What a Miracle Looks Like (Sometimes)

Lately I’ve had a whole new take on miracles. I’ve realized they often come dressed as annoyances and inconveniences — or even something gone horribly wrong.

Prologue: Last August I was prepping for the new semester to start. I had created my new syllabus and printed a phonebook-size stack of handouts for the first day of class. After more than a year of teaching online because of the pandemic, I was very excited to return to a physical classroom.

Then on the day before classes started (a Sunday, no less) I found out that there had been a clerical error. The computer somehow had listed my class as being taught online by mistake, and the department said we had to honor whatever format the computer listed for course delivery. So there I was with a useless stack of handouts, looking at yet another semester of teaching online. I have to admit, I wasn’t happy about this. But I did my best to make the most of it.

Fast-forward three months. Our daughter purchased cheap flights for her and her little family to fly home for Thanksgiving. We were so excited to have them come. Then about ten days before they were scheduled to leave, she got a strange email from the airline saying their tickets had been cancelled. —Not their flight, just their family's tickets. And just one way. So bizarre — I have never seen this happen before. She was more than a little frustrated — and confused.

With a toddler and an infant in tow, a 12-hour drive can seem like an endless journey. But they decided to make the most of it and leave a few days early, and spend a whole nine days with us. Yay!

They arrived, road-weary and frazzled, cramped into their now too-small car with a fussy baby for the final few hours of the journey. We fed them, took the kids off their hands, and put them to bed. Our daughter complained of a stomach ache, possibly just from all the junk food from the road trip, and we gave her some herbal tea to soothe her symptoms. 

The next day she still wasn’t feeling well, and spent most of the afternoon on the couch, sipping more tea.

My dad and bonus mom scheduled a separate Thanksgiving dinner the Sunday before Thanksgiving for our side of the extended family. My mother-in-law planned her Thanksgiving for the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I complained about why we can’t just keep Thanksgiving celebrations on the designated day and celebrate with whoever’s available. This year three Thanksgiving dinners seemed completely over-the-top. But we took our food assignments and made our 6 pies and our 20 lbs of mashed potatoes and drove to Salt Lake City to be with everyone for the first of the three. 

Our daughter arrived in tears. Her toddler had thrown a tantrum and head-butted her in the face. I spent the minutes before dinner chasing said toddler around the house making sure he didn’t touch or break any of the crystal figurines all over the living room — or choke on any of the Jordan almonds placed in candy dishes all over the house. 

Dad and Sharon had gone to a huge effort to make the evening special. The tables were decorated elegantly, the seating thoughtfully planned, complete with conversation questions. The food was good and we all had a lovely time. I felt sorry for grousing about the extra gathering, and stayed afterward to help and chat. When our daughter slipped out early (but not before the group family photo) I didn’t think much of it. She’d had quite a day.

We got home an hour later. The kids were in bed asleep, and Jordan was on the couch again, feeling miserable. All of a sudden she decided to call Urgent Care. She pulled her husband up off the couch. “They close in ten minutes. Let’s go!”

It was appendicitis. They sent her straight to the ER. Early Monday morning they removed her appendix, and what they thought would be a fairly simple laparoscopic procedure became more complex. Her appendix had ruptured and they had to go in with a full incision to take it out. Final word was the doctor had to “dig it out with his fingers.” Oh, my.

I was home caring for the boys, grateful I had the week off, and had finished all of my commissions before the kids arrived. The baby was sick and the carseats were in their car at the hospital, but InstaCart came to my rescue with nasal spray and a syringe and sippy cups and diapers and all the things. 

And then it dawned on me — their flight that mysteriously booted them off was scheduled for Monday morning. That very morning. Her appendix could have burst mid-flight. Instead, they were here with us in Utah, the boys comfortably sleeping at Nana and Papa’s house, surrounded by loving family who could help take care of them. It was a miracle. 

That extra Sunday Thanksgiving dinner I was grousing about? Turned out to be the only time we spent with extended family. I was so grateful they held it when they did. We had a wonderful time.

Our daughter is young and strong, and her recovery was as fast as could be expected, but she still needed lots of help. And lots of rest. And she wasn’t able to lift anything over twenty pounds. (Which included both of her little boys.)

They also realized if she was going to have a comfortable ride home they needed to buy a bigger car. They’d been looking for an Acura MDX for a long time. None were available in California, and very few here in Utah. (You know, supply chain and all.) But suddenly one came available — a used 2022 with just 8000 miles on it, owned by the dealership. A godsend. They were offered a huge amount over blue book for their Honda. Money seemed to drop from the sky. They were able to drive their dream car home at a significant discount.

