tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8238472739272803032024-03-16T12:53:04.882-06:00Divergent PathwaysMy children are not obstacles in my path; my children ARE my path.
--Oh, but then there are all those other delightful paths. Fortunately – eventually – all roads lead to Home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger311125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-16537454419283402262022-04-01T23:17:00.002-06:002022-04-01T23:17:23.564-06:00What Would Moses Say If He Were Here Today?<p> What would Moses tell us, if he were to stumble down Mt. Sinai, having just had another visit with God?</p><p>And for that matter, what might Peter, James and John (or Matthew, Mark and Luke) have to say to us today?</p><p>Twice a year, our church holds a worldwide conference, where we can hear from our living prophet, all twelve living apostles, and other men and women in church leadership. I get so excited for this weekend. We have massive food traditions built around it, and we love gathering to listen. The spiritual uplift is a literal godsend.</p><p>For the past few weeks I've been reviewing all ten hours' worth of discourses, and selected just a sentence or two from each talk that really resonated with me. I call them "sound bites." They are just snippets, but they give a pretty good taste of the treasure trove they represent. I found it both motivating and inspiring (also humbling) to review all the talks and collect these short capsules of instruction. I am very much looking forward to the font of wisdom and hours of uplift coming our way, starting at 10am (Mountain Daylight Time) tomorrow. <i>Get ready to collect your own set of "sound bites" from this weekend's addresses. </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicP3-Bf0zQcnTeHFhAyX03-Zv5LdvIVLfVok26bYpR1clfigNmBxJeBkZz8ETthtDx2RJSevX_a0pYfIJSO6_5Qc9wsqCRNvqWsyV-5fvPX6fgjCyV0UKfwemBcpR3YVT8HyydEcgzoR6ti2q7ZzJ0bnVLYZZOeNHHOlMfHdXdy_yS3eALZwXLPmli/s792/OCT21%20Sound%20bytes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="612" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicP3-Bf0zQcnTeHFhAyX03-Zv5LdvIVLfVok26bYpR1clfigNmBxJeBkZz8ETthtDx2RJSevX_a0pYfIJSO6_5Qc9wsqCRNvqWsyV-5fvPX6fgjCyV0UKfwemBcpR3YVT8HyydEcgzoR6ti2q7ZzJ0bnVLYZZOeNHHOlMfHdXdy_yS3eALZwXLPmli/w309-h400/OCT21%20Sound%20bytes.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Here's the typewritten list, in case the graphic is too small to read.<div><br /><div>“There has never been a time in the history of the world when <b>knowledge of our Savior</b> is more personally vital and relevant to every human soul.”</div><div>—Russell M Nelson</div><div><br /></div><div>“There is <b>divine help for every one of us</b> at any hour we feel to make a change in our behavior.”</div><div>—Jeffrey R Holland</div><div><br /></div><div>“As we <b>abide in God’s love</b>, we depend less and less on the approval of others to guide us.” —D. Todd Christofferson </div><div><br /></div><div>“His commandments are not grievous—just the opposite. They mark the path of <b>healing, happiness, peace, and joy.</b>” —D. Todd Christofferson</div><div><br /></div><div>“The Lord<b> knows us better and loves us more</b> than we know or love ourselves.” —Gerrit W. Gong</div><div><br /></div><div>“Personal disappointments should never keep us from the doctrine of Christ, who taught us to serve, not to be served.…Church attendance can <b>open our hearts and sanctify our souls</b>.” —Dallin H Oaks</div><div><br /></div><div>“He invites us to look to Him, come unto Him, learn of Him, and <b>bind ourselves to Him</b> through the covenants and ordinances of His restored gospel….And that bond with Him is the source of spiritual strength in every season of our lives.” —David A. Bednar</div><div><br /></div><div>“When we are heavy laden with mistakes, heartaches, feelings of inadequacy, disappointment, anger, or sin, the power of the <b>Savior’s Atonement</b> is, by divine design, one of the things that <b>lifts the soul</b>.” —Ronald A Rasband</div><div><br /></div><div>“…[We live] the gospel by <b>seeking divine direction each day</b>, striving to be worthy, then doing our best to follow that direction when it comes.”—Gary Stevenson</div><div><br /></div><div><b>“Lovest thou me more than these?”</b></div><div>—Relating this question to ourselves in our day, the Lord may be asking us about how busy we are and about the many positive and negative influences competing for our attention and our time.” </div><div>—M Russell Ballard</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>“<b>The Savior will not shout commands</b>…faith will also have brought the Savior’s softening touch enough for us to hear His direction and be determined and excited to obey.” —Henry B Eyring</div><div><br /></div><div>“<b>We need an ongoing, daily infusion of heavenly light</b>....When darkness creeps into our lives, as it often does, our daily restoration opens our hearts to heavenly light, which illuminates our souls, chasing away shadows, fears, and doubts.”</div><div>—Dieter F Uchtdorf </div><div><br /></div><div>“When <b>love of Christ </b>envelops our lives, we approach disagreements with meekness, patience, and kindness.” —Dale Renlund</div><div><br /></div><div>“…<b>Personal peace</b> can be achieved despite the anger, contention, and division that blight and corrupt our world today. It has never been more important to seek personal peace.” —Quentin L Cook</div><div><br /></div><div>“The doctrine of Christ is <b>unchanging and everlasting</b>. Yet specific and important steps of the Savior’s work are revealed at their appropriate time.” —Neil L Anderson</div><div><br /></div><div>“It is now time that we each implement <b>extraordinary measures</b>—perhaps measures we have never taken before—to strengthen our personal spiritual foundations. Unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures.”—Pres. Russell M Nelson</div><div><br /></div><div>“<b>Now the question is, how will we be different because of what we have heard and felt</b>?”—Pres. Russell M Nelson</div><p><i>Note: While I just collected a sentence or two from every talk, I still found it far too voluminous to post, so I narrowed my list down to just these few insights from the prophet and apostles. Let me know in the comments if you're interested in the complete list. You can also let me know if you'd like a printable PDF of the graphic. </i></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-92159948413754905552021-12-13T20:23:00.129-07:002022-05-02T00:19:14.891-06:00What a Miracle Looks Like (Sometimes)<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>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.</i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Prologue: </b>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.</span><p></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Fast-forward three months.</b> 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.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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!</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next day she still wasn’t feeling well, and spent most of the afternoon on the couch, sipping more tea.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My dad and bonus mom scheduled a separate Thanksgiving dinner the Sunday <i>before </i>Thanksgiving for our side of the extended family. My mother-in-law planned her Thanksgiving for the Sunday <i>after</i> 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. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuvIBrqwEUFmVlB05a1Kwb57iOqncvy9v5xGsipQEYDM30YlbYSdbTiWLcMsPgZAeAFvYrWpPtB4QjzMeka_DHN9aN7Ap4dVbFgZBAsL-26Vs5B4_mnO6_U1nYljg_f6mC7U4_KZRQ6-Gp3eqXOkHryEn-5XNrF382UhZYKjF0kN9G2hw9vPaxEHJm/s4032/IMG_5171.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1596" data-original-width="4032" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuvIBrqwEUFmVlB05a1Kwb57iOqncvy9v5xGsipQEYDM30YlbYSdbTiWLcMsPgZAeAFvYrWpPtB4QjzMeka_DHN9aN7Ap4dVbFgZBAsL-26Vs5B4_mnO6_U1nYljg_f6mC7U4_KZRQ6-Gp3eqXOkHryEn-5XNrF382UhZYKjF0kN9G2hw9vPaxEHJm/w400-h159/IMG_5171.JPEG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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!”