.

Then he talked about how over the years the flags have disappeared and people have forgotten. Until they are reminded every year on the anniversary of 911.

But does patriotism have to be a big show? Do you have to have a flag outside your home, or a flag on your car, or in your window to show your patriotism?

Patriotism: pa·tri·ot·ism noun
Date: circa 1726
:love for or devotion to one's country

I think there are a lot of people who quietly love and show devotion to their country. And there are others who aren't so quiet...like the radio personality I listened to. And I am thankful for both.

Last year I studied the Constitution in depth. I studied the Founders in depth. This year I am studying the Civil War in depth. I am grateful that I am not one who was asked to give their life for liberty.

My gratitude for all those who have given theirs runs very deep.

In Which I Don't Have To Juggle Alone

This morning I had words with my daughter. She was unhappy and that unhappiness was spread around. This was (is) a constantly occurring battle and I felt frustrated, angry, and helpless. I felt like a failure in my motherly duties. I felt the weight of the world was on my shoulders. This was yet another ball that I just could not hold onto.

I didn't want to go to church, but I went. I went with a cold, hard heart. My husband and I were not very respectful. We whispered our frustrations all during the Sacrament. Testimony meeting started and someone said, "I know this church is true." I started thinking about that phrase. What do people mean when they say, "I know this church is true"? As if that says everything! I felt cynical and judgmental. But as more testimonies were born and as people poured out their souls a little spark of an idea began to formulate in my brain and grew and expanded until it found it's way into my heart.

"I know this church is true" means that a loving Heavenly Father looks down and sees a soul that is hurting. And because he loves that person with a love that is beyond comprehension, he puts in the heart of another the truths that person needs to hear. But he doesn't stop with just one person. He keeps inspiring people to talk about the same truths until he penetrates that person's cold, hard heart. Then when the heart is softened enough he begins to whisper inspiring truths into the mind of that person. He tells that person that that person doesn't have to juggle all those balls alone. When that person gets tired of juggling balls, that person can just throw a few of them up to Him and He will hold them for awhile until that person is ready to take them on again. And if that person doesn't think she can take them on again, He says that it's ok.

He will juggle them for her.

"I know this church is true."

In Which I Fulfill My Destiny...

We knew it was coming when we saw the little red splotches on the highway. And when we saw the trucks, filled to the brim, we reckoned it wouldn't be too much longer. So when the clipboard came around, we knew our number was up and we resignedly signed our names.

Yes, it was Tomato Time at the Sacramento Cannery!





Oh the joys of serving. It's a labor of love for the less fortunate. If you are a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you know the drill. Some people get to pick grapes. Some pick apples. Some get to harvest nuts. (Some go nuts.) We here in Sacramento get to can tomatoes.

It's quite an interesting process really...really. Fascinating process watching those tomatoes being offloaded from the trucks, picked over, washed, dunked in hot water and then picked over again and then making their way to the canning jars to be canned whole or made into tomato sauce. Fascinating.



Especially if you happen to be put at the conveyor belt where they are coming out of the hot water bath. Especially if you happen to be put in the front of the line, where they are sliding down the ramp and land with a little "sploosh" and splatter little red juice all over your little white plastic apron (and your arms, and your face), which is supposed to protect your from the splatters, but never quite seems to stay in place so you are constantly pulling it back into place with your tomatoey fingers and in the process getting more of the juice all over yourself. And then you get an itch on your nose and since there is juice all over your little blue gloves, you try to find some dry spot on your shirt on which to itch, but the only dry place is where you can't reach, which is your back.

So I stood at the conveyor belt for 3 hours and 23 minutes, watching tomatoes go by and picking out the ones with skin still left on them and putting them in another part of the conveyor belt. And at first it was kind of fun. I had earplugs in and so did everyone else, so since no one could hear me I belted out a few Veggie Tales songs as I was sorting the Bob's. Sometimes as I would pick up a half-peeled orb, the skin would slip the rest of the way off and I would think "that little tomato didn't want to end up as sauce. It wanted to fulfill it's destiny as being a whole peeled tomato." (Those thoughts started coming after about the first 30 minutes.) Then after awhile I started thinking about how monotonous it was getting to be (after about the first 31 minutes). Then I started thinking, "what if I had to do this all day, every day, for 8 hours straight?" What if I had been born before labor laws and had to do this for 14 hours straight? What if I had been born in the Deep South before the Civil War? What if I had been born with black skin in the Deep South before the Civil War? What if I had been born in Africa and had been taken captive and had been shipped to America on a slave ship to the Deep South before the Civil War?

In case you were wondering why my thoughts went thus, we are studying the Civil War this year and I had just read an account of a slave woman who served as the head cook in the house where she was in servitude. She rose at 4am and worked until 11pm. She slept in a stable on hay on the floor, with men and women all in there together. When she put the food on her master's table she trembled in fear because if he didn't like what she made, he either whipped her, or made her eat every bite while he was standing there. And then there were other matters not to be discussed in civil company...except that many of the little children of color looked an awful lot like the master.

Sometimes I complain because my husband doesn't like what I make for dinner...that is, if I make dinner, which I haven't done much of lately. Actually because my husband has been making dinner lately. And sometimes I complain because I have to get up at six to get my kids up for seminary...only to go back to sleep once they are out the door.

I have such a hard life.

Lucky me. I was not born in the Deep South before the Civil War. Or in Africa. Lucky me. I was born in America. In the latter days. After liberty was won. After the gospel was restored. After labor laws were put in place. I was born a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

So I could fulfill my destiny of canning tomatoes.