I ended up driving back to California with them so I could help with the boys for another week. Riding between the two boys in their carseats was actually comfortable in their new ride! 

And how was I able to be in San Francisco for a week when UVU was back in session? Well, remember that computer glitch at the beginning of the semester? The one I was a little grumpy about? It turns out that because I was teaching online again this semester, I was able to do that on my iPad from their apartment. Another miracle. 

Epilogue: I know this perspective may not last forever, but for now, I am committed not to complain about canceled airline tickets, clerical errors, computer glitches, over scheduled holiday parties, stalled traffic, or any other annoyance or inconvenience. Because I’m seeing that everything is a blessing in disguise, and many of these so-called annoyances are actually straight-up miracles.

Happy, healthy children are one of the best miracles from all of this!

Here's our smiling, happy mostly-recovered daughter, alongside her heroic, exhausted husband, who pulled all of us through this ordeal while simultaneously working remotely (from the car, hospital, and home). We love you, Austin!

Our Thanksgiving Table Expands...Along With Our Hearts

The Thanksgiving table is steeped in tradition. Families make the same dishes from the same recipes, year after year, generation after generation. These tables laden with comfort food often unite us as a family, and remind us who we are and where we come from.

On my dad’s side of the family, the Thanksgiving table was set with special Thanksgiving china (used just once a year), where adults and children all gathered around a big harvest table, covered in an ornate linen tablecloth. There was a massive but meaningful centerpiece, symbolic of the abundance of the season. Often Grandma or Grandpa had a little scroll with a story or quote from one of our Mayflower ancestors next to each place setting.

Every dish was homemade, lovingly prepared, and painstakingly presented. The rolls, the pies, everything was baked from scratch. Grandpa even made his own cranberry sauce, and would don a baker’s cap and present the turkey, beautifully dressed, on a platter for all to admire, before he began carving. It was absolutely beautiful. 

When my mom joined my dad’s family, as the daughter of a department store president, she stepped very gracefully into this world of fine china and beautifully-decorated tables. She could also bake stellar Parkerhouse rolls, so her initiation was rather smooth sailing. 

On my mom’s side of the family, Thanksgiving happened in a quaint country cabin in Midway, Utah—a Swiss-settled town in a mountain valley, surrounded by rural fields and herds. There was a huge crowd, often as many as 60 people, and the food was less important than the ambience and the activities. After dinner we would all walk next door to the Homestead Resort, climb aboard a big wagon and go on a hay ride, pulled over the river and through the woods by a pair of Clydesdales. Then, like the Whos down in Whoville, we would all sing Christmas carols in rich, four-part harmony. 

My dad’s grandparents lived on a farm and raised horses, and he could sing a mean bass part, so he also melded effortlessly into this family tradition.

Admittedly, I was raised in a rather magical Thanksgiving Wonderland, seemingly straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting--on both sides. As the extended families grew, and the crowds became increasingly unwieldy, some traditions were scaled back. My mom adopted Thanksgiving as her holiday, hosting it at our house annually. The hay rides no longer happened in our city neighborhood, but we still ate on fine china and linen tablecloths around a big harvest table that seated 14-18. The turkey was no longer presented on a beautiful platter, but was cooked upside-down in a bag (Mom’s secret to keep it moist). Grandpa still brought his homemade cranberry sauce. And our gathering included an aunt and uncle and cousins.

After I married and moved from Utah to California, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. No way was I going to have her host 14 people at her house for Thanksgiving dinner, so I invited my parents and siblings to our little back-house in south-central Los Angeles for Thanksgiving.  Jeff and I had read an article in the L.A. Times about how to cook the perfect turkey, and we also wanted to try a Martha Stewart technique sliding fresh herbs between the meat and the skin to create a lacy exterior and added flavor.  We were already putting our own California spin on the family’s tradition. We also added roasted asparagus* and a fresh salad to our Thanksgiving menu, using our favorite Celery Seed Dressing*, and avocados from our tree. Mom showed me how to supreme a grapefruit, and layer and fan out the slices, alternating with sliced oranges and avocados, on each salad plate, with a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds for garnish. Our first Thanksgiving dinner was as delectable and memorable as I’d hoped. (Those menu items are still part of our Thanksgiving traditions today. And they have become increasingly important now that my mom has passed away. )

After dinner we went to the beach and walked along the shore together, listening to the flap of the waves against the sand. After dark we all went to a movie together in Westwood. A new tradition was born. We continued this for years, with the family driving from Utah to California to celebrate with us, complete with the beach and a movie. Sometimes we did our own version of Black Friday shopping, and drove to Tijuana for some serious bargains.