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjns-lxFiFhAo5E9nFBM88nTvwl7-d6VkepdDQIOzBx-egr5l0I1GRGWV_TvDKYQwOUKBK86vxGxmH5QMDljfqsQ1vJJQIK3O3CPG8QL1PZZ6DekwByalzotB74sGsoVwt1jJP6-_LBwlt8tP9TMjsTkrlpaTKJkwnskeAqNxY1V2meBrOm6wmHqlYr/s4032/IMG_3158.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjns-lxFiFhAo5E9nFBM88nTvwl7-d6VkepdDQIOzBx-egr5l0I1GRGWV_TvDKYQwOUKBK86vxGxmH5QMDljfqsQ1vJJQIK3O3CPG8QL1PZZ6DekwByalzotB74sGsoVwt1jJP6-_LBwlt8tP9TMjsTkrlpaTKJkwnskeAqNxY1V2meBrOm6wmHqlYr/s320/IMG_3158.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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 <a href="https://inst.cr/t/RFM0MVNYTG5S" target="_blank">InstaCart</a> came to my rescue with nasal spray and a syringe and sippy cups and diapers and all the things. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then it dawned on me — their flight that mysteriously booted them off was scheduled for Monday morning. <b>That very morning.</b> 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. <b>It was a miracle. </b></span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">That extra Sunday Thanksgiving dinner I was grousing about? Turned out to be the <i>only</i> time we spent with extended family. I was so grateful they held it when they did. We had a wonderful time.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.)</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. <b>A godsend. </b>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.</span></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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! </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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 <i>because I was teaching online again this semester,</i> I was able to do that on my iPad from their apartment. <b>Another miracle.</b> </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Epilogue:</b><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>I know this perspective may not last forever, </i></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">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 </span><b style="font-family: georgia;">everything is a blessing in disguise, and many of these so-called annoyances are actually straight-up miracles.</b></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdOSu1uWKp763W89zHXg_zkdy3UqFzyZDkGbqcUvwTX4pu8C2aSHzfoJ6TXkihKxzXWiH-yiQDmJwpscjIl3Qqa82qowUTyrG8jcyQ7Y8vpCySRdNxXqBX8skPdxuft7HwFR_1hPk0vsNidVrEeqcXw1liHXBYOiqa_7LJ-IrNLzdeegJYZyUsY3x/s1624/H&W%20Dec2022.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1624" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdOSu1uWKp763W89zHXg_zkdy3UqFzyZDkGbqcUvwTX4pu8C2aSHzfoJ6TXkihKxzXWiH-yiQDmJwpscjIl3Qqa82qowUTyrG8jcyQ7Y8vpCySRdNxXqBX8skPdxuft7HwFR_1hPk0vsNidVrEeqcXw1liHXBYOiqa_7LJ-IrNLzdeegJYZyUsY3x/w400-h293/H&W%20Dec2022.jpg" width="400" /></a>Happy, healthy children are one of the best miracles from all of this!</i></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenpeHJ01FqBSnMsliyT8m40Xjj8hmNlawfxyPpvX5AlDbW2UBx21n4vrh_-DiOPWGUMANWFc-iz7KBDtFjZ8dycz8kdjMDMb8fP6-JSKrsYDmh93sO-AEXVVjltj5koafJqjcD8-BFNbPh9otqakRxoBBBwyWeU3LHoU5LCYFUESCxxUpEZih9lcD/s4032/IMG_7591.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenpeHJ01FqBSnMsliyT8m40Xjj8hmNlawfxyPpvX5AlDbW2UBx21n4vrh_-DiOPWGUMANWFc-iz7KBDtFjZ8dycz8kdjMDMb8fP6-JSKrsYDmh93sO-AEXVVjltj5koafJqjcD8-BFNbPh9otqakRxoBBBwyWeU3LHoU5LCYFUESCxxUpEZih9lcD/w400-h300/IMG_7591.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>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!</i></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-56453949917217563792021-11-23T16:02:00.012-07:002021-11-26T12:49:32.282-07:00Our Thanksgiving Table Expands...Along With Our Hearts<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOmpO4aeG2TwP0EuwX4xehyphenhyphenXXEqf-LcBgyhkqeqlvvQ2DrVAsbk5WMMRh2dmLZZHS3QI46ylRVQvYXIqdWhbIfW0lm6MUbHezEcMDdfPDRT2bbTIy_2Lz4WYnTD_lJru5Zx4tBXP3pTPk/s2048/Grandma+Winters+%2526+Jana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1799" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOmpO4aeG2TwP0EuwX4xehyphenhyphenXXEqf-LcBgyhkqeqlvvQ2DrVAsbk5WMMRh2dmLZZHS3QI46ylRVQvYXIqdWhbIfW0lm6MUbHezEcMDdfPDRT2bbTIy_2Lz4WYnTD_lJru5Zx4tBXP3pTPk/w351-h400/Grandma+Winters+%2526+Jana.jpg" width="351" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br />The Thanksgiving table is steeped in tradition. </b>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.</span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdTq6_Lq8mMITR9ZpoCoY1et47SMSoo021mnU9RdOcVzUtxIaMzLOFHIwHiU0LMFthdUe6XPanNZF_hWtPabB-JsBpNLKaCY3z_9ft34_8ApkMswyuTy6cf6sjizfVpHApGQ-t1eE9qY/s2048/IMG_0835.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdTq6_Lq8mMITR9ZpoCoY1et47SMSoo021mnU9RdOcVzUtxIaMzLOFHIwHiU0LMFthdUe6XPanNZF_hWtPabB-JsBpNLKaCY3z_9ft34_8ApkMswyuTy6cf6sjizfVpHApGQ-t1eE9qY/s320/IMG_0835.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>On my dad’s side of the family</b>, 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.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsgXFpExTc4dgYJMEzRwb9Mrd6TfxmkAFB2iO47xxLSROsj_5i736NlojiY04QSu66AIkYcfitnDrhTh-RBXGC2qqUE4QWBWghiQKnS-RQiHMTLIqt997oyHm-nCbz5V_Ig_2tMRdrmc/s2048/Dad%2527s+Midway+hayride+painting.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1457" data-original-width="2048" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsgXFpExTc4dgYJMEzRwb9Mrd6TfxmkAFB2iO47xxLSROsj_5i736NlojiY04QSu66AIkYcfitnDrhTh-RBXGC2qqUE4QWBWghiQKnS-RQiHMTLIqt997oyHm-nCbz5V_Ig_2tMRdrmc/s320/Dad%2527s+Midway+hayride+painting.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>On my mom’s side of the family</b>, 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 <i>Whos down in Whoville</i>, we would all sing Christmas carols in rich, four-part harmony. </span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDiqOOZsDSo-jDHdL5GWimkWAcCcCkgg7DGcQ20sdsDbVDvKgHeI6Q68RbUxMvconJn325VH53zC_3ZeSh8JlZI8W9hDgQRJOnPllYR_WR7ZMSVrq50OhxSTFtKUip5MeHUCyPGOJsZQ/s2048/00117.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1442" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDiqOOZsDSo-jDHdL5GWimkWAcCcCkgg7DGcQ20sdsDbVDvKgHeI6Q68RbUxMvconJn325VH53zC_3ZeSh8JlZI8W9hDgQRJOnPllYR_WR7ZMSVrq50OhxSTFtKUip5MeHUCyPGOJsZQ/s320/00117.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Admittedly, I was raised in a rather magical Thanksgiving Wonderland</b>, 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. <b>My mom adopted Thanksgiving as <i>her</i> holiday</b>, hosting it at our house </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">annually</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. 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.</span></div><div><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg60zL5C_JrWpaQ0m8c_nD641snB2dlfaP4U8UBXcO7zzILdWkN3ZDBUDun2LA-WXmGRav2vj7UNXuG-aUHvUR81z6AQsLPtSX5staGhtOa3H8FjXpft3zvPttzt9Y91k3NOItML-zpM0/s2048/img08272020_212.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1445" data-original-width="2048" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg60zL5C_JrWpaQ0m8c_nD641snB2dlfaP4U8UBXcO7zzILdWkN3ZDBUDun2LA-WXmGRav2vj7UNXuG-aUHvUR81z6AQsLPtSX5staGhtOa3H8FjXpft3zvPttzt9Y91k3NOItML-zpM0/s320/img08272020_212.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>After I married and moved from Utah to California</b>, 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. )</span></span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODO-sKdNjwWod_NvoGeWfqZDsv5aL4S4j5fj6dwKSkXL3yydvBHE_kMgusgWT0Uc9-A0AURxFmw13SLs0n3dH_1-UnxvQukMQI1T-MiAQzQUoS7fPuqmCCbEPOAt-blreVWlajIzPck8/s2048/IMG_7549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1346" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODO-sKdNjwWod_NvoGeWfqZDsv5aL4S4j5fj6dwKSkXL3yydvBHE_kMgusgWT0Uc9-A0AURxFmw13SLs0n3dH_1-UnxvQukMQI1T-MiAQzQUoS7fPuqmCCbEPOAt-blreVWlajIzPck8/s320/IMG_7549.jpg" width="210" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>After dinner we went to the beach</b> 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. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>In three generations of Thanksgiving dinners</b>, on both sides of the family, the one thing in common is what was notably absent: <b>Yams</b>. 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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Imagine our shock</b> 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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And, as you may have guessed, <b>we also love Ginny</b>. 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. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>When our daughter was invited to her new in-laws’</b> 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. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>For Jordan’s husband, Austin</b>, 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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>I remember my first time joining my husband’s Dansie family for Thanksgiving</b>, 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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5kQJvZmykdzeaYisVh9aQFE6sKkf8eiqQ_hPyIXHnwrha8V62sbJ1K-C-CfVNgsx45ZfC-vO3iaqhdnZWBz70q8t9h4zG2wkPmmaNAQHjTtFnW7w1SrWMnGq-N4NPsZkcq80qZeZB8A/s2048/Alma+Haleman+Dansie.horse+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1342" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5kQJvZmykdzeaYisVh9aQFE6sKkf8eiqQ_hPyIXHnwrha8V62sbJ1K-C-CfVNgsx45ZfC-vO3iaqhdnZWBz70q8t9h4zG2wkPmmaNAQHjTtFnW7w1SrWMnGq-N4NPsZkcq80qZeZB8A/s320/Alma+Haleman+Dansie.horse+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHsJV4BP2bsgFptFqz4iA7jv_1T9kjPKuwVc7-opoR7lm60zuAuUMZYdDMB3Z2XD7mQrzAkOC4G5cIOAMHVZ9KAo2KE6Z59yoPJ-FmqojDHx9BVlyioWdavXi1VS4hyphenhyphenr27KsQzhEgJV0/s779/Dansie+Store+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="779" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHsJV4BP2bsgFptFqz4iA7jv_1T9kjPKuwVc7-opoR7lm60zuAuUMZYdDMB3Z2XD7mQrzAkOC4G5cIOAMHVZ9KAo2KE6Z59yoPJ-FmqojDHx9BVlyioWdavXi1VS4hyphenhyphenr27KsQzhEgJV0/s320/Dansie+Store+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />My mother-in-law </b>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 </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>My in-laws have also graciously accepted</b> 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 <b>the next sister-in-law, Angie, came into the family</b>, 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 <i>because</i> 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 <i>hers</i>. 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!</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>My younger sister experienced a somewhat bumpier transition</b> 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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6OPx5KcK2cDnIpVN7gavam16FCQUi_Ayq3cfb1ht3MTsx5z-fnf0Wrya0QaewUBoQE2dIa5DSN0HThDioI72Kve7AiKQ5byQ5yDeYQV8pqNVxc3ZCilbIcnnaXNcFaQVgokeUh-VhLg/s2048/IMG_0628.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6OPx5KcK2cDnIpVN7gavam16FCQUi_Ayq3cfb1ht3MTsx5z-fnf0Wrya0QaewUBoQE2dIa5DSN0HThDioI72Kve7AiKQ5byQ5yDeYQV8pqNVxc3ZCilbIcnnaXNcFaQVgokeUh-VhLg/s320/IMG_0628.HEIC" width="240" /></a></b></span></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br />Decades later</b>, 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.</span></span><p></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>In October of 2000</b> 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.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hope never to repeat the unfortunate circumstances that precipitated that rare Thanksgiving feast, but I have often rekindled the warmth and deep gratitude.</span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Above all</b>, 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. </span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>*Recipes included in my cookbook, </i>Kitchen Alchemy<i>, available <a href="https://www.janaparkin.com/store/p20/kitchen-alchemy-combination-creation-transformation.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></span></span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><div>Captions:</div></div><div><i>Me asleep with Grandma Winters, for the cover of the Salt Lake Tribune on Thanksgiving Day.</i></div><div><i>My student-era painting of my grandma's table at Christmas (grandpa's chef's hat visible)</i></div><div><span style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;">My dad's painting of the horse-drawn hayride in Midway.</span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><i>My grandma standing next to the table at my mom's house for Thanksgiving.</i></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><i>An early California Thanksgiving, at our house in the 'hood, circa 1990.</i></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><i>Our walk along the beach after </i></span><i>Thanksgiving dinner, also circa 1990.</i></div><div><i>Bonnie's grandfather, Alma "Hale" Dansie, with grandchildren on horse.</i></div><div><i>Dansie's Place family-run restaurant and store.</i></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><i>Our Amish </i></span><i>dining room table, expanded to seat 20 for Thanksgiving.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-70253286741394209042021-02-22T13:12:00.001-07:002021-02-22T13:12:16.511-07:00Stand As A Witness<p><i>Last week we read in Doctrine and Covenants Section 14:</i></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">If you shall ask the Father...</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">you shall receive the </span><span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Holy Ghost...</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">that you may <b>stand as a </b></span><span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>witness</b></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"> of the things of which you shall both </span><span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">hear</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"> and see...</span></blockquote><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"></span><p></p><p>Since then I've been pondering what it means to <b>stand as a witness</b>, and this experience came to mind: </p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>everal 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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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: <b>Your primary purpose while there is to be a witness for the Savior. </b></p><p>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.</p><p>Then I received even more specific instruction: <i>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.</i></p><p>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. <b>It wasn't about me; it was about Him. </b><b>It wasn't about the curriculum, it was about the Creator. </b></p><p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZCx8HXtOkYJAY8LzJ5DPSFhOeMtbTOwxOtsg5D2u8lX_SkKR9H9bOMEWpownfCTVdvRax97_M_i46TURgSAnKQZRvb0V_M54gzZX1FIedns7g5Z2gBzUdPpUL1vJT8t0h-72p8nJS30/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1530" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZCx8HXtOkYJAY8LzJ5DPSFhOeMtbTOwxOtsg5D2u8lX_SkKR9H9bOMEWpownfCTVdvRax97_M_i46TURgSAnKQZRvb0V_M54gzZX1FIedns7g5Z2gBzUdPpUL1vJT8t0h-72p8nJS30/w298-h400/CR+2013-2.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOeS2-7F6A35huhWuyCzi3jJeyXJ3p2aMNiV2YDvJT7dhsqy5DpIVqdDLgDuJ3kXTmOGot2MUzBXbSeg8jamifvqzip8NU7YS-aw_LvAM5l7-1MZx0z0yeiTAbdex1pmjtkKFxEfqsAc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1530" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOeS2-7F6A35huhWuyCzi3jJeyXJ3p2aMNiV2YDvJT7dhsqy5DpIVqdDLgDuJ3kXTmOGot2MUzBXbSeg8jamifvqzip8NU7YS-aw_LvAM5l7-1MZx0z0yeiTAbdex1pmjtkKFxEfqsAc/w298-h400/CR+2013+1.