BEAUTIFUL MAREN

This is my beautiful, creative daughter Maren and a mobile she fashioned for a friends wedding (with no budget).

SOME WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT

Ps. 27: 14 Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart:
Ps. 40: 1 I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.
Isa. 40: 31 But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.
D&C 98: 2 Waiting patiently on the Lord, for your prayers have entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth, and are recorded with this seal and testament—the Lord hath sworn and decreed that they shall be granted.
Rom. 8: 28 And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
D&C 90: 24 Search diligently, pray always, and be believing, and all things shall work together for your good, if ye walk uprightly and remember the covenant wherewith ye have covenanted one with another.
D&C 98: 3 Therefore, he giveth this promise unto you, with an immutable covenant that they shall be fulfilled; and all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord.
D&C 100: 15 Therefore, let your hearts be comforted; for all things shall work together for good to them that walk uprightly, and to the sanctification of the church.
D&C 105: 40 And make proposals for peace unto those who have smitten you, according to the voice of the Spirit which is in you, and all things shall work together for your good.

MOTHERS DAY AND THE REFINERS FIRE

This is adapted from a talk I gave as a farewell address when we moved from the Somerset Ward 2 years ago. I think it is an important concept in our perfectionast idealistic world, especially in Mormondom. (The pictures are of me and my mother)

Mother’s Day and The Refiner’s FireMother’s Day is often a very painful day for many of us who feel we should have or could have done a better job of mothering. Going to church and hearing all the super-mom stories is often difficult on that day.

I have come to understand that motherhood is the ultimate "Refiners Fire." Hell is not really where the fire will be ultimately, but in heaven: Isaiah 33:14, Who among us shall dwell with the devouring fire? Who among us shall dwell with everlasting burnings? The answer: v. 15: He that walketh righteously and speaketh uprightly...

The D&C says: 130:6 - The angels do not reside on a planet like this earth; But they reside in the presence of God, on a globe like a sea of glass and fire....

D&C 137:2-3 I saw the transcendent beauty of the gate through which the heirs of the kingdom will enter, which was like unto circling flames of fire; Also the blazing throne of God whereon was seated the Father and the Son.

Malachi 3:2-3 said it best:
But who may abide the day of his coming? And who shall stand when he appeareth? For he is like a refiner’s fire, and like fullers’ soap; And he shall sit as a refiner of silver: and he shall purify the sons (and daughters) of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.

There is a story about a woman watching a silversmith refining silver in very intense heat. She asked him: "How do you know when the silver is fully refined?" His answer: "Oh, that’s easy—when I see my image in it."

Alma 5:14 Have ye received His image in your countenances?"

Carlfred Broderick, a renowned family therapist, told the following in his book "My Parents Married on a Dare." (Desseret Book) He was the Stake President and had just attended a program on Temple marriage put on by the Young Women. When it was over he was asked if there was anything he would like to add. He said:

"Yes, there is," and I don’t think the woman has ever forgiven me. What I said was this, "Girls, this has been a beautiful program. I commend the gospel with all of its auxiliaries and the temple to you, but I do not want you to believe for one minute that if you keep all the commandments and live as close to the Lord as you can and do everything right and fight off the entire priests quorum one by one and wait chastely for your missionary to return and pay your tithing and attend your meetings, accept calls from the bishop, and have a temple marriage, I do not want you to believe that bad things will not happen to you. And when that happens, I do not want you to say that God was not true. Or, to say, ‘They promised me in Primary, they promised me when I was a Mia Maid, they promised me from the pulpit that if I were very, very good, I would be blessed. But the boy I want doesn’t know I exist, or the missionary I’ve waited for and kept chaste so we both could go to the temple turned out to be a flake,’ or far worse things than any of the above. Sad things—children who are sick or developmentally handicapped, husbands who are not faithful, illnesses that can cripple, or violence, betrayals, hurts, deaths, losses—when those things happen, do not say God is not keeping His promises to me. The gospel of Jesus Christ is not insurance against pain. It is resource in event of pain, and when that pain comes (and it will come because we came here on earth to have pain among other things), when it comes, rejoice that you have resource to deal with your pain."