In three generations of Thanksgiving dinners, on both sides of the family, the one thing in common is what was notably absent: Yams. I don’t know whether someone (other than my husband) expressed a particular dislike, but for some reason none of these families considered yams an essential part of any thanksgiving feast.

Imagine our shock when our new sister-in-law Ginny arrived at her first Thanksgiving with our family bearing not just yams, but a huge Yam Soufflé! I’m sure there were a few ruffled feathers and raised eyebrows. But we all dutifully dug in. And you know what? Whether you love or hate yams, Ginny’s soufflé tastes like an otherworldly confection. We cannot imagine Thanksgiving without it any more. We even published it in our family cookbook this year.

And, as you may have guessed, we also love Ginny. I cannot imagine a better fit for our family. She has made herself an integral part of us, just like her yam soufflé has become a Thanksgiving staple. 

When our daughter was invited to her new in-laws’ for Thanksgiving, eager to make a good impression, she asked for Aunt Ginny’s special Yam Soufflé recipe. Imagine her newcomer chagrin at their dinner, when her new sisters-in-law looked at her all disappointed, like, “Wait — that’s not OUR Sweet Potatoes! Where are the marshmallows?!?” Thankfully, they were gracious enough to sample her offering anyway, and discovered how good it truly is. Ginny's (now Jordan’s) Yam Soufflé has been on the menu at their Thanksgiving for several years in a row. And Jordan, like Ginny, has become fully enveloped into her wonderful family of in-laws. 

For Jordan’s husband, Austin, the one thing that makes it feel like Thanksgiving is Bumbleberry Pie. (“Bumble-what?” I may have thought. “What kind of berry is that?) But Jordan, devoted wife that she is, learned how to make it, and brought it to their first Thanksgiving at our house. And you know what? We all loved it! It’s one of my new favorites. Just like we love him! He is an even more wonderful addition to our family than the pie is to our table.

I remember my first time joining my husband’s Dansie family for Thanksgiving, and noticing the way each aunt and uncle took such an interest in me, and made me feel so welcome there. I loved their tradition of placing three kernels of corn next to every plate, and allowing each guest, from the youngest to the oldest — including this newcomer — to express three things they are most grateful for that year. Everyone listened attentively to each expression of gratitude. (Their genuine interest in others feels like an extension of this beloved tradition.) We still express our “three kernels” of gratitude every Thanksgiving. The teenagers dread it because it can take hours to hear from every person. But I always smile when the cousins serving abroad as missionaries include their “three kernels” of gratitude in their letters home at Thanksgiving. It is meaningful to them, and to us.

My mother-in-law grew up on that Dansie farm in Herriman, and her sausage stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy have that amazing down-home, farm-style flavor that is just unbeatable. I learned from her to boil the turkey neck and gizzard on the stove while the turkey is in the oven, and pull off the meat to add to the gravy. I love that in this way you are truly using every part of the bird that gave its life for our feast. Her cooking is renowned.

My in-laws have also graciously accepted my mom’s special grapefruit-and-avocado salad* at their Thanksgiving feast, as they have accepted me, and acknowledge what I bring to the table, so to speak. And when the next sister-in-law, Angie, came into the family, bringing her family’s Cranberry Relish, I didn’t turn up my nose because it wasn’t my grandpa’s version. I gave it a try, and I loved it—even if it does have Jell-o in it (or maybe because of the Jell-O!) Partly I love it because it’s chock-full of wonderful stuff like apples and pineapples and pecans. But mostly I love it because it’s hers. Every year she brings me a jar of it, and I add it to my oatmeal, and my yogurt, and even incorporate it some years into my cranberry cake. Similarly, Angie has become not just a sister-in-law but a treasured friend. And she is one of the most loving, accepting people you could ever hope to meet!

My younger sister experienced a somewhat bumpier transition into her extended family. Imagine her, growing up in the same Thanksgiving Wonderland I did, going to her first Thanksgiving with her in-laws, and being served instant mashed potatoes, and both the gravy and the cranberry sauce from a can (we didn’t even know they came that way). Instead of a beautifully decorated table, they all sat around the t.v. to watch the football game—an acknowledged norm for many families. Yet she must have felt incredibly homesick. It’s hard to find your place at the proverbial table when there is no table. But she is stalwart, and has worked and served, and found a way to love and belong in that family. She has also learned from them how to make dinner quick and easy, and how to keep your house spotless, and spends the rest of her time in other worthwhile pursuits. And her husband has learned to join us at the table and enjoy a hearty dinner and an equally hearty conversation.