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /></div></div></div></div></div><p></p><p>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.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsyCm-Qzg13cKeyTIyvABSPQy-GYWYXHANEPe8M50hI1rSLu99MtbA63WU-C7Ye1NWrnMqHdE3DCpXiLYzj5D5bmb_7LqwtUrnUVa4QkQ01jLoWnM7BRXRnphjpyJ0qerA9uaYOaSJriI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="672" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsyCm-Qzg13cKeyTIyvABSPQy-GYWYXHANEPe8M50hI1rSLu99MtbA63WU-C7Ye1NWrnMqHdE3DCpXiLYzj5D5bmb_7LqwtUrnUVa4QkQ01jLoWnM7BRXRnphjpyJ0qerA9uaYOaSJriI/w263-h400/PAR02CapitolReef.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>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. </p><p><br /></p><p>At the end of Section 14 it says, </p><blockquote><p class="verse" data-aid="128365457" id="p9" style="--height: 80.6875px; -webkit-hyphenate-limit-after: 3; -webkit-hyphenate-limit-before: 4; -webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0.65em; vertical-align: baseline;">Behold, I am <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Jesus Christ</span>, the <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Son</span> of the <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">living God</span>, who <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">created</span> the heavens and the <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">earth</span>, a <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">light</span> which cannot be hid in <span class="study-note-ref hidden-163M6" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary, var(--black)); font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">darkness</span>...</p><p class="verse" data-aid="128365458" id="p10" style="--height: 57.6875px; -webkit-hyphenate-limit-after: 3; -webkit-hyphenate-limit-before: 4; -webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0.65em; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">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. </span></p></blockquote><p>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. </p><p>I hope I can remember and be ever mindful of our constant responsibility to <b>stand as a witness</b>. And that when I remove myself from the equation and focus singularly on that ideal, amazing things result.<br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-42292450145508320342021-02-21T16:11:00.005-07:002021-02-21T16:11:41.751-07:00One Touch With the Finger of His Love<p> 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.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmnOE2vNh0moPbzlO9SNTiZnT-0zOyWSCfwP2euC6P2Ie3f-bSx6q0gEMqpqMv2PAgzv8wWkjaw9yvj4UDHDxf5xcgIa-HNWtNIuHjxpohe6UeSXvSjclmH4SuezaW0bcFjev_eU0D-CM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmnOE2vNh0moPbzlO9SNTiZnT-0zOyWSCfwP2euC6P2Ie3f-bSx6q0gEMqpqMv2PAgzv8wWkjaw9yvj4UDHDxf5xcgIa-HNWtNIuHjxpohe6UeSXvSjclmH4SuezaW0bcFjev_eU0D-CM/" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br />Talking to Jordan about this feat of nature reminded me of when I delivered <i>her</i>, 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. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfX0FyHfClXgzeDKJLhdWn_myZ27UE_JxOUPstgnRCPctjaCcOzfafKdt4f2puilq16xLgi-JXfWAhaY1iPcIJtpuCWf8d-nolKQWudoIh2OFU0SKVEpWFq4FnJIb0TYvxsRPX6caKes/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="767" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfX0FyHfClXgzeDKJLhdWn_myZ27UE_JxOUPstgnRCPctjaCcOzfafKdt4f2puilq16xLgi-JXfWAhaY1iPcIJtpuCWf8d-nolKQWudoIh2OFU0SKVEpWFq4FnJIb0TYvxsRPX6caKes/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div></div><blockquote><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">These were days never to be forgotten...</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">What joy! what wonder! what amazement!</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">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;</span></div></blockquote><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div>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...</div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"></span></div><blockquote><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;">--but <b>one touch with the finger of his love</b>, yes, <b>one ray of glory </b>from the upper world, or one word from the mouth of the Savior, from the bosom of eternity,<b> strikes it all into insignificance, and blots it forever from the mind</b>.</span></div><div><br /></div><div></div></blockquote><div>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:</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino-Roman, Pahoran, "Pahoran ldsLat", "Noto Sans Myanmar", NotoSansMyanmar, SaysetthaldsLao, NotoSerifTamil, serif; font-size: 18px;"><blockquote>I shall ever look upon this expression of the Savior’s goodness with wonder and thanksgiving...</blockquote></span></div><div>If that doesn't describe the moment of becoming a grandmother perfectly, I don't know what does!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdDpUtUhJ1IdGhZWb1K2y-MeOaXcSqgFAvK14yW18PGLmZgcaP7yfjfwCabNY6XHdGlDztGd7kkECUyF2hey2iL_xCSyI_sjq_1pznSUdgf9FX4mFxrTyjXPEJhxas71-YEgp5W_D_8Gg/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1387" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdDpUtUhJ1IdGhZWb1K2y-MeOaXcSqgFAvK14yW18PGLmZgcaP7yfjfwCabNY6XHdGlDztGd7kkECUyF2hey2iL_xCSyI_sjq_1pznSUdgf9FX4mFxrTyjXPEJhxas71-YEgp5W_D_8Gg/" width="163" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT76sHL7dOqGcZpc2_EPe3-yAgJH_q54f5vtHTZK7eCE5y3tSl_R5VO2Vk7gCo3o5mSiYlf5RDVWJreHnM2_RjlTDrdh2fyVhucu9xpa4FoshYIgzGmjTlp8vDfqxvN62VIpd67nMY3yE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT76sHL7dOqGcZpc2_EPe3-yAgJH_q54f5vtHTZK7eCE5y3tSl_R5VO2Vk7gCo3o5mSiYlf5RDVWJreHnM2_RjlTDrdh2fyVhucu9xpa4FoshYIgzGmjTlp8vDfqxvN62VIpd67nMY3yE/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-14641735668239942542020-10-05T13:14:00.000-06:002021-02-22T13:15:13.225-07:00To Restore<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love the word RESTORE.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">According to Webster's, the word</span> <span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 0.3px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">restore </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.3px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">means</span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 0.3px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">:</span><br />
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<li><span class="mw_t_bc" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #212529; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">: </span><a class="mw_t_sx" href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/give%20back" style="background-image: linear-gradient(to right, rgb(151, 190, 206) 100%, transparent 0px); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; background-size: 3px 1px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="text-uppercase" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: normal; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">GIVE BACK</span></a><span style="color: #212529; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">, </span><span class="text-uppercase" style="background-image: linear-gradient(to right, rgb(151, 190, 206) 100%, transparent 0px); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; background-size: 3px 1px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: normal; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;"><a class="mw_t_sx" href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/return" style="background-image: linear-gradient(to right, rgb(151, 190, 206) 100%, transparent 0px); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; background-size: 3px 1px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">RETURN</a></span></li>
