Where is Safety in a Dangerous World?

Morning After the Fire

A group of firefighters was working through the devastation of a Yellowstone forest fire, making sure that all the hot spots had been extinguished. In the middle of the path was a small heap of smoldering ash. One man kicked the pile to allow air to circulate and cool the brush.


Suddenly a little flock of baby quail fluttered from beneath the cinders. Other chicks gradually emerged from underneath other smoky bumps. "These piles of ashes are the mother quail," a ranger realized.

The mother's body had covered her chicks, sheltering them from the searing flames. Though the heat was enough to consume her, it allowed her babies to find safety underneath. In the face of the rising flames, she could have easily flown away, but she was the only hope of safety for her chicks. She gathered them under her body, shielded them with her wings, and made herself stay through the raging flames.

Reflections of Christ
by
Mark Mabry

Jesus said,

"How oft would I have gathered my children together,
even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings,
and ye would not."
Matthew 23:37

Photography by Mark Mabry

The teachings of Jesus Christ offer ultimate safety.
His loving sacrifice and triumphant resurrection give me purpose and hope.

I believe.

A Good Hare Day

"Dear! I think you're the Easter Bunny!"

It was going to be one of Rabbit's busy days. As soon as he woke up he felt important, as if everything depended on him.

It was just the day for Organizing Something, or for Writing a Notice Signed Rabbit, or for Seeing What Everybody Else Thought About It. It was a perfect morning for hurrying round to Pooh, and saying "Very well then, I'll tell Piglet," and then going to Piglet and saying "Pooh thinks ... but maybe I'd better see Owl first."

It was a Captainish sort of day, when everybody said "Yes, Rabbit" and "No, Rabbit," and waited until he had told them what to do.

Quote from A. A. Milne

Don't be shy.
Today's a day for feeling important,
for filling somebody's basket.

Show your true colors and come out of your shell.

Even if you're not the Easter Bunny, everybunny needs a friend who's all ears.

The first Easter WAS the first day of the rest of your life.
Celebrating that makes Easter the hoppiest day of the year!

This blog was inspired by my friend LeeAnn. Thanks for the email!

Career Training

Same outfit, not me

Got the job—got the dress—got the shoes . . . got the boss.

He was my dad. I'm sure I was hired mainly to give my mother a break. I was 13, and I was dang good at it: I argued, I burst into tears, I swore, I slammed my bedroom door. It was time for Dad to take over and teach me what life was all about.

On the first day of summer, at 8:15 am, we were out the door. Dad had fixed me his standard breakfast— an eggnog. He poured milk and orange juice into the blender, added a little sugar, vanilla, a couple of raw eggs and some ice, and whipped it into a froth that was delicious. (Years later Orange Julius became famous for the same concoction.)

My hair was still wet; I put it up in curlers and hung my head out the window as we drove downtown so it would be dry and poufy. Using the rear-view mirror, I lined my eyes with a black pencil, fluffed on some turquoise eyeshadow and perfected my pout with white, frosty lipstick. I had to look professional.

Dad was an optometrist. He had an office and appointments, with real patients paying good money for glasses and contact lenses. It took several weeks for that to sink in. Although my job was to dust the frame display cases, change the toilet paper roll and straighten the magazines in the waiting room, I was usually on line 3, chatting with Sherrie.

Apparently my boss found that inappropriate. We had a few discussions about it in the back room. There was no Human Resource Department where either of us could lodge our complaints, so in the end he gave me a written job description that hung on the bathroom door. Soon I got into the morning routine of emptying the waste baskets, and cleaning the toilet. Dad taught me how to vacuum (the wheel follows the inside path of the last vacuum track so there aren't small areas that never get cleaned. And did you know it's supposed to take two hours to thoroughly vacuum an office?)

Running errands was the duty I enjoyed most. My white-soled nurse's shoes skipped along the sparkly, granite sidewalk as I ran to the bank, the post-office, the pharmacy and the laundry. Twice a day I went up the street to the Stock Exchange where there was a soft-drink machine that sold little green bottles of icy-cold Coca Cola. I'd love to visit a summer afternoon when we took a break, chugged our cokes and chatted like friends, while Dad laughed and teased, and taught me.