"Now, I do not want to suggest for a moment, nor do I believe, that God visits us with all that pain. I think that may occur in individual cases, but I think we fought a war in heaven for the privilege of coming to a place that was unjust. That was the idea of coming to earth—that it was unjust, that there would be sorrow. As Eve so eloquently said, it is better that we should suffer….I am persuaded that she had rare insight, more than her husband, into the necessity of pain, although none of us welcome it. " (p. 122-123)

My own mother made some bad choices in her younger days that put her in a very painful refiner’s fire. Some fires do come from our choices; some come as part of life in a fallen world, but we can be refined by both. When I was about 11 years old I saw my mother prayerfully quit smoking so she could go back to church. At this time she was married to an abusive alcoholic. I saw her develop many amazing humble qualities as she attempted to create a home for her children in a very chaotic atmosphere, with the help of the Lord. I saw the Gospel begin to purify her in the fire of her adversity. I wanted to be a part of this gospel that brought some hope and peace to our home life. Her fire was my salvation. She had to go into hiding, in fear for her life, when she finally left my dad after the children were gone. When she was 64 years old she died of a brain tumor that had caused her to suffer incredible pain for several years. This refined her even more. Carlfred Brodrerick told about the lingering suffering of his dad when he was dying. It made me think of my mother. He said:

"…I know he was refined by his pain, by his adversity. He needed to go through that suffering. He could have been embittered; he could have been destroyed. His faith could have soured and left him, but he chose to learn from his pain. I do not want you to think that is was the pain that was good. It was the man that was good and that made the pain work for him, as indeed our Savior did." (Ibid. P. 138)

This was true of my mother. She was good and the pain worked for her, and her mistakes worked for her as the refining process brought Christ’s image to her countenance as it will to all women as we go forward in faith even when we didn’t do everything perfect. "Though he were a Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which he suffered." (Hebrews 5:8) Motherhood is about learning from the things which we suffer. Christ is our example.

STRAWBERRY CAKE FOR MOTHER'S DAY

Last week I helped Maren with a shower and since it is spring I wanted something strawberry. She was having a tea so I looked for something I could make bite size and quick. I found this Strawberry Cake recipe on "All Recipes" (My Blogg Favorites) I decided to make mini cupcakes and these turned out to be the hit of the shower. I didn't use paper cups just mini muffin tins sprayed well, but layers or a sheet cake would work fine. I changed the recipe to use fresh strawberries (the jello mix gave the cake a beautiful pink color) If I make it again I might try using 1/2 Cup of oil instead of 2/3 (mostly for guilt reasons). The frosting was also delicious. I put a little strawberry slice on the top of each little cupcake to serve. Maren took photos but accidentally deleted them off her camera so here is one from the web.

CAKE

1 package of white cake mix

1 small package dry strawberry jello mix

3 Tablespoons flour

1/2 Cup Water

2/3 Cup vegetable oil

4 eggs

1 Cup finely chopped strawberries (I chopped them in a food processor but not until they were pureed)

Mix everything together and beat for 2 minutes. Pour into desired containers sprayed with Pam and bake until done at 350 degrees.

FROSTING: 1 cube real butter beat together with 4 oz. Cream Cheese until fluffy. Add 1/2 C pureed strawberries and enough powdered sugar until spreadable.

Lost Generation

Make sure you read as well as listen. This is a video that was submitted in a contest by a 20 year old.

The contest was titled "U @ 50", by the AARP This video won second place. When they showed it, everyone in the room was awe-struck and broke into spontaneous applause.

MY HILLS IN PICTURES

HILLS

This is something that I wrote as part of Cori Conners "Word of the Day" exercises inspired from the "Random Word Generator" http://watchout4snakes.com/creativitytools/RandomWord/RandomWordPlus.aspx I don't think I would have written this without the inspiration the word gave me but it turned out to be an important story to me.

WORD OF THE DAY – HILLS -- March 2009


The Farmington hills called to me from the beginning. I was a strong energetic 31-year-old in 1978 when we moved into Somerset. I had three small children and a husband who taught me that exercise is important. Now 31 years later, leaving from a different house, I am still walking the same hills—not with the same energy and strength but with a continuing love for all the paths and parts we have explored over the years.


I have loved those hills with a heaven’s view of the Great Salt Lake and Antelope Island. As the seasons change, the breathtaking view is always new with different cloud patterns and colors as the dappled morning light illuminates the valley. I once had a calendar with a Cezanne painting of rooftops from a hillside. I often think of that painting when I look down on the houses from my hillside vantagepoint. I understand why Cezanne painted rooftops.