<li style="color: #212529; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span class="sb-0" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 15px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="dt" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="mw_t_bc" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">: </span><span style="font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">to put or bring back into existence or use</span></span></span></li>
<li style="color: #212529; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span class="sb-0" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 15px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="dt" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="mw_t_bc" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">: </span><span style="font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">to bring back to or put back into a former or original state </span><span class="mw_t_bc" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">: </span><span class="text-uppercase" style="background-image: linear-gradient(to right, rgb(151, 190, 206) 100%, transparent 0px); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; background-size: 3px 1px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: normal; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;"><a class="mw_t_sx" href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/renew" style="background-image: linear-gradient(to right, rgb(151, 190, 206) 100%, transparent 0px); background-position: 0px 1.15em; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; background-size: 3px 1px; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #265667; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">RENEW</a></span></span></span></li>
<li style="color: #212529; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span class="sb-0" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 15px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="dt" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="mw_t_bc" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">: </span><span style="font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">to put again in possession of something</span></span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My grandpa loved to <b>restore</b> antique furniture. He would follow my grandma to antique stores and cart home old, worn (sometimes dilapidated) tables and chairs, take them back to his garage, then lovingly sand, stain and oil them by hand until they shone like new, their rich wood color and grain enhanced. Sometimes Grandma would embroider new seats for the chairs, adding her special touch to the project. Then they'd put the renewed furniture in their living room, or gift the pieces to one of us...so the item was not only renewed, but put back in use. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjwPO2mDtOKu7edNeq0FLmIEoyALSho8XEfAlo96Ef4msO7A41Z9LRX-mPr1RmtLVYWH6JcaRRnMbbdvIqfh4HdS4JcT3-gWV9ojCclPDWhuhHHn3OHWC0qjdact9SpypAD8-V2Xq7Ug/s1600/1003+Atchison+St1aSM.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjwPO2mDtOKu7edNeq0FLmIEoyALSho8XEfAlo96Ef4msO7A41Z9LRX-mPr1RmtLVYWH6JcaRRnMbbdvIqfh4HdS4JcT3-gWV9ojCclPDWhuhHHn3OHWC0qjdact9SpypAD8-V2Xq7Ug/s320/1003+Atchison+St1aSM.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When we upgraded from our starter house we bought a gracious two-story Craftsman home designed by Sylvanus Marston. Many referred to it as the "crown jewel of the neighborhood." Built in 1908, the house needed a lot of work. We walked in and immediately fell in love with its potential. We then spent every weekend working to <b>restore</b> it to its original Pasadena charm. We did careful research into what hardware and materials were best suited to the original time period. We looked at styles of the era and made sure that what we selected in terms of color and fabrics was in line with former trends. Three years later we opened our doors for a neighborhood home tour. It was immensely satisfying to see the home we saw in our minds <b>restored </b>to its former beauty, yet improved with modern updates.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In each case, <b>restoration</b> involved great respect for the character of the original, down to the minutest detail. Something was also added, to make the restored product both personal and relevant to today, as well as honoring the past. Each attempt at restoration, no matter how beautiful the end product, was attempted by mere mortals and bears traces of both time and humanness.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #303336; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">When Jesus was on earth, prior to his ministry he worked as a carpenter. He, like my grandpa, loved to fix that which was broken, to </span><span style="color: #303336; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(48, 51, 54); letter-spacing: 0.20000000298023224px;">mend, and restore hearts, families, and the world.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the scriptures, the word <b>restore</b> also refers to the resurrection, when our lifeless bodies will be restored to their former shape and function, only better, perfected. One major addition: immortality. Oh, how I love the concept of <b>restoration</b>, and the hope that it gives to each of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am a member of the <b>Church of Jesus Christ </b>of Latter-day Saints. We believe that our church is a modern-day <b>restoration</b> of the church Jesus set up while he was here on earth. It includes a living <b>prophet</b>, just as in biblical times, and <b>twelve apostles</b>, called and ordained, the way Jesus Christ established his church during his earthly ministry. These men are called to be special witnesses of the Savior. We believe God talks to our prophet just like he talked to Moses, Noah, Abraham and Isaiah anciently. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We also believe that over centuries, both the authority and some important truth from Christ's original church was lost. Every one of Jesus' apostles was killed. Secular rulers and monarchs manipulated the doctrine to fit their personal whims. Some hired translators to rewrite the words of the Bible to suit their personal ideologies. Gospel scholars like Tyndale were labeled heretics and martyred for bringing forth more accurate translations and/or pointing out flaws in the church's teachings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For that reason, God the Father initiated the <b>promised restoration</b> (foretold by prophets anciently) by answering a young farm boy's prayer and instructing him to listen to his Son. Jesus told young Joseph that he should join none of the existing churches, but that he would be instrumental in <b>restoring</b> Jesus's own true church to the earth.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-10826786065036926792020-09-29T23:22:00.002-06:002020-09-30T14:25:07.805-06:00Encircled.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJaZdgdJcxwwJjkOW2J3P4dtaEBc6X6yQUa6iRorTyuFPgDI63aiH67iPfiMJgE9BFFVKoLX-xiIwXjVwycxCi2ZLglv99oxxdcZoOPmyZi8UmvHtn6WchsYIkK7okv7DBcpxKmDuOgI/s2048/Encircled+by+Fire.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1517" data-original-width="2048" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJaZdgdJcxwwJjkOW2J3P4dtaEBc6X6yQUa6iRorTyuFPgDI63aiH67iPfiMJgE9BFFVKoLX-xiIwXjVwycxCi2ZLglv99oxxdcZoOPmyZi8UmvHtn6WchsYIkK7okv7DBcpxKmDuOgI/w400-h296/Encircled+by+Fire.