Gradually I got promotions. I learned to file, answer the phone, make appointments, write checks and balance the check book. Oh, there were still days when the boss caught me reading Ingenue or painting my nails. (Why hasn't someone invented odorless fingernail polish?) When he left early, the vacuum tracks were very far apart and the task took me less than five minutes. But I kept my job for several years. I even got regular raises.

Isn't that just like a dad? He paid me to learn what only he could teach. I thought I'd learned it all, so I grew up. Over the years, as I spouted all my wisdom and inspiration to my own kids, I vaguely recognized my expressions. They were the same ones I'd heard my boss use all those summers ago.

Vacuuming, organizing, balancing a check book and chugging a coke were important life skills to acquire. I also learned to laugh, hope, love and work from my first boss. He's been gone for ten years today, but those lessons and memories are forever in my heart.

Me with my boss, 1950

My father had a great deal of trouble with me. But I think he enjoyed it.
---paraphrased from Mark Twain

General Conference French Toast Party

A toast to French toast!

I raise my frothy cup of cocoa
(topped with whipped cream and sprinkles)
in praise of what those chefs can do with stale bread.
I even donned my Provence apron, and created a Conference Sunday Brunch
Marie Antoinette would die for. (Oh...she did??)

Creamy Baked French Toast

1 firm loaf of French bread cut into cubes
1 8-oz. pkg cream cheese cut into small cubes
12 eggs
1 and 1/2 cups half and half
1/3 cup maple syrup
1 cube of butter, melted

Spray a 9"x 13" pan with Pam. Spread half the bread cubes evenly in the pan. Dot all over with small cubes of cream cheese. Spread the rest of the bread cubes on top. Beat the eggs, add the cream, syrup and melted butter and mix well. Pour evenly over the bread cubes. Use a spatula to press the mixture down to soak the bread with the eggs. Cover, and refrigerate overnight. Bake at 350 degrees for 40-50 minutes until set and golden brown.

Cut in squares, dust with powdered sugar,
and serve with syrup and fresh strawberries.

After brunch we got comfy for the main General Conference activity.
We rolled our cream-cheese stuffed bodies over to the TV
to listen to wise words from our Prophet and Apostles.
Pillows were propped, shoes were kicked off,
and the prime spots were spoken for.

For those unfamiliar with this LDS tradition, twice a year all the leaders of our church gather in Salt Lake City for a worldwide conference. There are five 2-hour meetings, consisting of sermons, and choir singing. Thousands of leaders and members from all across the world come to attend in the Tabernacle or the Conference Center, but it's broadcast world-wide and many locals generously let the visitors have the hard seats, while we stay home in our pajamas, sleep in, and watch it on TV. When our kids were little, our family developed some traditions to make it memorable:

Conference bingo with M & M's, coloring books with prophets to identify and beautify;
Mazes and word searches with Sunday School answers.
Lots of treats, chips and dips, soda pop, juices, and specialty main-dishes at the ready.
A few quiet toys to entertain the nursery crowd when it starts seeming long:
(puppets, wooden train, books, stuffed animal friends.)

Since each broadcast has the potential of becoming boring for little kids,
(and sleep-inducing for the big ones,)
We tried to create a family-party type atmosphere that we all looked forward to.

But it took an in-law to bring us our all-time favorite game:
Conference Brackets.
(We call it April Madness.)

Every player picks a number, which gives us the order in which we pick a Gospel Word
that we're betting will be said at the first of the talks.
The inventor of the game, and keeper of the brackets,
writes down our word and keeps track of who plays who in the Sweet Sixteen, the Final Four
and the championship rounds.

It's important to choose a popular word that will be mentioned up front by the speakers.
Faith, pray, repent, love, and serve always make the playoffs.
The first word mentioned in a talk takes the round.

Listening carefully to the Prophet, we hear him say Scott's word, "Pray."
"Pray!" we cheer.
Scott has moved on to the next bracket.
Anna wisely choose "Repent."
"Repent!" she squeals.
"So do we still have to keep listening even after we hear our word?" Pete wonders.
"Yes!" is the resounding answer,
from the younger, more faithful contingency.