In the Spring when I begin a new season of walking I enjoy the Ocur Mountains, fresh with morning sunlight and winter snow; looking like a giant white dragon laying across the horizon. The Great Salt Lake always reflects the mood of the day (when it has water). These are mostly desert hills with sagebrush, and a few scrub oak but in the spring the purple lupine and yellow Wode weed bloom in abundance. Wode is not natural to the area but was carried here by pioneer settlers who wanted its yellow flowers to use for fabric dyes. Now it is a prolific curse to farmers. There is even a bounty on it for those who would like to work on eradicating it. The waves of yellow are so beautiful across the hills that it is hard for me to dislike it when it blooms. I’m always thrilled when I find a little clump of sego lilies along the trail. Unfortunately, the new mega-houses have taken over the hills and most of the lilies. All the hillside building has been hard for me to accept. Growth is inevitable (and I suppose I am part of it) but as long as I can still find a trail I will adjust.


Late summer is always my favorite time because the sunflowers cover the hills and line the path with their cheery bright faces encouraging me on. Every day of early fall is a new feast of color as the hillside foliage burns with ever changing hues. Then, there is a second round of glory as fall moves to the valley and weaves around the houses in jaunty reds and yellows.


These hills have come to be my wilderness temple. I would never go "plugged in" during my walking time because then God could not talk to me and He has, many times, but mostly I talk to Him. I know why Jesus went to the hills to walk and pray. When I leave the house in the morning I feel like I have opened the door into an alternate dimension. A dimension where God can reach me, where ideas flow and memories flood, and I am free of worldly distractions.


Your mind will go to wonderful places if you let it while walking. Oh, I have cried plenty in those hills—a very soul wrenching cathartic cry at times, at others just a sad whimper. At some point the spirit comforts me and hope is restored. On occasion I have printed out words to songs or scriptures I want to memorize and poked them in my pocket for reference. Now if my spirit needs direction I can belt out the words of my entire musical or scripture repitore...every verse out loud. You can’t do that walking the city streets. Some of my songs are: Where Can I Turn For Peace, The Light Divine, I Stand All Amazed, Where Love Is There God is Also, I Know My Savior Lives and others. My most treasured memorized scripture is Isaiah 53. Every verse of that chapter is stamped in my heart and I try to say it over every day sometime, if not on the walk then at night as I am going to sleep.

Parts I love:
"Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows..."
"...the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed."
"...and who shall declare his generation."
"He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth..."
"...when thou shalt make his soul and offering for sin, he shall see his seed..."
"...by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many;..."


I know Christ better because I know Isaiah 53.


Mike has walked with me when he can for the past several years. In the beginning he was a runner and we rarely went together but as the infirmities of age have slowed us down we now hobble along as best we can. Conversing together in this dimension is different than talking at home. We are freer; more honest; less distracted and funnier. I miss Mike now when he doesn’t go and Sammy, the dog that walked with me for 15 years.


On days when I walk alone now I always thank God over and over that I can still come to my Temple in the hills because there are mornings when my feet hurt or my knees are flared and I can’t go or at least not far. The day will come and it may not be far hence, when I will never walk those hills again. It will be a sad day, but until then I will continue to go when I can. I will worship and seek the spirit till the end and fill my soul with the goodness of my hills for the time when I will only see them from a window or heaven.

PEANUT BUTTER FINGERS

A friend sleuthed this recipe from the school lunch cooks years ago. It has always been a favorite of my peanut butter loving children and everyone at girls camp or cub scouts. It makes enough to feed the entire school, almost, but they freeze nicely so make the entire batch and freeze or take them to the neighbors. I like to cut them into finger size pieces about 1 1/2 inch wide by 3-4 inches long

Cream: 1 ½ c. Butter
1 C. White sugar
1 ¼ C. Brown sugar
2 Eggs
1T. Vanilla
1 ½ C. Peanut butter

Add:
1 ½ Tsp. Soda

3 C. Flour
3 C. Oats

Spread in 2 large greased cookie sheets. Bake 350 for only 10
Minutes. Cool and spread with peanut butter and then with
chocolate frosting.