Decades later, my dad now owns a home in Midway and has carried on his in-laws’ beloved Thanksgiving hayride tradition for his children and grandchildren. My husband and I enlarged our dining room and ordered a custom-made Amish table that expands to seat 20. Gatherings are important to us. I don’t know for sure who the next addition to our family table will be, or what they will bring with them. But one thing I know for sure. We will love them. We will include them, and rejoice in what they bring. We will discover something new, just as we have with every in-law, and make sure they know they have a prominent role both at our table and in our family. And we will hope that they are also willing to sample our proverbial table of offerings, open to learning and sharing.

I honestly can't imagine our table without Ginny’s Yam Soufflé, Angie’s Cranberry Relish, or Austin’s Bumbleberry Pie. I can’t imagine it without the Dansies’ “three kernels of corn,” or their impact on our lives. And I’m incredibly grateful that my sister, who married into a family of minimal holiday hoopla, was thoughtful enough in my time of need to give me the gift of an effortless celebration.

In October of 2000 I gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. That November I was still grieving and healing from the loss, and I could not bring myself to host our beloved California Thanksgiving. My sister somehow sensed this. That same sister whose in-laws throw together the most basic of dinners and eat around the t.v., provided one of our most memorable Thanksgivings ever. She thoughtfully found a local restaurant that offered boxed dinners to go, and ordered us a complete meal. With zero thought for preparation or presentation, we picked up the boxes of turkey, mashed potatoes and other trimmings and took everything to a nearby canyon, in Arcadia. We ate our Thanksgiving dinner at a picnic table there in the canyon, followed by a brief hike, walking on pine needles and fallen leaves on a trail through the forest. As we each shared our three kernels of corn, despite the heavy loss, I was filled with gratitude. Of all our Thanksgiving celebrations, this remains one of our most memorable. It probably most like the original Thanksgiving, where our Pilgrim ancestors ate outdoors, and had lost many loved ones, but still chose to celebrate the harvest. It remains one of our most memorable.

I hope never to repeat the unfortunate circumstances that precipitated that rare Thanksgiving feast, but I have often rekindled the warmth and deep gratitude.

Above all, I recognize the importance of being flexible with our traditions, of opening our minds and hearts as new members join our family, letting the Thanksgiving table stand as an extension of family,  for welcoming their traditions (or lack of traditions) into ours, and reflect with gratitude that our lives have been richly blessed by theirs. 

*Recipes included in my cookbook, Kitchen Alchemy, available here.

Captions:

Me asleep with Grandma Winters, for the cover of the Salt Lake Tribune on Thanksgiving Day.

My student-era painting of my grandma's table at Christmas (grandpa's chef's hat visible)

My dad's painting of the horse-drawn hayride in Midway.

My grandma standing next to the table at my mom's house for Thanksgiving.

An early California Thanksgiving, at our house in the 'hood, circa 1990.

Our walk along the beach after Thanksgiving dinner, also circa 1990.

Bonnie's grandfather, Alma "Hale" Dansie, with grandchildren on horse.

Dansie's Place family-run restaurant and store.

Our Amish dining room table, expanded to seat 20 for Thanksgiving.

Stand As A Witness

Last week we read in Doctrine and Covenants Section 14:

If you shall ask the Father...you shall receive the Holy Ghost...that you may stand as a witness of the things of which you shall both hear and see...

Since then I've been pondering what it means to stand as a witness, and this experience came to mind: 

Several years ago I had the opportunity to teach a week-long plein air painting course in Capitol Reef for the first time. I was very excited about the opportunity, but also a little stressed. I had never been to Capitol Reef before, and didn't know where the best places to paint might be, or how to find them. I had to build a visual curriculum around a place I'd never seen. I would be in charge of up to 20 students, of various ages, and didn't know how well their different personalities might mesh. I would also be in charge of food for these 20 students for the week, on a limited budget. The more I tried to wrap my mind around all the details, it became completely overwhelming.

I asked my husband, Jeff, for a blessing. I let him know a little of what was bothering me. I needed clarity. I needed to let go of anxiety. I needed peace. 

For some reason I naively thought that through this blessing I might receive heaven-sent curriculum guidance, a roll-out of the meal plan, or a vision of how the entire week would look. Instead, I got one unforgettable piece of advice: Your primary purpose while there is to be a witness for the Savior. 

My mind launched a litany of the impossibility of this task, teaching for a state-sponsored school where the separation of church and state is very clear and I am careful not to use language that might be considered "religious" in nature.