Our game-meister always provides appropriate prizes.
Everyone wants to win the Monson Buck!

I lift my orange-juice glass in a toast to Conference Sunday:
"Merci!"
If only church could be this uplifting,
and this fun, every week!

Mothers and Grandmothers

Matriarch of a big peasant family, colorful, kerchiefed, round and rosy-cheeked—
who could represent me better?

I started collecting nesting dolls a long time ago. Made in Russia, the real name is Matryoshka, from a word that means Mother. They are sometimes called Babushka Dolls, which I like, too, because it means Grandmother.

There are lots of different themes and designs, and I delight in seeing how the artists from various villages paint them so meticulously. My granddaughters love taking the dolls apart to reveal smaller dolls fitting inside one another. I tell each girl that the big doll represents her. Her mom is next, and I am after that, with generations of grandmothers and great-grandmothers, back and back and back, who all love her and want her to be happy. If those women could, they would share the lessons they have learned about life.

Art by Kathryn Brown

I hope these little girls can someday realize the blessing of being Matryoshka and Babushka. So many women have "succumbed to a dangerously narrow" view of womanhood, "repudiating homemaking itself as an outmoded and dispensable artifact of a misguided culture." In the article HomeLess America, Bryce Christensen states that women's traditional skills have lost their value. By rejecting a role differentiation between fathers and mothers, some women have lost sight of the home as an "independent moral realm, building relationships and values that are different from those of the commercial realm."

Some destructive fabrications of society that I hope my little granddaughters will recognize as lies:

1. Men are smarter, have all the power and are more important, so if we want to have influence in the world we should be more like them.
2. Marriage and family are confining.
3. Motherhood is menial and a waste of any talented woman's time.
4. Women are perpetually frazzled and failing.
5. A woman's value is based on her size, shape, and what she accomplishes outside the home. (Listed in the words of Sheri Dew.)
   

Some truths I hope these girls will learn from the legacy of their mothers and grandmothers:

1. By developing the God-given nature to nurture, women have a unique opportunity to change the world.
2. The influence of a mother has no limit and no end. She can share every aspect of her education and experience in the atmosphere of love she fashions.
   
3. Creating a home is a way of creating a world.
4. Women have abilities beyond their wildest dreams to organize and create.
5. Women are the soul of a family and a community.

It's been said that women are the survival kit of the human race. That responsibility has been handed down from generation to generation.

In fact, it's our tradition.

History Class

"When you take stuff from one writer, it's plagiarism;
but when you take it from many writers it's research."
—Wilson Mizner

The library is calling me.
I'm overdue!

My Inheritance

June and Jiggs' Wedding
April 1, 1946

Aunt Marie just told me about the diamond clip.
How did I miss out on that???

Sixty-three years ago my parents got married.
At the wedding breakfast my grampa gave a tribute to his new daughter-in-law.
He said he had a special wedding present for her,
something that had been in the family for years:
a diamond clip.

Thrilled, she opened the little box and found . . .



a dime and clip.

(It was April Fool's Day!)

They lived happily ever after anyway.

Moms, Come Home

1922 Magazine Cover

"The disappearance of homemakers means the disappearance of homes."

Today I read a thought-provoking article in The Family in America by Bryce Christensen. He writes that the number of homeless people on our streets "does not begin to reveal the scope of homelessness in America.

"For since when did the word home signify merely physical shelter, or homelessness merely the lack of such shelter? The desperate people sleeping beneath sheets of cardboard above heating grates, and probing for food in dumpsters deserve sympathetic attention. But those who lack housing are not the only people who lack homes.

"For as long as people have used the word, home has signified not only shelter, but also emotional commitment, security, and belonging. Home has connoted not just a necessary roof and warm radiator, but a place sanctified by the abiding ties of wedlock, parenthood, and family obligation; a place demanding sacrifice and devotion, but promising loving care and warm acceptance.

"Their lives anchored in some place fortified by the ties of marriage and family, the great majority of Americans have—until fairly recently—been able to refer to some special place as home, and to do so with the full and rich meaning of that word. In recent decades a devastating number of Americans cannot claim that secure base of family ties that previous generations recognized as the essence of a home."