CORI CONNERS - WORDS

Cori Connors finished her 40 days of Lent writing today. (See my blogger friends) Every day I have looked forward to her "words." She has taught me and inspired me. Today she explained her "Object Writing" process which she has done for many years. Now I understand why she can write so freely. She has been willing to make the personal sacrifices to practice. Everything improves with practice. I can do that too. The following is Cori's Easter story from yesterday. I think it is profound. The spirit is speaking through her as I believe it will through all of our writing if we go forward and write.

COIN - Cori Conners

He could not give them back. Though he tried, once his mind let go of it, the coins just fell to the ground, rolling into the corner, some of them. One made its way down the steps of the temple and landed at the feet of a beggar boy. Still, they belonged to him; thirty silver coins, their imprint being burnt into his hands, the ridges of shekels pressed against the fleshy pads under his thumbs.

"I have accused an innocent man", he tried to tell them, but they had already set the millstone to turning and the grain was already caught in the crushing. No turning back such a stone. And so he turned away from the temple and hanged himself.My shoulders sink down closer to my heart thinking of Judas. Heavy, heavy sins no thinking soul would commit. I convince myself of this, that he was ill, that he could not have known the seriousness of what he was doing, and once the reality of it hit him, his gut turned to fire and he could no longer breathe with the heat. My devotion to the Master should confidently curse him for what he did. Instead the sinner in me wants to embrace him and weep. I would take the coins from him and change the course of history, freeing the prisoner, and in so doing I would curse the whole of mankind. It is a good thing the Powers did not care. A good thing because I need Jesus. I need him to lay himself on the scale against my heavy weight. I need him to oversee the large canvas being painted by every breathing soul, from yesterday until the last tomorrow. I need his understanding of justice. I need his blessed mercy. I need his footsteps to walk in.

A few years back, on a frigid winter night I rolled from my bed and buried my head in my pillow, worn out from lack of sleep, confused at the depression that had fused itself to my body and frozen the synapse healthy people don't even know is happening in their brains. Quivering in the stillness of that night, I begged God to hear me.

"Are you there?" I whispered into the pillow. "If you are there, do you know what I am feeling? And if you do, why do you let it continue?"

These are the pleadings of a child, like Sophie when she sat in her mama's lap realizing the doctor was about to stick a sharp needle into her leg, confused as to why any caring person would do such a thing.

I do not hear angels, I am sorry to say. I do not hear words whispered in personal revelation from my good sister angels. I wish I did. It would alleviate a lot of mistakes for sure. And I do not have a burning in the bosom either. But that night I heard something. What I heard there, at the side of my bed, was a replaying of a Sunday School lesson from years before. Steve Geary was teaching. I remembered him asking the question: "What does Firstborn mean?" Answers rose from the class...the firstborn son of God the Father; the first born son of the virgin Mary. These we all knew. Why would these thoughts come to me at the side of my bed on a January night?

Then, quietly, I heard my own voice answer. Firstborn; it means my own sins, my mistakes and weaknesses, as well as the suffering I may not have called upon myself: these all were experienced in actuality before I ever felt them. They were first born by Him, there in the Garden, when his brothers had fallen asleep in their vigil. Born in that place of crushing, where blood spilt from open pores, where throbbing pain turned to constancy, and where the greatest burden had to have been the loneliness he felt at bearing it alone. Knowing my own personal struggle was completely familiar to someone else made the bearing of it less solitary. That someone knew exactly how I felt was comforting, like we are suddenly excited when someone from our home state is at the large conference in New Jersey. The sharing of familiar things endears others to us. I knew someone knew exactly how I felt, and it made me breathe deeper knowing I was not so alone in this. All this aside from the actual mathematics of payment, of ransoming, of covering the wage for opening the door back home. This was Jesus. This is Jesus.

There is the imprint of a coin burnt into my palm, one I used to sell him to the suffering. I would shake the scars off if I could. Instead, I imagine him lifting my hand in his, him opening my fingers to expose the sin, then laying his own wounded hand atop mine. I feel his goodness rush through me. Sweet, steady breath of heaven, filling my lungs and invigorating my mind.I cannot give it back, my coin. I cannot say how I know this: but I believe he is OK with that. I am a debtor. He is grace.

GERMAN BOY AND PRESIDENT MONSONS CONFERENCE TALK

A few years ago my book club read a book called "German Boy." (It should have been on my list of favorite books.) I couldn't help thinking of this boys experiences as President Monson told the following story in the Sunday morning session. It is hard to complain when I see how hard it has been for some. Can I bear such a testimony in my ease?

