The biggest thing on my mind at this time is that many people who are close to me are facing several tough challenges in their lives. Some are dealing with death by tragedy, serious health issues, financial difficulty, family discord, and some are even dealing with several of these trials all at once.
I am at a loss at what to say or do. I certainly pray for each of them and keep them in my heart and thoughts but am left pondering the statement that really bad things happen to really good people.
It’s very easy during times of heartache and struggle to question where God is and how he could possible let these things happen, but I believe that question is answered by President Spencer W. Kimball in his book,
Faith Proceeds the Miracle
“Is there not wisdom in his giving us trials that we might rise above them, responsibilities that we might achieve, work to harden our muscles, sorrows to try our souls? Are we not exposed to temptations to test our strength, sickness that we might learn patience, death that we might be immortalized and glorified?
If all the sick for whom we pray were healed, if all the righteous were protected and the wicked destroyed, the whole program of the Father would be annulled and the basic principle of the gospel, free agency, would be ended. No man would have to live by faith. If joy and peace and rewards were instantaneously given the doer of good, there could be no evil–all would do good but not because of the rightness of doing good. There would be no test of strength, no development of character, no growth of powers, no free agency, only satanic controls. Should all prayers be immediately answered according to our selfish desires and our limited understanding, then there would be little or no suffering, sorrow, disappointment, or even death, and if these were not, there would also be no joy, success, resurrection, nor eternal life and godhood.”
It may not make the trial easier, but it helps to keep a clear perspective on what it’s all about.
“No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude and humility. All that we suffer and all that we endure, especially when we endure it patiently, builds up our characters, purifies our hearts, expands our souls, and makes us more tender and charitable, more worthy to be called the children of God . . . and it is through sorrow and suffering, toil and tribulation, that we gain the education that we come here to acquire and which will make us more like our Father and Mother in heaven. . . .” (Orson F. Whitney as cited in Spencer W. Kimball, Faith Proceeds the Miracle, [1972], 99).
When others are suffering and struggling this is an opportunity for us to look for ways to be of service, to show that we care and that we love them. It’s not always an easy thing to do. But with prayerful consideration I believe any act of kindness would be appreciated.
People just need to know they are loved, that other’s care, and that they are not alone.
I know that people have come through for me at various times of struggle and trial. It’s at those times that I know my Father in Heaven is aware of me and my needs. It is through those people that he and blesses my life.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Pioneers Then and Now
Hanging on the wall of the visitors center at Martin’s cove in Wyoming is a carved wooden sign that reads simply, “It is good to look to the past to gain appreciation for the present and perspective for the future.”
As I think of my own family history, I am reminded of a couple of years ago. My dad and I were sitting out on his porch swing and he was telling me the story of James Duncan.
James Duncan comes from my grandfather’s line from England. In the early years of the church, James was well to do, raising champion race horses was his trade. He gave a prized horse to our prophet Joseph Smith which came to be known as the Joe Duncan horse.
James immigrated to Salt Lake City with the early pioneers. He brought with him a casket of gold. He carried the gold this way to throw off any thieves making them believe he was transporting a dead body. Once he arrived to this valley, he gave a carriage to our Prophet Brigham Young-- the carriage is now downtown in the Church museum, and then helped to settle the Bountiful area. He owned 300 acres of land which he gave away in 10 acre lots to the immigrants as they came.
James’ story can be found in a book of the history of Bountiful. I love to hear and learn of James and other family members like him.
Generations later, I am thankful for James goodly name, for his faith and dedication, sacrifice and service. He lived well and was willing to part with his means to help build up the church. As part of his lineage it is my desire to emulate those same virtues that he was known for.
That same day as my dad and I sat and talked, I would just like to insert here that my dad and I have spent many hours on that old porch swing talking. I have been taught some valuable lessons, learned some life lessons, heard some great jokes, and been blessed with priceless memories there. It’s one of my most favorite places to be. It’s just one more thing I love my dad for. Anyway, we got on the subject of Martin’s Cove and Rock Creek. I had never been there. So My dad took out family there last summer. It was a short trip but one I am sure I will never forget.
There is a bronze monument and granite marker with the names of the thirteen people buried at Rock Creek. On it is a dedication from
Pres. Gordon B.Hickle,
“Rock Creek is sacred and holy ground… how tremendous their heroism in the face of odds that are almost impossible to understand… in terms of self sacrifice, in terms of courage, in terms of faith, in terms of facing up to adversity, there is no greater example in the history of this nation… we have a great inheritance… a tremendous responsibility to live up to it. God bless us to be faithful, to be true to that which meant so much to those who died here…”
As I look to the past I have a great appreciation for the present as I think of another pioneer who has had a tremendous influence on me.
That would be my own mother.
Many church members have no personal relation to pre-twentieth century Utah pioneers. But there are other pioneers. Many members of the church themselves are pioneers in the fact that they are the first in their family to accept the gospel. This is where my mother comes in.
She was a covert to the church in Denmark when she was 18. The Tabernacle Choir played a big part in her initial interest in the Church, which a few years later, she became a member of the choir.
She could identify with friends and relatives turning away from her for her beliefs. The day she came by ship to America there were very few family members to see her off. Indeed she put up with misunderstanding and unkindness for the sake of her gospel beliefs. But she had a testimony that could never be questioned and it was her faith and her testimony that defined my mother to her dying day.
She passed away of cancer eight years ago. Even when she had become bedridden, the love of her Savior was very evident in her actions. She had somehow managed to turn herself over onto her stomach and tucked her knees up under her to pray. She insisted that kneeling in prayer was a form of humility and respect for our Father in Heaven. She loved our Father in Heaven and had so much faith and respect for Him that even in her sick and weakened condition, she wanted to do all she could to show her reverence to Him.
Shortly after she passed away, a very young Bryan found me crying over my loss. He came and hugged me tight and while he patted my head, he told me not to cry. He told me he knew where grandma was. She was singing to Jesus with the other Heavenly Angels. I hope he’s right. That’s exactly where she’d want to be.