Art by Eloise Wilkin

"Once highly honored, the social title of "homemaker" now carries deeply unfortunate connotations of incompetence and backwardness. The truth is that America desperately needs homemakers."

This is a fascinating, but lengthy article. I'm going to quote from it in future posts, but if you're interested in how homemaking makes a difference in society, I encourage you to read the whole thing. HomeLess America: What the Disappearance of the American Homemaker Really Means.

The Poor Writer

Die Arme Poet by Carl Spitzweg

The painting was hanging in the window of a book-binding shop. "That is what I want to be," said Dee. "A writer, living in a cool attic, surrounded by old books." I thought he was kidding.

We were just young students in Europe, dreaming of our future together, exactly forty years ago today. I remember the date, because I wrote it down. I wrote then, as I do now, to clean out my mind and store away precious memories. Dee kept a journal to collect information for stories: facts, images and ephemera (little bits of stuff.) We were well on the way to our future!

Alfred Kazin wrote, "The writer writes in order to teach himself, to understand himself, to satisfy himself; the publishing of his ideas is a curious anticlimax."

Well, maybe for Alfred. I love it when we finish a book!

The prototype is finished!

(Link to Heritage Associates to see how Marta designed this book.)

These are the folks who have been inside my head and computer for two years.

And here is their story.

Writing a book is like reading one. The characters become friends,
and I hate to say good-bye.
Well, sort of.

Easter Basket Case

Easter Basket Case

I'm filling my psyche with fudge so I'll have something of substance to offer you
on our next visit!

Write Now

Photo by Kurt Hutton

"Inspiration is wonderful when it happens,
but a writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time...
the wait is simply too long."
---Leonard Bernstein

Right now I have the urge to write now. But I'm gazing through two little windows--the one on my computer screen which looks blank and dull (just how I'm feeling,) and the other is my window of time before three little girls arrive at the crack of dawn for Oma Day with expectations of "Tivities!" and "Tea Parties!"

So, because my inspiration is taking simply too long, I'm going to direct you to somebody else's inspiration. Tiffany's blog has a great message about blogging, but is well worth exploring beyond the first page. She's a friend in the making. I was introduced to Tiffany, by Marta. On today's post she lists many of her other favorites places to visit. But I'm actually linking you to one of my favorite series by mwrites: her writing school!

Visit these links and I think you'll be re-enthused about why we love to blog, and how it makes a positive difference in our lives and those around us.

Then you can join me to wait for inspiration to fill our hearts, souls, and computer screens with wisdom and humor for next time. (I'll be needing a handful of dark chocolate Lindor Balls and a little coke, if you're really coming.)

A Teacher's Influence

Art by Nellie Farnam

I sat on the steps of Sherman Elementary School crying. It was my first day of summer kindergarten and everything had gone wrong. None of my friends were in my class; Mrs. Brown had informed me I couldn't cut right because I was left-handed; I hadn't brought a blanket for rest time and she made me lay on the bare floor; some little girl made fun of my red and white plaid glasses. And now the neighborhood kids I was supposed to walk home with had left me.

Mrs. Brown locked up the school and found me in a sobbing, damp heap. Her husband was in the parking lot ready to take her to a funeral, and she was irritated that I needed extra attention. They grumbled, but put me in the backseat and drove me to the corner drugstore where she called my mother to come and get me. "Your little girl is too immature for kindergarten," I heard her say.

It was June 14, 1955, and I still remember what I learned:

1. There was safety in numbers and I was all alone.
2. Teachers were critical.
3. Left-handedness made me awkward.
4. Being unprepared was embarrassing and there were hard consequences.
5. Wearing glasses made me ugly.
6. I couldn't trust my friends.
7. Adults got angry when I was afraid.
8. I was immature.
9. I hated school.

Because our schools were overcrowded with baby-boomers, kindergarten was offered only during June and July so that more classrooms were available during the year. After six weeks of summer kindergarten little kids went to first grade in the fall, continuing with the same teacher and class.

Although Mrs. Brown wanted to hold me back for another year, my mom insisted that I was ready to start first grade so I was transferred into Mrs. Hilbig's classroom. I remember a few things I learned there, too.