Then I received even more specific instruction: Your witness will be expressed in the way you treat the students, by showing respect for the beauty of the land, showing respect for each other as sons and daughters of God, and by serving others as He would serve.

Well, that didn't sound impossible at all! Suddenly a huge burden was lifted off my shoulders. I could do this. My new perspective changed everything. It wasn't about me; it was about Him. It wasn't about the curriculum, it was about the Creator. 

With that single focus in mind, everything seemed to come together effortlessly. My mind was relieved and my energy renewed. It ended up being one of the best experiences of my life, creating deep friendships that I reflect on with gratitude and joy. 

The residence was far more beautiful and perfect than I could have imagined. It was situated on a hilltop, surrounded by natural beauty in every direction: Rugged cliffs, heavy clouds, distant hills, a winding stream, and even a little pioneer homestead in a valley below. Students worked night and day, inspired by the beauty of the landscape and their new palettes with mineral pigments ground straight from the earth. Not coincidentally, several students said it was the best educational experience in their entire time at the university. It ended up being a haven of creativity and productivity for me as well.

As we boarded the bus to return home, one student said, "When we get to the final judgment, I want to be a witness for you." I was stunned. I hadn't breathed a word to anyone about my assignment to witness. But I guess, to those with ears to hear, my witnessing for the Savior had been loud and clear. "Will you witness for me?" she then asked, and I nodded my approval. 

At the end of Section 14 it says, 

Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who created the heavens and the earth, a light which cannot be hid in darkness...

And behold, thou art [Jana] and thou art called to assist; which thing if ye do, and are faithful, ye shall be blessed both spiritually and temporally, and great shall be your reward. 

I replaced the name David with my own in the last verse, to underscore the deeply personal instruction in these verses. Based on my own experience with witnessing in this way, it's true that the Savior's light is so bright it cannot be hidden, but speaks for itself if we merely point the way. I also have to add that I know the promised blessings are real. At least they were for me. 

I hope I can remember and be ever mindful of our constant responsibility to stand as a witness. And that when I remove myself from the equation and focus singularly on that ideal, amazing things result.

One Touch With the Finger of His Love

 We spent the first two weeks of February in San Francisco, welcoming a brand new grandson to our family. Little William Wade Hollan entered the world on February 1, 2021. I looked at our daughter Jordan as the time approached. She was achey and exhausted, hadn't been sleeping well, and was just so ready to get the show on the road, so to speak. Labor and delivery, as all women know, was no cake walk either, but went relatively smoothly. There was inexpressible pain, and such taxing effort, and then suddenly, here is this new human that's forever a part of your life. And none of the symptoms of pregnancy remain. There's no heartburn, no nausea, whatever was bothering you is also swept away in that delivery. It's a miracle.

Talking to Jordan about this feat of nature reminded me of when I delivered her, a little over 26 years ago. It had been a really rough pregnancy. I was literally drinking water a teaspoon at a time in an effort to keep enough liquid down to prevent going to the hospital with hyperemesis and dehydration. Our brother and sister-in-law would stop by, and I would beg them: "If I EVER talk about having another baby, will you please remind me how hard this is?" Then, a few months later, after a relatively easy delivery, I held her in my arms, and said to my husband, "She's so sweet! Let's have another!" Just like that. 

In our reading of the Doctrine and Covenants two weeks ago I discovered the perfect line of scripture to go along with this conundrum of childbirth. We were studying two chapters of scripture, sections 12 and 13, about the restoration of the priesthood. In some supplemental readying at the end of Joseph Smith History there's a beautifully descriptive passage about the experience, written by Oliver Cowdery, who was Joseph Smith's scribe.

These were days never to be forgotten...

What joy! what wonder! what amazement!

I shall not attempt to paint to you the feelings of this heart, nor the majestic beauty and glory which surrounded us on this occasion;

Oliver then goes on to describe some of the persecution they had suffered, all the deceptions and falsehoods that exist in the world, then follows with this most beautiful sentence fragment...

--but one touch with the finger of his love, yes, one ray of glory from the upper world, or one word from the mouth of the Savior, from the bosom of eternity, strikes it all into insignificance, and blots it forever from the mind.

There it is! That notion of the resultant joy making all the previous struggles completely worth it, to the point that the memory of the pain is swept away. He then concludes with this phrase that captures exactly how I feel:

I shall ever look upon this expression of the Savior’s goodness with wonder and thanksgiving...

If that doesn't describe the moment of becoming a grandmother perfectly, I don't know what does!