Her actions through her song and testimony is a great example of love for our Savior that I will always hold dear and cherish that memory in my heart.
Our later day Prophet Thomas S. Monson spoke of how we each can learn much from our early pioneer ancestors, whose struggles and heartaches were met with resolute courage and an abiding faith in a living God.
“We honor those who endured incredible hardships. We praise their names and reflect on their sacrifices."
“What about our time? Are there pioneering experiences for us? Will future generations reflect with gratitude on our efforts, our examples? You young [people] can indeed be pioneers in courage, in faith, in charity, in determination."
“You can strengthen one another; you have the capacity to notice the unnoticed. When you have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to feel, you can reach out and rescue others of your age."
Elder Holland tells us in this months Ensign,
"What are we seeing in these examples of faithful pioneers? It is what we have seen down through the dispensations of time and certainly down through this dispensation.
We are seeing what we saw when the Saints fled New York and Pennsylvania and Ohio and Missouri and then fled their beloved Nauvoo across an ice-bound river with the temple soon burning in the distance. It is what we saw when those same people buried their dead in large numbers at Winter Quarters, followed by leaving isolated graves, sometimes as tiny as a bread box, in Wyoming near Chimney Rock or at one of the many crossings of the Sweetwater River or in a snow bank at Martin’s Cove.
What we saw then and what we see now among the blessed Saints the world over is faith in God, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, faith in the Prophet Joseph Smith, faith in the reality of this work and the truthfulness of its message. It was faith that took a boy into a grove of trees to pray, and it was faith that enabled him to get up off his knees, place himself in God’s hands for the Restoration of the gospel, and ultimately march toward his own martyrdom scarcely two dozen short years later.
I don’t know how else mothers and fathers could leave those babies in those makeshift graves on the plains and then, with one last look, weep their way forward toward Zion. The fundamental driving force in these stories is faith—rock-ribbed, furnace-refined, event-filled, spiritually girded faith that this is the very Church and kingdom of God and that when you are called, you go."
I am grateful for my pioneer heritage then and now.
These stories I have shared and more are indeed faith promoting, they are a source of inspiration to me, they give me courage, they strengthen my faith, and these people are a blessing in my life. I marvel at the courage the pioneers had. They have set the way and made an example of the way in which I would like to pattern my life with their determination and their devotion to our Savior. May I find in my own life through good times as well as trials and tribulations, that I can have the same kind of dedication, fortitude, commitment.
As I think of my own family history, I am reminded of a couple of years ago. My dad and I were sitting out on his porch swing and he was telling me the story of James Duncan.
James Duncan comes from my grandfather’s line from England. In the early years of the church, James was well to do, raising champion race horses was his trade. He gave a prized horse to our prophet Joseph Smith which came to be known as the Joe Duncan horse.
James immigrated to Salt Lake City with the early pioneers. He brought with him a casket of gold. He carried the gold this way to throw off any thieves making them believe he was transporting a dead body. Once he arrived to this valley, he gave a carriage to our Prophet Brigham Young-- the carriage is now downtown in the Church museum, and then helped to settle the Bountiful area. He owned 300 acres of land which he gave away in 10 acre lots to the immigrants as they came.
James’ story can be found in a book of the history of Bountiful. I love to hear and learn of James and other family members like him.
Generations later, I am thankful for James goodly name, for his faith and dedication, sacrifice and service. He lived well and was willing to part with his means to help build up the church. As part of his lineage it is my desire to emulate those same virtues that he was known for.
That same day as my dad and I sat and talked, I would just like to insert here that my dad and I have spent many hours on that old porch swing talking. I have been taught some valuable lessons, learned some life lessons, heard some great jokes, and been blessed with priceless memories there. It’s one of my most favorite places to be. It’s just one more thing I love my dad for. Anyway, we got on the subject of Martin’s Cove and Rock Creek. I had never been there. So My dad took out family there last summer. It was a short trip but one I am sure I will never forget.
There is a bronze monument and granite marker with the names of the thirteen people buried at Rock Creek. On it is a dedication from
Pres. Gordon B.Hickle,
“Rock Creek is sacred and holy ground… how tremendous their heroism in the face of odds that are almost impossible to understand… in terms of self sacrifice, in terms of courage, in terms of faith, in terms of facing up to adversity, there is no greater example in the history of this nation… we have a great inheritance… a tremendous responsibility to live up to it. God bless us to be faithful, to be true to that which meant so much to those who died here…”
As I look to the past I have a great appreciation for the present as I think of another pioneer who has had a tremendous influence on me.
That would be my own mother.
Many church members have no personal relation to pre-twentieth century Utah pioneers. But there are other pioneers. Many members of the church themselves are pioneers in the fact that they are the first in their family to accept the gospel. This is where my mother comes in.
She was a covert to the church in Denmark when she was 18. The Tabernacle Choir played a big part in her initial interest in the Church, which a few years later, she became a member of the choir.
She could identify with friends and relatives turning away from her for her beliefs. The day she came by ship to America there were very few family members to see her off. Indeed she put up with misunderstanding and unkindness for the sake of her gospel beliefs. But she had a testimony that could never be questioned and it was her faith and her testimony that defined my mother to her dying day.
She passed away of cancer eight years ago. Even when she had become bedridden, the love of her Savior was very evident in her actions. She had somehow managed to turn herself over onto her stomach and tucked her knees up under her to pray. She insisted that kneeling in prayer was a form of humility and respect for our Father in Heaven. She loved our Father in Heaven and had so much faith and respect for Him that even in her sick and weakened condition, she wanted to do all she could to show her reverence to Him.
Shortly after she passed away, a very young Bryan found me crying over my loss. He came and hugged me tight and while he patted my head, he told me not to cry. He told me he knew where grandma was. She was singing to Jesus with the other Heavenly Angels. I hope he’s right. That’s exactly where she’d want to be.
Her actions through her song and testimony is a great example of love for our Savior that I will always hold dear and cherish that memory in my heart.