Thomas S. Monson - In about March 1946, less than a year after the end of the war, Ezra Taft Benson, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, accompanied by Frederick W. Babbel, was assigned a special postwar tour of Europe for the express purpose of meeting with the Saints, assessing their needs, and providing assistance to them.

Elder Benson and Brother Babbel later recounted, from a testimony they heard, the experience of a Church member who found herself in an area no longer controlled by the government under which she had resided.

She and her husband had lived an idyllic life in East Prussia. Then had come the second great world war within their lifetimes. Her beloved young husband was killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland, leaving her alone to care for their four children.

The occupying forces determined that the Germans in East Prussia must go to Western Germany to seek a new home. The woman was German, and so it was necessary for her to go. The journey was over a thousand miles (1,600 km), and she had no way to accomplish it but on foot. She was allowed to take only such bare necessities as she could load into her small wooden-wheeled wagon. Besides her children and these meager possessions, she took with her a strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.

She and the children began the journey in late summer. Having neither food nor money among her few possessions, she was forced to gather a daily subsistence from the fields and forests along the way. She was constantly faced with dangers from panic-stricken refugees and plundering troops.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months, the temperatures dropped below freezing. Each day, she stumbled over the frozen ground, her smallest child—a baby—in her arms. Her three other children struggled along behind her, with the oldest—seven years old—pulling the tiny wooden wagon containing their belongings. Ragged and torn burlap was wrapped around their feet, providing the only protection for them, since their shoes had long since disintegrated. Their thin, tattered jackets covered their thin, tattered clothing, providing their only protection against the cold.

Soon the snows came, and the days and nights became a nightmare. In the evenings she and the children would try to find some kind of shelter—a barn or a shed—and would huddle together for warmth, with a few thin blankets from the wagon on top of them. She constantly struggled to force from her mind overwhelming fears that they would perish before reaching their destination.

And then one morning the unthinkable happened. As she awakened, she felt a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed the child. Though overwhelmed with grief, she knew that she must take the other children and travel on. First, however, she used the only implement she had—a tablespoon—to dig a grave in the frozen ground for her tiny, precious child.

Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old son died, either from starvation or from freezing or both. Again her only shovel was the tablespoon, and again she dug hour after hour to lay his mortal remains gently into the earth. Next, her five-year-old son died, and again she used her tablespoon as a shovel.

Her despair was all consuming. She had only her tiny baby daughter left, and the poor thing was failing. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her journey, the baby died in her arms. The spoon was gone now, so hour after hour she dug a grave in the frozen earth with her bare fingers. Her grief became unbearable. How could she possibly be kneeling in the snow at the graveside of her last child? She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.

In this moment of overwhelming sorrow and complete bewilderment, she felt her heart would literally break. In despair she contemplated how she might end her own life, as so many of her fellow countrymen were doing. How easy it would be to jump off a nearby bridge, she thought, or to throw herself in front of an oncoming train.

And then, as these thoughts assailed her, something within her said, "Get down on your knees and pray." She ignored the prompting until she could resist it no longer. She knelt and prayed more fervently than she had in her entire life: "Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in Thee. I feel, Father, amidst the desolation of my soul, an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of Thy Son, Jesus Christ. I cannot express adequately my love for Him. I know that because He suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because He broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return—together—to Thee."

When she finally reached her destination of Karlsruhe, Germany, she was emaciated. Brother Babbel said that her face was a purple-gray, her eyes red and swollen, her joints protruding. She was literally in the advanced stages of starvation. In a Church meeting shortly thereafter, she bore a glorious testimony, stating that of all the ailing people in her saddened land, she was one of the happiest because she knew that God lived, that Jesus is the Christ, and that He died and was resurrected so that we might live again. She testified that she knew if she continued faithful and true to the end, she would be reunited with those she had lost and would be saved in the celestial kingdom of God.

From the holy scriptures we read, "Behold, the righteous, the saints of the Holy One of Israel, they who have believed in [Him], they who have endured the crosses of the world, . . . they shall inherit the kingdom of God, . . . and their joy shall be full forever."

From personal conversations and Frederick W. Babbel, On Wings of Faith (1972), 40–42