I was ask to come this week to Relief Society with thoughts about what helps me feel peace in Christ.  I thought about this for days, but I would always be lead to one thing:  Music.  I have a thing for music, but when I pondered what gave me peace in Christ, it was more the lyrics.  So I began making a list in my head of the lyrics that replay so often in an ordinary day;  while I'm driving without the radio, while I'm getting gas, when I see someone in need, when smiles are exchanged . . .

      I have so many hymn lyrics memorized.  Each one is a testimony of truth, and that brings me peace in Christ.   Lead Kindly Light has a phrase I love:  "Lead Thou my feet.  I do not ask to see the distant scene, one step enough, for me."  One step in front of the other is all I need.  He will lead me on.   

     With it being the Christmas season, it's easy to ponder words of Christmas carols.  In fact, I have a "small" collection of carolers, that spend 11 months of the year in boxes.  But when Christmas comes, we spread them throughout the house.  They help me imagine the heavenly hosts and choirs of angels that sang and proclaimed Jesus's birth.  "Joy to the World, the Lord is come.  Let earth receive her King!  Let every heart prepare Him room!    And Heaven and angels sing!  Rejoice. Rejoice!  Sing in exaltaion!"

What peace this brings. 

    " Oh, Holy Night" has lyrics I love.
 He knows our need.  To our weakness no stranger.  Behold your King!  Before Him lowly bend!
and then
Truly He taught us to love one another;
His law is Love and His gospel is Peace;
Chains shall he breaks, for the slave is our brother,
And in His name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus praise we;
 Let all within us praise His Holy Name

This brings me peace

     "Good King Wenceslas" is a meaningful, musical story with lyrics that go on for verses.  But His goodness is so Christ like.  I think of the King and his page, who together go out into the snow to bring in a poor, cold man, so they can serve him food, warmth, and shelter.  On their way, the page, who can hardly stand the cold says,

"Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind is stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how
I can go no longer"

then the King says

"Mark my footsteps, good my page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shall find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."

then

In his master's step he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed.

I can imagine myself worrying, but Christ has already marked the footsteps, all I have to do is tread in his prints, and I'll be warm.  This brings me peace.


And last, but not least

"I Belive in Christ"

 (read)

I'm thankful for the soothing hymns of joy, and especially the lyrics that bring me peace in Christ.






    

    

Grand Children (written in 2015)

I love my Grand children.  Their beauty takes my breath away.  The other night we had dinner with a couple that hadn't seen our grand children.  It took Randy all of a split second to whip out his i phone to display 7 darling images.  They oooood and awwwwwd courteously and I was pleased at their reaction.  But I wanted to say, "Did you see his precious little hands?  Did you notice the sweet little laugh lines under her beautiful eyes?  Look at their little pink knees now that they've learned to walk.  And what about the sweet 6 year old smiles with a lost tooth or two?

Just like most grand parents, time stops as I bask in the latest photos sent.  Or when I run to the front door to answer their little tapping knocks, and see small pink faces in anticipation of fun.  Sometimes they just let themselves in.  Oh, the light that fills the rooms.  Their voices, their playing, their sweet heads on my shoulder. . . .
It's like the song that never ends.  "I could go on and on, my friends . . ."
I'm stuffed with granditude!  

When I See Her Again

Last week as I was happily working in the temple, I stopped short.  Anyone observing could have heard my audible whispered gasp.  The room was still, except for a woman who suddenly appeared, walking in my direction.  I stood spellbound, and soaked in all of her glory over a split second, as if it were slow motion.

How familiar she seemed.  From head to toe, she could have been my Mother.  Her height, her small build, her softly curled hair style and color, her old glasses she wore when Dad was alive, her newer temple dress, her sweet hands that held gently on to sacred things.  She walked slowly, with humility and intent, along her side of the aisle.  I stood on the other side, not wanting to disrupt the moment.  She didn't see me staring.  She knew her purpose there.  And as she passed, it would have broken the heavenly bubble enveloping me if I had followed her.  Besides, I knew if I didn't hurry to the nearest tissue box, I would be a complete mess. 

She went on her way.  And I tried my best to hide the uncontrollable tears.  My encounter lasted only a few seconds, but in that space a sweet blanket of knowledge draped over me, leaving a distinct impression what it might be like when I see her again.  I knew my feet could not run fast enough to hold her tight enough.  My heart raced with loving delight as I imagined my own angel Mother there before me.  

My assignment changed to a part of the temple close to where I knew the woman would be.  I could have peeked in to find her, but my heart was already full, knowing I couldn't ask for more than the validation of  Heaven I had already received.  I will replay this sweet experience in my heart for a long time; especially the part about fervently running to Mom with grateful tears and open arms to hold her tighter than tight when I see her again.









  

Who'd a Thought?