Our later day Prophet Thomas S. Monson spoke of how we each can learn much from our early pioneer ancestors, whose struggles and heartaches were met with resolute courage and an abiding faith in a living God.
“We honor those who endured incredible hardships. We praise their names and reflect on their sacrifices."
“What about our time? Are there pioneering experiences for us? Will future generations reflect with gratitude on our efforts, our examples? You young [people] can indeed be pioneers in courage, in faith, in charity, in determination."
“You can strengthen one another; you have the capacity to notice the unnoticed. When you have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to feel, you can reach out and rescue others of your age."
Elder Holland tells us in this months Ensign,
"What are we seeing in these examples of faithful pioneers? It is what we have seen down through the dispensations of time and certainly down through this dispensation.
We are seeing what we saw when the Saints fled New York and Pennsylvania and Ohio and Missouri and then fled their beloved Nauvoo across an ice-bound river with the temple soon burning in the distance. It is what we saw when those same people buried their dead in large numbers at Winter Quarters, followed by leaving isolated graves, sometimes as tiny as a bread box, in Wyoming near Chimney Rock or at one of the many crossings of the Sweetwater River or in a snow bank at Martin’s Cove.
What we saw then and what we see now among the blessed Saints the world over is faith in God, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, faith in the Prophet Joseph Smith, faith in the reality of this work and the truthfulness of its message. It was faith that took a boy into a grove of trees to pray, and it was faith that enabled him to get up off his knees, place himself in God’s hands for the Restoration of the gospel, and ultimately march toward his own martyrdom scarcely two dozen short years later.
I don’t know how else mothers and fathers could leave those babies in those makeshift graves on the plains and then, with one last look, weep their way forward toward Zion. The fundamental driving force in these stories is faith—rock-ribbed, furnace-refined, event-filled, spiritually girded faith that this is the very Church and kingdom of God and that when you are called, you go."
I am grateful for my pioneer heritage then and now.
These stories I have shared and more are indeed faith promoting, they are a source of inspiration to me, they give me courage, they strengthen my faith, and these people are a blessing in my life. I marvel at the courage the pioneers had. They have set the way and made an example of the way in which I would like to pattern my life with their determination and their devotion to our Savior. May I find in my own life through good times as well as trials and tribulations, that I can have the same kind of dedication, fortitude, commitment.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Quilts for all Occassions
I always look forward to the 4th of July.
Every year we spend it at the Nephi Carnival. We have done this for many years. The biggest things I look forward to are of course, the crafts and home baked items at the Country Store, but even more than that is the quilt auction.
For an entire year the Relief Society women though out the Mona and Nephi Wards work at making quilts of all shapes and sizes to auction off at this carnival. The money raised from the auction then goes to support a local fund raiser so the women themselves do not get the return of the funds. The women simply do this for the love of quilting and for the love of serving others.
The quilts are a sight to behold. Surely they are some of the most beautiful quilts I have ever seen. I admire the women who do such incredible work. Some day (and I tell myself this every single year, I plan to be the proud owner of one of those gorgeous quilts!)
As I think of those lovely women who work endlessly year after year, I think of an incredible quilt at my parents home that was made with those loving hands.
The women in my mother’s ward got together and made a quilt for her when she was so ill with cancer. They each put their name on a heart that was then sewn onto the quilt in a border around the edges of the quilt. When that precious gift was presented to my mother, it was given with a book of letters from each of the woman who had written their names on those hearts. Quilts may bring comfort to us physically, but they have a way of uplifting us to great heights spiritually as well. I know that quilt did for my mother. She cherished that quilt and those letters to her dying day.
My mother and my grandmother both crocheted afghans that I absolutely cherish because of the loving hands that stitched them. I don’t have that gift. Now that both of these women have passed, those blankets are very sentimental to me. I have had them for years.
I had an aunt that taught me how to tie a quilt as a young teenager and I still have it. I love the time I spent with my aunt Jacklin learning to tie my very first quilt. Every time I see that quilt I think of her, She too has gone and miss her.
When my son and his wife were married, I was thrilled when they received so many quilts for wedding gifts. (I would have loved to take a few of them home with me!) I realize the love that went into making those quilts for them. Now, as we travel to see them, those are the quilts they share with us on our visits. Seeing them brings back such wonderful memories of their wedding day. I love those memories and I love the memories we are making as a family each time we get together.
Last summer we went to Martin’s Cove and learned of a touching story that had quite an impact on me.
There was a women traveling to Salt lake who had made it to Martin’s Cove and lost her husband during the freezing cold night. She couldn’t bear the thought of the ravaging wolves digging up her husband from the shallow grave so she begged the men to wrap him in her quilt and tie him high in the trees where the wolves couldn’t get to him. As they left the following morning, she turned back just before they round the bend and looked back. The last thing she saw was her husband up in the tree in her best quilt. (I believe some of the men were to go back later and bury him when the ground would be thawed enough for them to dig into.) I admire the faith and the strength of our early pioneers I love them for their examples of courage. I can’t think of this story without tears in my eyes and a stab at my heart.
Now, as my father-in-law is retired, he and my mother-in-law have started doing such a wonderful thing. This year as each grandchild has a birthday, he/she receives a homemade quilt made especially for them by their grandparents. My son Bryan says it’s the most comfortable (and the coolest) quilt he has ever had. I do believe he’s right! So much time and effort has gone into that gift. It was truly a gift from the heart and one that was very much appreciated. I know how meaningful it was to Bryan’s parents for him to receive such a gift. We know the effort that went into it. And we love them for taking the time.
As my son has had brain surgeries at Primary Children’s Medical Center, he has been given blankets, and we have had quilts brought for our use as we have had numerous stays at the hospital with our son. We have been grateful for not only the warmth they brought but the comfort they provided when we needed something to hold onto when we felt fear and heartache.
Now as I try to tie all these different thought together…
Last Saturday our Ward did a day of service. It was in dedication to the many ward members we have had experience with different types of cancer. We asked them what we could do to help be of service. From their suggestions, we did hygiene kits, yard work, scarves, treats for family members in waiting rooms, rice warming bags, activity kits for PCMC, and we made blankets.