1. Mrs. Hilbig was left-handed and she gave me some left-handed scissors. She told me we were in a special club.
2. A little boy named David told me my glasses were pretty.
3. Six desks were grouped into "tables" and I made five new friends the first day.
4. I was in the red reading group, which I knew was the best.
5. Although I was the youngest and the shortest child in my class, Mrs. Hilbig told my mom I "showed lots of promise."
6. I learned to tell time before anyone else, and my teacher complimented me on saying "It's quarter after."
7. My parents were on my side.
8. I could handle being on my own.
9. I wanted to be a teacher.

The most significant thing I learned is that it matters what you say to people. They remember . . . for decades. And sometimes they don't get over it.

There's an old song that says, "Let us oft speak kind words to each other, at home or where e'er we may be." My foremost goal every day is to say kind, encouraging things to the people around me, yet I shudder regularly when I hear thoughtless things go flying out of my mouth. I have good intentions and never mean to sound rude or insensitive, but I haven't learned the fine art of closing my lips in time, every time. It's a daily challenge to speak only kind words.

When our oldest was in second grade she told us Christmas was on Tuesday. I corrected her, saying Christmas was on Friday. She got very upset, insisting it was on Tuesday, because her "teacher said." What a teacher says becomes truth in the mind of a child. And we don't need to have a classroom to be a teacher. We have influence on how others in our world view themselves, whether we want that influence or not. We can choose if we want it to be positive or negative.

Dee's motto is: Think over everything you say, and don't say everything you think. He's good at this. Of course, he doesn't say much—he's busy thinking. Unfortunately, I don't know what I'm thinking until I say it!

Did somebody say something (good or bad) that's stuck with you? Did it influence you in your choices in some way that still applies in your life? Think about the influence you have, and who you've encouraged or discouraged recently. Are you a positive supportive source of hope; or the voice of doom, pointing out the impossibility of pursuing their hopes and dreams.

What's the point of what you say?

New Perspective

"Don't deprive yourself of the pleasure of having

an unproductive afternoon."

—Veronique Vienne

My to-do list was long and organized well. I dropped off my glasses to be refreshed with their new lenses. The hour-long wait was stuffed with well-intentioned projects. I hoped to grab a table at Barnes and Noble and spend the time looking for Polish folk art images, illustrations of the 30-Years-War, read and take notes about the Velvet Revolution of Czechoslovakia, and find the sought-for novel.

Two seconds after commandeering a perfect table outside on the deck overlooking the fountain, with a limeaid in hand, I remembered I didn't have my glasses. I mourned my lack of planning ahead, went searching for some readers and found a pair of one-size-fits-all for $40. In just an hour I would be shelling out $275 for a pair that was being designed for all my personal idiosyncrasies, so I decided I'd set my list and books aside and just people watch. A pair of sunglasses would keep my activity private.

It was kind of like observing animals at the zoo, seeing people in the wild like that. When folks are walking along, unsuspecting of an audience they unconsciously scratch secret spots, shift their pants up or down, chase down their cleavage in search of straps, and carry toilet paper squares stuck on their shoes.

They talk on their cell phones too loudly. I heard a grocery list being received, an "It's not you, it's me..." talk being delivered, and an excuse for why a lady couldn't visit her mom ("I'm sitting in a dentist's office and things are running way behind.") She even said, "But, Mom, It's not like I'm out shopping!" as she was consolidating her packages into one big shopping bag.

Watching others conduct their important daily business reminded me that losing a few minutes really wouldn't matter much in the long run. Nothing they were doing seemed dire, and my stuff was suddenly less urgent. I started seeing my spy-work as an important blog research trip.

I relocated myself to the fountain. It was too cold for kids to be running through the water ballet, so I just watched some folks meet up for lunch. I made up their stories:He seemed too old and plain for her. Was she his daughter? Eww...too touchy for a daughter! Was she his wife? Ewww...too touchy for a wife. Was I observing a tryst? Eww...the kissing was a little too slobbery for a tryst. I decided it was a sleezy hook-up.