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">People often ask me if I have any religious paintings. The truth is, they are all religious, they are all a form of worship for me. Even the wildest landscape will usually have strong spiritual underpinnings, not the least of which is emulating the Creator. Yes, I have <a href="https://www.janaparkin.com/store/c9/temples" target="_blank">paintings of temples</a> and even a portrait of the Savior. But that doesn’t detract from the deeply spiritual meanings behind all of my paintings, often revealed or at least alluded to in their titles. For those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. </span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/manual/come-follow-me-for-individuals-and-families-book-of-mormon-2020/39?lang=eng" target="_blank">This week’s scripture reading</a> contains the intersection of meaning and inspiration behind this painting, <i>Encircled</i>. Yesterday I read <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/scriptures/bofm/3-ne/17?lang=eng" target="_blank">one of the most beautiful accounts of the Savior</a>, witnessed by thousands, where he calls for the humblest, most vulnerable members of the multitude to be brought to him...first for those "afflicted in any way", that he might heal them, and then he calls for the children. He prays to the Father and blesses them, with language more beautiful than they had ever before heard or imagined. He blesses each child, one by one. He weeps, twice. He experiences a fulness of joy. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Angels descend from heaven in a pillar of fire and encircle the children. It is clear that they are being blessed, protected, and that they are valued beyond measure. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBf1aumaOUfSWptLDYjygz2Dx1GV2sffJB1ItZERxqN_hvO2BoN7bKN1DrfBmXt7BIGlGavkAKoH2XsBZh41krPiYZ0wGP4qAiCAQ0bxGlMqio_ocx1XUe3Tuj7oE0E5akAzlrps__tg/s2048/Sundance+Stream.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1406" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBf1aumaOUfSWptLDYjygz2Dx1GV2sffJB1ItZERxqN_hvO2BoN7bKN1DrfBmXt7BIGlGavkAKoH2XsBZh41krPiYZ0wGP4qAiCAQ0bxGlMqio_ocx1XUe3Tuj7oE0E5akAzlrps__tg/w138-h200/Sundance+Stream.jpg" width="138" /></a></div>I began this painting as a brief sketch and a <a href="https://www.janaparkin.com/store/p59/plein-air-fall.html">plein air painting</a>, which I ended up calling <i>Stream of Light</i>. While I was standing on a bridge painting the glorious back-lit autumn leaves and the stream below, a handful of teenage girls walked into the scene. The overhanging leaves encircled them like a giant halo. I reached for my camera. I knew immediately that this would make an important painting, and I knew what its title would be. I finished my plein air painting on site, but this was a larger studio painting, based on the earlier experience. It took a little more than a year to complete. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the scripture story Jesus says, “Behold your little ones.” Granted, a group of teenagers wouldn’t necessarily be thought of as <i>little </i>ones. But which of our children most desperately need to know they are valued? Need the Savior’s protection? and blessings and love? Teenagers. Definitely.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another favorite scripture including the word <i>encircled </i></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">is found in 2 Nephi 1:15. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><blockquote><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I have beheld his </span><a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/#note15b" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-link, var(--info40)); font-family: georgia;">glory</a><span style="font-family: georgia;">, and I am </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">encircled</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> about eternally in the </span><a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/#note15c" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-link, var(--info40)); font-family: georgia;">arms</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;"> of his </span><a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/#note15d" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-link, var(--info40)); font-family: georgia;">love</a><span style="font-family: georgia;">.” </span></i></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;">That is how I felt that autumn morning as I stood there taking in this scene at Sundance. The Lord’s glory was everywhere. I felt it. I felt Him. And I felt his love surround me in warmth and light. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">That is the kind of meaning behind just one of my paintings. This is an award-winner, a large, visual statement-maker. But to me it represents a spiritual experience, a couple of favorite scriptures, and being embraced by the love of the Lord. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="https://www.janaparkin.com/store/p58/September%27s_Featured_Painting%3A_Encircled_by_Fire.html">Encircled</a> </i>is September’s Painting of the Month, on sale for 20% off, framed and ready to hang, and fill your home with spirit and light.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-48428945782128404902020-05-05T09:50:00.002-06:002020-05-05T09:50:42.275-06:00A love note from my Mother It's my mother's birthday today. She would be 83. But she passed away when she was just 54. Nearly 30 years ago. <br />
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I love that her birthday is right between May Day and Mother's Day. It's a two week mom-fest of flowers and memories. One thing I especially love about my mom is how humble she was, despite her amazingness. Nothing was about her. She loved to point the spotlight on others. She had the sweetest birthday tradition of sending flowers to her mother, to thank her for bringing her into the world.<br />
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Mom's favorite flowers were daisies. A perfect symbol for her. Bright, cheerful, and humble.<br />
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Today I'm sharing a note she wrote to her mother, on her birthday. It's dated May 5, 1981. My cousin Adrienne brought me this note when we moved here from California, 15 years ago. I was so touched that she had it, and had saved it for me. And now I'm sharing it with you. In a small attempt to honor my mother. So much love wrapped up in one little hand-written note!<br />
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<i>Mother Dear -- </i></blockquote>
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<i>I love you. I always love you, but on my birthday I guess I love you just a little bit more. I'm thinking about the past 44 years and wonder where or what I'd have been if you had given up after six children. </i></blockquote>
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<i>I can't imagine living with someone who didn't love Christmas and bells and beautiful dishes and parties and family togetherness. </i></blockquote>
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<i>I shudder to think of growing up with someone who didn't haveth patience to tolerate my adolescence' who didn't understand my need to stay home from school occasionally to clear out the clutter in my head; or who didn't play the piano and encourage me to learn, and then turn over to the her prized privilege of accompanying Daddy. </i></blockquote>
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<i>I needed a mother who could build me and make me feel capable of anything, one who could show me by example the things you can accomplish when you trust in the Lotd and do your best. I needed a mother to show me that being a good wife is being a listener and confidant, a supporter and builder a value for pressure release, and at the same tie growing intellectually and spiritually to stand by his side. </i></blockquote>
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<i>Mostly, where could I have found a mother who could teach me to love my Heavenly Father, that nothing is as important as the gospel of Jesus Christ -- and to do it by example as well as precept. </i></blockquote>
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<i>Boy am I glad I got you! </i></blockquote>