I was working with the women who made blankets to send to the Huntsman Cancer Institute and to PCMC. I couldn’t help but think how much my own family, especially myself has benefited from those. I hope the blankets we made will be of comfort to those hearts and hands that they will reach.
To end this post I found a great poem about quilts written by: Terrie Johnson
“The Tattered Quilt”
A tattered quilt hangs by my bed
Upon an antique stand
My mind drifts back to years before
As the quilt falls on my hand.
Stitched with care and bound with love
A work of art indeed
This dear old quilt has been my friend
No matter what the need.
I still recall with memory sweet
How this quilt came to me
It was upon a Christmas morn
It lay wrapped beneath the tree.
As I opened up this precious gift
My eyes filled with tears
I realized this gift contained
The work of many years.
One day as we sat snug within
My quilt and watched it rain
I asked my gramma, “Why for me?”
And thus she did explain,
“I wanted you to have this quilt
For when you’re feeling down
I wanted you to have this quilt
When you move from town to town.”
“So if you’re feeling lonely
Or if you’re feeling sad
Just wrap yourself inside this quilt
And things won’t seem so bad.
No matter where you go in life,
No matter what you feel,
This quilt will be here for you
It’s something that is real.”
Oft times I’ve sat with my dear quilt
And thought of words she said
I realize that when she spoke
She spoke of years ahead.
For now that older I have grown
I have just come to see
My gramma is my quilt indeed
She’s always there for me.
As for myself, I wish I could thank the many people who made the quilts throughout my life that lifted my heart and comforted me with not only warmth but somehow brought me solace when I needed it the most.
Every year we spend it at the Nephi Carnival. We have done this for many years. The biggest things I look forward to are of course, the crafts and home baked items at the Country Store, but even more than that is the quilt auction.
For an entire year the Relief Society women though out the Mona and Nephi Wards work at making quilts of all shapes and sizes to auction off at this carnival. The money raised from the auction then goes to support a local fund raiser so the women themselves do not get the return of the funds. The women simply do this for the love of quilting and for the love of serving others.
The quilts are a sight to behold. Surely they are some of the most beautiful quilts I have ever seen. I admire the women who do such incredible work. Some day (and I tell myself this every single year, I plan to be the proud owner of one of those gorgeous quilts!)
As I think of those lovely women who work endlessly year after year, I think of an incredible quilt at my parents home that was made with those loving hands.
The women in my mother’s ward got together and made a quilt for her when she was so ill with cancer. They each put their name on a heart that was then sewn onto the quilt in a border around the edges of the quilt. When that precious gift was presented to my mother, it was given with a book of letters from each of the woman who had written their names on those hearts. Quilts may bring comfort to us physically, but they have a way of uplifting us to great heights spiritually as well. I know that quilt did for my mother. She cherished that quilt and those letters to her dying day.
My mother and my grandmother both crocheted afghans that I absolutely cherish because of the loving hands that stitched them. I don’t have that gift. Now that both of these women have passed, those blankets are very sentimental to me. I have had them for years.
I had an aunt that taught me how to tie a quilt as a young teenager and I still have it. I love the time I spent with my aunt Jacklin learning to tie my very first quilt. Every time I see that quilt I think of her, She too has gone and miss her.
When my son and his wife were married, I was thrilled when they received so many quilts for wedding gifts. (I would have loved to take a few of them home with me!) I realize the love that went into making those quilts for them. Now, as we travel to see them, those are the quilts they share with us on our visits. Seeing them brings back such wonderful memories of their wedding day. I love those memories and I love the memories we are making as a family each time we get together.
Last summer we went to Martin’s Cove and learned of a touching story that had quite an impact on me.
There was a women traveling to Salt lake who had made it to Martin’s Cove and lost her husband during the freezing cold night. She couldn’t bear the thought of the ravaging wolves digging up her husband from the shallow grave so she begged the men to wrap him in her quilt and tie him high in the trees where the wolves couldn’t get to him. As they left the following morning, she turned back just before they round the bend and looked back. The last thing she saw was her husband up in the tree in her best quilt. (I believe some of the men were to go back later and bury him when the ground would be thawed enough for them to dig into.) I admire the faith and the strength of our early pioneers I love them for their examples of courage. I can’t think of this story without tears in my eyes and a stab at my heart.
Now, as my father-in-law is retired, he and my mother-in-law have started doing such a wonderful thing. This year as each grandchild has a birthday, he/she receives a homemade quilt made especially for them by their grandparents. My son Bryan says it’s the most comfortable (and the coolest) quilt he has ever had. I do believe he’s right! So much time and effort has gone into that gift. It was truly a gift from the heart and one that was very much appreciated. I know how meaningful it was to Bryan’s parents for him to receive such a gift. We know the effort that went into it. And we love them for taking the time.
As my son has had brain surgeries at Primary Children’s Medical Center, he has been given blankets, and we have had quilts brought for our use as we have had numerous stays at the hospital with our son. We have been grateful for not only the warmth they brought but the comfort they provided when we needed something to hold onto when we felt fear and heartache.
Now as I try to tie all these different thought together…
Last Saturday our Ward did a day of service. It was in dedication to the many ward members we have had experience with different types of cancer. We asked them what we could do to help be of service. From their suggestions, we did hygiene kits, yard work, scarves, treats for family members in waiting rooms, rice warming bags, activity kits for PCMC, and we made blankets.
I was working with the women who made blankets to send to the Huntsman Cancer Institute and to PCMC. I couldn’t help but think how much my own family, especially myself has benefited from those. I hope the blankets we made will be of comfort to those hearts and hands that they will reach.
To end this post I found a great poem about quilts written by: Terrie Johnson
“The Tattered Quilt”
A tattered quilt hangs by my bed
Upon an antique stand
My mind drifts back to years before
As the quilt falls on my hand.