I’d like to thank Carol Tuttle for her inspiring book called "Dressing Your Truth". She has developed a system by which people can be categorized according to 4 different style types.  I have been intrigued by this since first learning about her (10 years ago), enough to study her concepts without investing a small fortune in her online guidance. 
 

A couple of months ago, a friend loaned me this book.  Now was my chance for self diagnosis.  She tells from the beginning that her angle is not to label you, but as you learn the descriptive style concepts, you will begin to label yourself.  Well.  OK.  Let’s do this!
 

I scoured the book, looking for my type.  I read and reread.  The descriptions were divisive.  I could see the differences.  After completing the book, I had no more a clue to what my own type was than when I began.  However, this is where the thanks come in.  I learned a great life lesson.  I could identify with each of the types enough to label others.  Definitely the people around me, who influence me for good or not so good, fell right into those descriptive types. 
 

I learned that by recognizing their types, I could approach them with better educated empathy.  I could more easily put myself in their shoes.  I could forgive, rejoice with, root for, and be thankful for being taught by them.   I learned that by understanding my own type wasn’t paramount after all. 
 

If by chance I come to discover my own type (through DYT), it won’t be because I am searching anymore.   Thanks to Carol Tuttle, my intrigue has shifted to understanding others.     

Overwhelmed

        I depended on my right eye all my life.  My left eye was always the weak one.  My mother said  when I was a little girl, the eye doctor recommended putting a patch over the good right eye, to help strengthen the left.  They called it a lazy eye.  But knowing that would also cause unwanted attention, she hoped it would someday strengthen itself.  I must say, being a red head with a catchy last name, running around with an eye patch might have done me in.  She did have compassion.
      Back in January, I had cataract surgery.  My good right eye, was starting to fail.   Lights became  glarrier at night, reading ordinary print made it impossible without a magnifying glass, reading music became embarrassing; since everyone knew I could sightread, and wearing a watch required a big face with the ultimate of contrast. 
     Thinking about all the changes I was making to convince myself and others I could see, makes me sad.  I used to love book clubs.  Writing and creating were exciting to me.  But playing the piano started to make me nervous instead of joyous.  And driving at night was now dangerous.
 No more.
     After the surgery, I wore a patch for one day and they removed it the next.  Driving home, I was overwhelmed at the detail and color of this beautiful world I had forgotten was so vivid. The change was night and day.  We passed landmarks with details that had always been there, but that I had not seen.  Peoples' features were so clear it made me think I could have been a great dermatologist!
     After a month of regimented eye drops and now reading 20/20, I went in to have the left eye done.  The contrast between the two now, was a cloudy day compared to a sunny one.  Plus I had to know if the vision would miraculously improve.   Modern technology  makes it easier to consider this even once.  Now I was going for it twice; being thankful there weren't three eyes.
     Learning the left eye would never read as good as it started (20/40), I was overjoyed with the detail I gained back and had been missing for so long in it also.  Colors are bright.  Details are clear.  Depth perception is gageable.  Threading a needle is possible.
     But last week, sitting in my ukulele class with people and music I gave up knowing for a few years because I couldn't read the chords, I was in heaven.  I pinch myself frequently and am humbled, realizing my eyes are back. The eyes that I pretended would do.  A big piece of my life is back.    And my gratitude is huge.
    

Thank Heaven for Little Boys!

Today is Jeff's birthday.  He reminded me that since it's an even year, he has an even numbered birthday. He is 34.  Funny, that's how I remember too.  That makes me feel good.

Since it's also a space of time where we have been clearing out Mom and Dad's house, our childhood home; I have been thinking a lot about them lately.

I remember the day Jeff was born, at Mesa Lutheran Hospital in Mesa. This was a big deal to be presented with a little boy, after having two sisters before him.  I was in love.  I couldn't keep my eyes off of him.  A blue blanket; imagine that!  He was perfect and handsome, and brand new.  I knew I needed to call Mom, since she had been home with the girls, anxiously awaiting the news.  She wanted to know all about him, and I tried my best to describe everything.  Then, in between my words, she interrupted me.  "Is that him I can hear?" she said.  We both were silent.  I realized that as I was speaking, so was Jeff.  He was just minutes old, and had never heard his own little voice before (at least in stereo).  He chose Grandma's telephone call to experiment with all he could make it do.  Softly humming high and low, loud enough to catch Mom's ears.  It was magic.  I acknowledged it was indeed him, and I put the phone closer to Jeff's little mouth.  We listened and giggled for a long while, enraptured over our new little gifted baby boy.  It was heavenly!

Mom had me.  After that, she had three boys.  Each one, such a prize!  I know she loved me, but no one could compare to her boys.  Jeff fit right in.  I'm so thankful for the connection of that day, sharing Jeff's real birthday with Mom, and feeling heaven over him, with her.