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<i>Love,<br />Susan</i></blockquote>
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Thank you, Mom, for your enduring example of kindness, devotion, humility, and pure goodness. I love you so much. I'm especially grateful for those times when I can still feel you nearby, feel your guiding influence and support, from clear across the universe.<br />
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These flowers, titled "Mom's Birthday Daisies" are for you! xoxoxUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-46114328105463422232020-04-03T17:44:00.000-06:002020-04-04T00:54:50.612-06:00Now More than Ever...A Sanctuary of Faith<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Last January I was invited to create a poster for our stake (similar to diocese) women's conference. As soon as I hung up the phone an image came to me. I could see it so clearly in my head I called my friend and described it to her over the phone. The theme of the conference was Sanctuary of Faith. Recently, our <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/prophets-and-apostles/meet-todays-prophets-and-apostles/bio/russell-m-nelson?lang=eng">prophet</a> had encouraged us to "<a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2018/10/becoming-exemplary-latter-day-saints?lang=eng">remodel our homes into Sanctuaries of Faith</a>." </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Instantly I knew the poster needed to have a home inscribed over a temple. I knew it was inspired.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I wish the execution of it came to me as easily as the idea did. It took weeks to research different temples, different houses, different color schemes. And then how to put it all together? This was one of those times where I knew I was being led, and I continued to press forward, trusting that it would all turn out somehow if I was dogged enough. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There were stacks of paper all over my drawing table...sketches, paintings, outlines. Then one day I had to paint a demonstration of a sky for my UVU class. And I knew I needed to finish this project. Then I realized the sky I was practice-painting for my class was actually the perfect backdrop for this Sanctuary image I was working on. I cut out a white paper outline of our Provo City Center Temple, and laid it over the top. A perfect fit. I used the exact same colors from my sky painting to paint some shadows around a simple but welcoming white house. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then there was the nightmare of scanning everything and composing it all digitally. Thank heaven my husband is a technological wizard because this required a massive amount of his wizardry to create the final product. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We had barely printed enough to give each sister in attendance a small photocopied souvenir. Many people asked if they could order prints. People who were at the conference, people who missed it, people from far away who somehow heard about or saw the poster. I started researching ways of reproducing it in a way that would be affordable. (My fine art prints require a $175 color match before the first print is even created. And the cost just goes up from there.) That project quickly fell to the back burner as I prepared to publish and launch my cookbook with an exhibit of the paintings that illustrate the recipes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Fast forward to last week.</b> Who could have imagined a year ago that now all our chapels and temples would be closed, because of the Covid-19 pandemic? That our only sacrament services would be held inside the walls of our own homes? That all of our work <i>and</i> all of our worship would take place here at home? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>It occurred to me that the world needs this image, and needs it now. </b><i>To remind us that our homes can be sanctuaries of faith, that heaven's light can reach us here, and that our light can fill the world.</i> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because we all need a reminder that our homes have now become our primary houses of worship. So a sweeter spirit can prevail. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My husband once again helped me recompose the art as a stand-alone piece, in sizes and proportions that work better for matting and framing. And here it is. A print for which there is no original. The print is the original. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRNEK0jeoySEUQqyCQt71JsN8fVc9D8qBoTb_bIUiXlIYISFwwswslFs8lLeyyEMiUd4RrPLcHoSVmSX3Nzio204zasZyc_Xtrln217Ch6ELeRsysPocIE1ZE0ca8oHfsGuj28J2inl2Q/s1600/Sanctuary+of+Faith+PRINT+w+TYPE+10x13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1232" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRNEK0jeoySEUQqyCQt71JsN8fVc9D8qBoTb_bIUiXlIYISFwwswslFs8lLeyyEMiUd4RrPLcHoSVmSX3Nzio204zasZyc_Xtrln217Ch6ELeRsysPocIE1ZE0ca8oHfsGuj28J2inl2Q/s400/Sanctuary+of+Faith+PRINT+w+TYPE+10x13.jpg" width="307" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We created a version without type as well.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4nuJ_aJPGRsDOerXIOKs5kA8dVNVdgRV_sP8JIPe2wVZePL8HU_0jyBz45UON0Sh18jB7deCLxSwSpdZqNZntJeiKiI4W-3VOB3vOeKQdtKofdZgd_7ag5hlnY6eVKxKL-4OvdPI_5s/s1600/Sanctuary+of+Faith+PRINT+NO+TYPE+smaller+file-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1172" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4nuJ_aJPGRsDOerXIOKs5kA8dVNVdgRV_sP8JIPe2wVZePL8HU_0jyBz45UON0Sh18jB7deCLxSwSpdZqNZntJeiKiI4W-3VOB3vOeKQdtKofdZgd_7ag5hlnY6eVKxKL-4OvdPI_5s/s400/Sanctuary+of+Faith+PRINT+NO+TYPE+smaller+file-2.jpg" width="292" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We found a way to reproduce them that would be more affordable, so I could offer them to you at <i>half the price</i> of my regular fine art prints. Right now, when we need them most. In a very limited edition. Click through to my website, <a href="http://www.janaparkin.com/store/p44/sanctuary-of-faith.html">janaparkin.com</a>, to order the size that's right for you. <span style="background-color: white; color: #626262;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(98, 98, 98);">(If you're local, simply venmo me @ jana-parkin and I'll save your order here for pick-up (no wait time, no shipping!)</span></span><br />
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QUESTION: <i>How have you remodeled your home into a Sanctuary of Faith? I'd love to hear your experiences.</i></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-89270741068212891892020-03-22T15:19:00.004-06:002020-03-22T16:10:17.324-06:00Calling all Modern-Day JosephsThis morning I received an email in my inbox with the subject line: "Calling All Modern Day Josephs." I assumed this was about the prophet Joseph Smith, as we've been focusing on the 200th anniversary of his <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/scriptures/pgp/js-h/1?lang=eng">first vision in the sacred grove</a>.<br />
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Instead, this was an inspiring email from another Christian contact, <a href="https://www.pedroadao.com/">Pedro Adao</a>, recounting the story of <b>Joseph of Egypt</b>, the dreamer and interpreter from the Old Testament. (As the musical, <i><a href="https://www.andrewlloydwebber.com/show/joseph-amazing-technicolor-dreamcoat/">Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat</a></i> tells us, "It's all there in Chapter 39 of Genesis."<br />
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I particularly loved the insight Pedro shared about Joseph:<br />
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"We love the story of Joseph...<br />
But Joseph only had the opportunity to rise to power and influence, because he accessed the wisdom of God to bring salvation to the people he served... </blockquote>
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<b>IN THE MIDST OF A CRISIS. </b></blockquote>