Stitched with care and bound with love
A work of art indeed
This dear old quilt has been my friend
No matter what the need.
I still recall with memory sweet
How this quilt came to me
It was upon a Christmas morn
It lay wrapped beneath the tree.
As I opened up this precious gift
My eyes filled with tears
I realized this gift contained
The work of many years.
One day as we sat snug within
My quilt and watched it rain
I asked my gramma, “Why for me?”
And thus she did explain,
“I wanted you to have this quilt
For when you’re feeling down
I wanted you to have this quilt
When you move from town to town.”
“So if you’re feeling lonely
Or if you’re feeling sad
Just wrap yourself inside this quilt
And things won’t seem so bad.
No matter where you go in life,
No matter what you feel,
This quilt will be here for you
It’s something that is real.”
Oft times I’ve sat with my dear quilt
And thought of words she said
I realize that when she spoke
She spoke of years ahead.
For now that older I have grown
I have just come to see
My gramma is my quilt indeed
She’s always there for me.
As for myself, I wish I could thank the many people who made the quilts throughout my life that lifted my heart and comforted me with not only warmth but somehow brought me solace when I needed it the most.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Memorial Day Observed
In my younger years, we always looked forward to Memorial Day, but shamefully I admit, it wasn’t for the noble reasons it should have been.
It was simply because this was the first holiday of the great season of summer. We celebrated it by going camping! Well-- that was after we made a stop by the cemeteries to place flowers on the graves of our dearly departed. To me, it was a minor inconvenience, although I thought the flowers were always very pretty and the flags looked pretty cool.
Okay, I admit I had some very immature and very selfish thoughts back then, and yes, my parents tried earnestly to teach me what Memorial Day really was about. I just didn’t understand or truly appreciate it. I wasn’t listening. My mind was on sleeping out under the stars out at the lake. Wahoo!, I mean, it was finally summer!
I was quite young when my Grandpa Lawrence passed away, although I remember how great it was to always get a silver dollar every time he came to visit. Back then a silver dollar could buy all kinds of things at the candy counter.
I wasn’t a whole lot older when my Grandma Lawrence passed away and though I have a few fond memories of her, what I wouldn’t give to have a few more.
My Grandpa Christensen is buried in Denmark and my Grandma Christensen is still living. She turned 101 this past April. How wonderful is that? Can you imagine the things she has experienced in her lifetime?
We usually decorated my Grandpa and Grandma Lawrence’s graves. Grandpa’s always had a flag from serving in WWI. I always thought that was really something special to see by his headstone. I do remember even from a very young age, how proud I was of him for “earning the right to have a flag.”
Since my own mother has passed away, we have started a new tradition in our family. Each Memorial Day weekend, we go to my Dad’s house to spend the night so that early in the morning on Memorial Day, we can get up and go to the little country cemetery where my mom is to see the sunrise ceremony put on by the American Legion for the fallen soldiers.
The flag is raised at half- staff, there is a 21 gun salute, and off in the distance, a bugler plays “Taps” as the sun rises over the mountains. Words cannot describe the feeling that comes over you during the ceremony. It’s beautiful, it’s respectful, it brings a lump to your throat and tears to your eyes.
Every person who has served their country has a white cross that holds the United States flag near their headstone, placed by a volunteer from the American Legion. A large board with two flags is placed in the cemetery with all the soldiers names listed and where they served. This stands near the flag pole so that everyone can see it during the sunrise ceremony.
Recently my dad has talked much of wanting a veteran’s burial with the flag over his casket when he passes. He loves this country and gets somewhat emotional when he speaks of his time in the service and when he listens to the haunting melody of “Taps." I saw it again at that early sunrise service this past Memorial Day.
My son asked his grandpa what Memorial Day stood for. We all got in on the discussion sharing the little bit that we knew, and then I decided to look it up. Did you know that…
Memorial Day used to be called Decoration Day. It was observed back in 1865 by freedmen (freed enslaved southern blacks) in Charleston, South Carolina in 1865, at the Washington Race Course, to remember the fallen Union soldiers of the Civil War. The recognition of the fallen victims was then enacted under the name Memorial Day by an organization of Union veterans to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War. Overtime, it was extended after World War I to honor all Americans who have died in all wars. Now known as Memorial Day, it is a day of remembering the men and women who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces.
Many people observe Memorial Day by visiting cemeteries and memorials. A national moment of remembrance takes place at 3 p.m. local time. Another tradition is to fly the flag of the United States at half-staff from dawn until noon local time. Volunteers often place American flags on each grave site at National Cemeteries.(Taken from WIKIPEDIA)
As a mother, I hope I can somehow let my children keep the thrill of the start of summer in their heart, but somehow instill the importance of honoring Memorial Day.
I think my son is already years ahead of me than I was at his age years by even wanting to know and understand the purpose of such an important day suchas Memorial Day. I only hope I can help him appreciate the purpose of it.
It was simply because this was the first holiday of the great season of summer. We celebrated it by going camping! Well-- that was after we made a stop by the cemeteries to place flowers on the graves of our dearly departed. To me, it was a minor inconvenience, although I thought the flowers were always very pretty and the flags looked pretty cool.
Okay, I admit I had some very immature and very selfish thoughts back then, and yes, my parents tried earnestly to teach me what Memorial Day really was about. I just didn’t understand or truly appreciate it. I wasn’t listening. My mind was on sleeping out under the stars out at the lake. Wahoo!, I mean, it was finally summer!
I was quite young when my Grandpa Lawrence passed away, although I remember how great it was to always get a silver dollar every time he came to visit. Back then a silver dollar could buy all kinds of things at the candy counter.
I wasn’t a whole lot older when my Grandma Lawrence passed away and though I have a few fond memories of her, what I wouldn’t give to have a few more.
My Grandpa Christensen is buried in Denmark and my Grandma Christensen is still living. She turned 101 this past April. How wonderful is that? Can you imagine the things she has experienced in her lifetime?