A thirteen-year-old girl rushed out of the Apple Store to her waiting boyfriend. She dug through her purse and dangled a new mini-shuffle. He pulled her over to a bench a ways away and they ripped open the cover, chucked the plastic wrap and box and he walked away wearing it. Was it a gift? Had I witnessed a shoplifting??

And over there: was that naughty little boy being hauled off by his exasperated mother, or a calculating kidnapper?

Realizing I watch too much TV, I remembered the three-d glasses I'd worn at the children's museum. They allowed me to see more than what was actually on the screen. They gave a new perspective. Watching folks through the protection of my sunglasses gave me a new perspective, too. While it was fun to see the coordination of tattoos, piercings, stilettos, leggings, and glimpses of skin or size tags on inside-out boxers, without their story the folks seemed empty. Out of the kindness of my heart, I characterized them and took a few facts to turn them into people I could learn from.

Next time you're sitting somewhere doing nothing, watch the pageant of life going on around you. The observations you make can be spun into stories that will give you some perspective on your own life. You might turn out to be wiser, kinder, less judgmental, an altruistic person who will meet their needs. If not, just consider it blog research. You might need some sunglasses.

A Book Case

"The contents of someone's bookcase are part of his history, like an ancestral portrait."
---Anatole Broyard

Although I read all day and all night, it's been months since I've read any fiction. I'm feeling an emptiness in my soul. I need a saturation of my senses—a book I can't put down, words that will keep me up thinking "Just one more chapter, just one more page." I want characters that will become confidantes, who will make me laugh, wonder, yearn, and cry when I say good-bye.

I don't want a fast read, or a put-it-down-pick-it-up-next-week-because-it-can't-hold-my- interest type of book. And I'm tired of learning stuff. I need a good, old-fashioned, heart-wrenching saga. Or a thriller that will have me in a cold sweat. Or a romance that will have me in a hot one. Or a mystery with a dashing British detective and a bewildered, puzzling victim. And I want it right this very second! I'm searched my It sounded good when I bought it two years ago shelf and nothing jumped out at me.

Here's a list of books I wish I hadn't read yet (so I could read them for the first time) to help you with your suggestions.

Fifty Favorite Books

1. Youngblood Hawke
2. Marjorie Morningstar
3. The Winthrop Woman
4. Gone With the Wind
5. To Kill a Mockingbird
6. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
7. To Serve Them All My Days
8. Rebecca
9. Eye of the Needle
10. Day of the Jackal
    
11. Kane and Abel
12. The Odessa File
13. The Firm
14. Pelican Brief
15. Presumed Innocent
16. The Ring
17. Ghost
18. Shellseekers
19. Five Smooth Stones
20. Coma
21. Warriors Don't Cry
22. Joy in the Morning
23. Katherine
24. A Great Deliverance
25. Dragonwyck
26. Bourne Identity
27. The Chancellor Manuscript
28. Absolute Power
29. Immortal Wife
30. Love is Eternal
31. The Godfather
32. Forever Amber
33. Disclosure
34. The Rabbi
35. Christy
36. The Hiding Place
37. The Thornbirds
38. Jane Eyre
39. Winds of War
40. Far Pavilions
41. The Water is Wide
42. Cold Sassy Tree
43. My Cousin Rachel
44. Mistress of Mellyn
45. The Ivy Tree
46. Once and Future King
47. Mists of Avalon
48. The Salzburg Connection
49. Hawaii
50. QB VII

"Once in a very rare year, there comes along a new book,
and I say as I'm reading, as my eyes eat words without a blink,
(as my heart and mind grab each other,)
"This," I say, "is The Best Book."
I know before the first page is gone. I sense it building.
And as the book finishes, I go as slow as I can.
I don't want to leave this book's world."
---Jill Robinson

Immortal Wife and Wannabe, 1969

What books do you think I'd like?

A Homespun Gift

I just found out what I'm getting for my birthday this year:
It's made from scratch, totally unique, one-of-a kind,
a first edition, and priceless.

These guys have been working on it since before Christmas!
I'm SO excited!
(I think this particular homemade present will take the sting out of turning sixty!)

(Congrats Pete and Anna!)