We usually decorated my Grandpa and Grandma Lawrence’s graves. Grandpa’s always had a flag from serving in WWI. I always thought that was really something special to see by his headstone. I do remember even from a very young age, how proud I was of him for “earning the right to have a flag.”
Since my own mother has passed away, we have started a new tradition in our family. Each Memorial Day weekend, we go to my Dad’s house to spend the night so that early in the morning on Memorial Day, we can get up and go to the little country cemetery where my mom is to see the sunrise ceremony put on by the American Legion for the fallen soldiers.
The flag is raised at half- staff, there is a 21 gun salute, and off in the distance, a bugler plays “Taps” as the sun rises over the mountains. Words cannot describe the feeling that comes over you during the ceremony. It’s beautiful, it’s respectful, it brings a lump to your throat and tears to your eyes.
Every person who has served their country has a white cross that holds the United States flag near their headstone, placed by a volunteer from the American Legion. A large board with two flags is placed in the cemetery with all the soldiers names listed and where they served. This stands near the flag pole so that everyone can see it during the sunrise ceremony.
Recently my dad has talked much of wanting a veteran’s burial with the flag over his casket when he passes. He loves this country and gets somewhat emotional when he speaks of his time in the service and when he listens to the haunting melody of “Taps." I saw it again at that early sunrise service this past Memorial Day.
My son asked his grandpa what Memorial Day stood for. We all got in on the discussion sharing the little bit that we knew, and then I decided to look it up. Did you know that…
Memorial Day used to be called Decoration Day. It was observed back in 1865 by freedmen (freed enslaved southern blacks) in Charleston, South Carolina in 1865, at the Washington Race Course, to remember the fallen Union soldiers of the Civil War. The recognition of the fallen victims was then enacted under the name Memorial Day by an organization of Union veterans to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War. Overtime, it was extended after World War I to honor all Americans who have died in all wars. Now known as Memorial Day, it is a day of remembering the men and women who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces.
Many people observe Memorial Day by visiting cemeteries and memorials. A national moment of remembrance takes place at 3 p.m. local time. Another tradition is to fly the flag of the United States at half-staff from dawn until noon local time. Volunteers often place American flags on each grave site at National Cemeteries.(Taken from WIKIPEDIA)
As a mother, I hope I can somehow let my children keep the thrill of the start of summer in their heart, but somehow instill the importance of honoring Memorial Day.
I think my son is already years ahead of me than I was at his age years by even wanting to know and understand the purpose of such an important day suchas Memorial Day. I only hope I can help him appreciate the purpose of it.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Meanest Mother in the World
When I was growing up. I recall having a cupboard above the phone where we stored our phonebooks, bills, pencils, and other odds and ends.
For some reason I was searching for something in that cupboard one night when I found a newspaper clipping of an article called, “The Meanest Mother in the World”
Being quite young, I read the article with just a bit difficulty and remember thinking, “Wow, my mom does all of this stuff.” when I got to the end, I didn’t appreciate the message of the article but rather thought it was some lame joke.
Still, I have never forgotten that article. For the message of the article has stuck in my mind. Through the years, my view of the ending has changed quite drastically. I get it now. Whether that be a little more maturity, life’s experience, gratitude towards my mother, or that fact that I am a mother myself, I am grateful for the ending… and for the message of the article that has stuck with me.
Rather than putting the whole article here, it can be googled if you wish to read it in it‘s entirety. It’s written by Bobbie Pingaro in 1967. See? I told you I was young :) But here is enough of it so you get the idea:
I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate
candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast.
My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd
think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and
where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that
we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute.
The worst is yet to come.
We had to be in bed by nine each night
and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our
friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break
the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make
beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid
awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us.
She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.
By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life
became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for
us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates
and friends come to the door to get us.
Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends'
report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for
failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for
nothing less than ugly black marks.
As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put
to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind
us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the
pleasure of being a drop-out.
My mother was a complete failure as a mother.
Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education.
None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate.
Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And
whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out?
You're right, our mean mother.
Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a
protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a
million and one other things that our friends did.
She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults.
Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three
children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my
children call me mean.
Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in
the whole world.
Last year around this time, I wrote a tribute to my mother in my post for Mother’s Day. I bring up this article now because as Mother’s Day rolls around, I not only think of my dear angel mother and all that she tried so earnestly to teach me, I think of myself being a mother and what I have tried to teach my own children. Have some of my mother’s traits passed from one generation to the next?
Am I the meanest mother in the world? There are certainly days when my children would vigorously nod their heads. Surely I had my days when I felt like I was the meanest mother in the world. We, together as a family have been on a learning curve since day one. However, I did have my mother as a wonderful example and I thank my Father up above that I had her footsteps to follow and to help me on my path.
As I reflect over the years of being a mother, I get teary eyed and my heart swells. My children are my pride and joy. They are truly the miracles in my life. Now I have a daughter and a grandson to add to my mother and grand-motherhood. What more could I ask for?
As the saying goes, (maybe I have tweaked it just a bit) but,
“Some of the greatest blessings in my life call me Mother “
I love being a mother (and grandma). There have been times that I have been accused of being the meanest mother in the world, and well, though I don’t cherish the name, ”meanest” because it carries a negative connotation, after this article, maybe it has a positive significance.
If that’s what taught my children to be all that they can possibly be-- and I learned it from a mother who taught me some very valuable life lessons about being the best that I can be, maybe the lessons and the teacher aren’t so mean after all.
May we all be the meanest mother in the world with the most honorable actions and intentions.
Happy Mother’s Day!
For some reason I was searching for something in that cupboard one night when I found a newspaper clipping of an article called, “The Meanest Mother in the World”
Being quite young, I read the article with just a bit difficulty and remember thinking, “Wow, my mom does all of this stuff.” when I got to the end, I didn’t appreciate the message of the article but rather thought it was some lame joke.
Still, I have never forgotten that article. For the message of the article has stuck in my mind. Through the years, my view of the ending has changed quite drastically. I get it now. Whether that be a little more maturity, life’s experience, gratitude towards my mother, or that fact that I am a mother myself, I am grateful for the ending… and for the message of the article that has stuck with me.
Rather than putting the whole article here, it can be googled if you wish to read it in it‘s entirety. It’s written by Bobbie Pingaro in 1967. See? I told you I was young :) But here is enough of it so you get the idea:
I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate
candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast.
My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd
think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and
where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that
we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute.
The worst is yet to come.
We had to be in bed by nine each night
and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our
friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break
the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make
beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid
awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us.
She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.
By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life
became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for
us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates
and friends come to the door to get us.
Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends'
report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for
failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for
nothing less than ugly black marks.
As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put
to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind
us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the
pleasure of being a drop-out.
My mother was a complete failure as a mother.
Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education.
None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate.
Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And
whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out?
You're right, our mean mother.
Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a
protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a
million and one other things that our friends did.
She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults.
Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three
children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my
children call me mean.
Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in
the whole world.
Last year around this time, I wrote a tribute to my mother in my post for Mother’s Day. I bring up this article now because as Mother’s Day rolls around, I not only think of my dear angel mother and all that she tried so earnestly to teach me, I think of myself being a mother and what I have tried to teach my own children. Have some of my mother’s traits passed from one generation to the next?
Am I the meanest mother in the world? There are certainly days when my children would vigorously nod their heads. Surely I had my days when I felt like I was the meanest mother in the world. We, together as a family have been on a learning curve since day one. However, I did have my mother as a wonderful example and I thank my Father up above that I had her footsteps to follow and to help me on my path.
As I reflect over the years of being a mother, I get teary eyed and my heart swells. My children are my pride and joy. They are truly the miracles in my life. Now I have a daughter and a grandson to add to my mother and grand-motherhood. What more could I ask for?
As the saying goes, (maybe I have tweaked it just a bit) but,
“Some of the greatest blessings in my life call me Mother “
I love being a mother (and grandma). There have been times that I have been accused of being the meanest mother in the world, and well, though I don’t cherish the name, ”meanest” because it carries a negative connotation, after this article, maybe it has a positive significance.
If that’s what taught my children to be all that they can possibly be-- and I learned it from a mother who taught me some very valuable life lessons about being the best that I can be, maybe the lessons and the teacher aren’t so mean after all.
May we all be the meanest mother in the world with the most honorable actions and intentions.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Book Reveiw
Through my dear friend Cheri Crane, I learned of a special book and I was immediately intrigued. Now that I’ve read it, I am so impressed, I thought I would pass word on. I would highly recommend this book to everyone. (Seriously, everyone should have a copy of this.)
There are three friends of Cheri’s, all of whom were sisters. Their names are Susan, Jean, and Trudy.
Their mother had declining health and had therefore spent a lot of time in various hospitals. Though the mother had a mind that was sharp and very much in tact, her speech had worsened to the point that her she no longer could convey her needs. Often times family members had to try to translate to the hospital staff for her because they could no longer understand what her wants and needs were. It became extremely frustrating for everyone involved.
One sister reported that on more than one occasion their mother would ring for assistance only to be walked out on and left in tears because the hospital staff couldn’t understand what she wanted or needed.
Their mother eventually passed away.
It was only a few short years later that this family learned that their brother in law ( one of the three sister’s husband) had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease. While his mind stayed intact, his body was deteriorating. Speech was one of the things affected. Determined not to go through the suffering and frustration that they had experienced while their mother was a patient as she tried to express simple and basic needs, one sister was determined to find a way to help.
After much prayer and meditation, ideas began to form.
If they could write down simple sentences and he could point to that sentence, they’d know what he needed. The letters would be big enough for eyes that might find it hard to read and could be made out clearly. There would be icons with simple pictures for easy detection. All of this would be done in bright colors for cheerfulness, etc.
The sisters talked with each other and put it all their ideas together. As an end result, they came up with the book:
There are three friends of Cheri’s, all of whom were sisters. Their names are Susan, Jean, and Trudy.
Their mother had declining health and had therefore spent a lot of time in various hospitals. Though the mother had a mind that was sharp and very much in tact, her speech had worsened to the point that her she no longer could convey her needs. Often times family members had to try to translate to the hospital staff for her because they could no longer understand what her wants and needs were. It became extremely frustrating for everyone involved.
One sister reported that on more than one occasion their mother would ring for assistance only to be walked out on and left in tears because the hospital staff couldn’t understand what she wanted or needed.
Their mother eventually passed away.
It was only a few short years later that this family learned that their brother in law ( one of the three sister’s husband) had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease. While his mind stayed intact, his body was deteriorating. Speech was one of the things affected. Determined not to go through the suffering and frustration that they had experienced while their mother was a patient as she tried to express simple and basic needs, one sister was determined to find a way to help.
After much prayer and meditation, ideas began to form.
If they could write down simple sentences and he could point to that sentence, they’d know what he needed. The letters would be big enough for eyes that might find it hard to read and could be made out clearly. There would be icons with simple pictures for easy detection. All of this would be done in bright colors for cheerfulness, etc.
The sisters talked with each other and put it all their ideas together. As an end result, they came up with the book:
Communication for the Cognizant, Nonverbal Patient
The book was a success, there was a huge difference between their experience with the brother in law and the mother.
This book is very simple and easy to use. It’s designed to be used for those who have lost their ability to communicate verbally and gives them their voice back only to be heard in another way.
I want to add my personal experience and opinion about this book.
I have been a caretaker in a couple of different capacities. I know through experience how difficult and frustrating it is for the patient to lie there and have all their freedom taken away-- to be solely dependant on others for their well-being. Especially if they were once independent and liked to be the one who took care of others themselves.
For the caretaker, it’s hard to guess what the patient’s wants or needs could be. To burden them with a million questions can be frustrating for you and for them as well as you try to figure out a way to make them more comfortable. Doing so without communication skills can be not only frustrating, it can be stressful and even scary. In a patient’s most challenging times, you want to do all that you possibly can in such difficult circumstances. But without communication it can seem nearly impossible.
My grandmother is now 101. She is sharp and witty yet her health is declining. She has had strokes and other ailments that are causing her to lose clarity of speech. Her age is taking a toll on her dear sweet body. She lives in Denmark. We have decided to send this book to my aunt to help them communicate more easily with her. Though the book is in English, and my grandmother only speaks Danish, the pictures are universal and the words are in simple, large print, that it will allow my aunt to translate. I believe this book is just what they need. I hope to hear of their success with it.
I briefly told you the story behind the book taken from the introduction. You can read more about it for yourselves. It’s a very touching story. This family experienced many personal challenges and through their heartaches, loss, and absolute dedication and courage to their loved ones, a wonderful book has come forth to help us give those who have lost their voice another way to express themselves.
To order this book go to
www.mycompanionvoice.com
Or to see more you can visit My Companion Voice
www.facebook.com and click “like”
The book was a success, there was a huge difference between their experience with the brother in law and the mother.
This book is very simple and easy to use. It’s designed to be used for those who have lost their ability to communicate verbally and gives them their voice back only to be heard in another way.
I want to add my personal experience and opinion about this book.
I have been a caretaker in a couple of different capacities. I know through experience how difficult and frustrating it is for the patient to lie there and have all their freedom taken away-- to be solely dependant on others for their well-being. Especially if they were once independent and liked to be the one who took care of others themselves.
For the caretaker, it’s hard to guess what the patient’s wants or needs could be. To burden them with a million questions can be frustrating for you and for them as well as you try to figure out a way to make them more comfortable. Doing so without communication skills can be not only frustrating, it can be stressful and even scary. In a patient’s most challenging times, you want to do all that you possibly can in such difficult circumstances. But without communication it can seem nearly impossible.
My grandmother is now 101. She is sharp and witty yet her health is declining. She has had strokes and other ailments that are causing her to lose clarity of speech. Her age is taking a toll on her dear sweet body. She lives in Denmark. We have decided to send this book to my aunt to help them communicate more easily with her. Though the book is in English, and my grandmother only speaks Danish, the pictures are universal and the words are in simple, large print, that it will allow my aunt to translate. I believe this book is just what they need. I hope to hear of their success with it.
I briefly told you the story behind the book taken from the introduction. You can read more about it for yourselves. It’s a very touching story. This family experienced many personal challenges and through their heartaches, loss, and absolute dedication and courage to their loved ones, a wonderful book has come forth to help us give those who have lost their voice another way to express themselves.
To order this book go to
www.mycompanionvoice.com
Or to see more you can visit My Companion Voice
www.facebook.com and click “like”
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Affliction
As I try to gather my thoughts together to write this blog, my mind keeps wandering to my family and friends. Many of them are suffering from all types of struggles and afflictions.
Although I recognize that trials of heartache, illness, and devastation is worldwide-- especially in these latter days-- it seems within our own circle of loved ones adversity affects each of us in one form or another in quite an abundance.
As I ponder this thought of why adversity is so prevalent, I am reminded of two quotes from this last General Conference, both given by President Uchtdorf. The first is, “Comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable.” The second quote is, “Answers don’t always come when we are on our knees, but when we are on our feet.”
The Parable of the Good Samaritan comes to mind…
When the Priest and the Levite saw the man who had been robbed and wounded laying by the roadside, they passed him by. They even crossed to the other side to avoid him. Yet, the Samaritan who was thought to be an enemy of the man, was the one who made the greatest sacrifices and helped him in his time of need. He gave comfort to the afflicted.
As for Pres. Uchtdorf’s second part of the quote, “… afflict the comfortable.” I suppose this can be taken in many ways depending on where the listener of the talk is in their life. One of my thoughts was that I believe many of us, myself included, can become too complacent in our lives if we are not careful. Should/Could we do more to help the afflicted? It’s an individual evaluation, I suppose. It’s a question I should ask myself frequently so that I don’t become too complacent and find myself not doing enough to “Comfort the afflicted.”
As for the second quote I mentioned, I believe it is a good reminder that some of our greatest blessings come when we are in the service of others. I know that when I am having a difficult time, the best way to forget myself is find ways to be of service to others
I need to thank all the Good Samaritans in my life, and believe me, there have been many. In times of my own affliction, it was such a blessing to have Samaritans to help me bear my burdens. I need to keep in mind all they have done and try to do likewise for others.
Although I recognize that trials of heartache, illness, and devastation is worldwide-- especially in these latter days-- it seems within our own circle of loved ones adversity affects each of us in one form or another in quite an abundance.
As I ponder this thought of why adversity is so prevalent, I am reminded of two quotes from this last General Conference, both given by President Uchtdorf. The first is, “Comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable.” The second quote is, “Answers don’t always come when we are on our knees, but when we are on our feet.”
The Parable of the Good Samaritan comes to mind…
When the Priest and the Levite saw the man who had been robbed and wounded laying by the roadside, they passed him by. They even crossed to the other side to avoid him. Yet, the Samaritan who was thought to be an enemy of the man, was the one who made the greatest sacrifices and helped him in his time of need. He gave comfort to the afflicted.
As for Pres. Uchtdorf’s second part of the quote, “… afflict the comfortable.” I suppose this can be taken in many ways depending on where the listener of the talk is in their life. One of my thoughts was that I believe many of us, myself included, can become too complacent in our lives if we are not careful. Should/Could we do more to help the afflicted? It’s an individual evaluation, I suppose. It’s a question I should ask myself frequently so that I don’t become too complacent and find myself not doing enough to “Comfort the afflicted.”
As for the second quote I mentioned, I believe it is a good reminder that some of our greatest blessings come when we are in the service of others. I know that when I am having a difficult time, the best way to forget myself is find ways to be of service to others
I need to thank all the Good Samaritans in my life, and believe me, there have been many. In times of my own affliction, it was such a blessing to have Samaritans to help me bear my burdens. I need to keep in mind all they have done and try to do likewise for others.
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