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You see, IF THERE WASN'T A FAMINE, NONE OF US WOULD EVEN KNOW WHO JOSEPH WAS!"</blockquote>
That really rang true for me, at this time when there is so much that is going very, very wrong. Those who turn to God will be given wisdom, will be called to serve, will be able to help and even possibly save others.<br />
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One of the truly great messages of the story of Joseph of Egypt is that <b>God hears prayers and talks to ordinary people.</b> Joseph was among the youngest of a full dozen sons, and could easily have been overlooked. He was a victim of familial abuse, he was sold into slavery, he was imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. But he also had a connection to God.<br />
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In fact, he had a particular gift from God: <b>The gift of visions</b> (prophetic dreams) and the <b>interpretation of dreams</b>. He was able to use these gifts to get himself out of prison, and eventually to become second only to Pharaoh in the leadership of Egypt, and was able to save his family and his nation from a devastating famine.<br />
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But <b>every single one of us has a spiritual gift </b>(at least one!), a gift that helps us connect to heaven and know when God is speaking to us, a gift that then allows us to help others. And every single one of us can use our gifts right now, in the midst of a crisis, to connect with God, and to help others. God might need us to use our gifts now more than ever before.<br />
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But we have to learn a few things. We have to know HOW God speaks to us personally. We have to know what it is God wants us to do, and we have to trust God that he can use us, despite our limitations, and that, including our gifts, he can use us to bring about good in the world, to bring about change.<br />
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With that in mind, I want to talk a little about that other Joseph, Joseph Smith. Like Joseph of Egypt, he was no one important. He was a 14-year-old farm boy. In his day, there's wasn't a famine of food, but <a href="https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/scriptures/ot/amos/8?lang=eng">a famine of hearing the word of the Lord.</a> (Amos 8:3) His story, too, lets us know that <b>God hears prayers and talks to ordinary people in extraordinary times. </b>His account of his First Vision, when he prayed for wisdom in a grove of trees, is <b>an excellent pattern for all of us</b> for both seeking the wisdom of God, and understanding how God works in and through us.<br />
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I have spent the past several weeks studying the <b>First Vision</b> extensively, and created a 10-page Discovery Journal. to help us seek God's input and discover our individual work, gifts, and callings. I have taken the First Vision account apart line by line, and added questions you can ask yourself, and ask God, to begin to discover the work God has specifically for you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlHfN2YikgtEHtJssuulFwoLksOZ4j6yyVy1eYo9RZCe662ZlIZEy1lClE13KagJDeOSr8O4SlKsvZcVDyDG6qa1e5wfBB2VHG6A0QLEEzbl63TZZa6si3bddkoe5qqJSVPc8qPlc8vs/s1600/God+Has+a+Vision+For+You-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HFmNIw-Dlhwok6GpYYgVOGD3pTIyBOFCiRaoXk0eYZ7jX8kWzvj0F1JI6kYoGmxCrZhxu1py3i3bj877TGd0iFx2xmg-H9WyOI_UCgaIJmYWvmZDpBxOLszCTYi1oZVuB1EIFPa8Qdg/s1600/God+Has+a+Vision+For+You.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="792" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HFmNIw-Dlhwok6GpYYgVOGD3pTIyBOFCiRaoXk0eYZ7jX8kWzvj0F1JI6kYoGmxCrZhxu1py3i3bj877TGd0iFx2xmg-H9WyOI_UCgaIJmYWvmZDpBxOLszCTYi1oZVuB1EIFPa8Qdg/s400/God+Has+a+Vision+For+You.jpg" width="400" /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="792" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlHfN2YikgtEHtJssuulFwoLksOZ4j6yyVy1eYo9RZCe662ZlIZEy1lClE13KagJDeOSr8O4SlKsvZcVDyDG6qa1e5wfBB2VHG6A0QLEEzbl63TZZa6si3bddkoe5qqJSVPc8qPlc8vs/s400/God+Has+a+Vision+For+You-3.jpg" width="400" /></div>
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Please leave me a comment below with your email address if you would like me to send you a PDF of this Discovery Journal, to record your own spiritual insights. There is no cost to you whatsoever. I'm sharing this with anyone who would like one.<br />
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I truly believe we can all be modern-day Josephs, in the sphere where God intends us to serve. I know we can connect with our higher power, and have a greater influence for good in the world. To start, you just have to <b>ask</b>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-47232492117663960632020-02-26T10:39:00.000-07:002020-02-26T10:42:56.495-07:00Creating a Sacred SpaceYears ago, when I was in the presidency of our children's organization at church, I was assigned to make a decoration for the bulletin board at the front of the room. These bulletin boards are designed to help the children focus on a theme for the year, with words and pictures to beautify and liven up the room, and give the children something attractive to look at when their little minds start to wander.<br />
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Well, as a graphic designer and a fine artist, the very idea of a bulletin board kind of makes my skin crawl. I don't want to spend my time cutting out construction paper letters or corrugated cardboard scalloped borders when I can do that in a fraction of the time on my computer. More important, I don't want to create something busy and cluttered when there is real peace to be found.<br />
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I decided to create something truly beautiful for the room that would engender reverence--not by distracting the children with dozens of words and photos but by creating a painting of a beautiful, peaceful place--the sacred grove. I recruited a talented young friend, Katie Hamblin (now Kate Baxter), and we made a plan.<br />
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I bought big tubes of acrylic paint. I assembled photos and sketches, and then bought a piece of canvas big enough to cover the entire bulletin board. Katie and I rolled it out on my kitchen floor and made our initial drawing. But there were kids and a dog running through the kitchen, so we ultimately decided the best place to do the actual painting was in the cultural hall at the church.<br />
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So we schlepped everything over to the church the next time we arranged to work. We got the canvas rolled out and taped down, all the paints arranged and got to work, happily talking and painting. All of a sudden we heard the most horrific noises. Rattling in the rafters. Pounding on the roof. Shaking. We paused, hoping it would stop. But it didn't. Terrified, we grabbed everything and ran out of the building, expecting to see dark storm clouds and thunder and lightning. Instead, outside it was completely still. We looked for repairmen on the roof. Nothing. After we stopped to catch our breath we realized what forces were at work. It was very clear the adversary did not want this painting to happen.<br />
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Metaphorically, we had experienced the same kind of resistance Joseph Smith initially encountered when he went into the woods to pray. The next time we went to work at the church we said a prayer before we started. (I don't know why we didn't think of that before!) We were able to finish our mural to cover the bulletin board in peace. And the primary children had something beautiful in the room to remind them that you can pray to heavenly Father anytime, anywhere, and he will hear you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXe8zJLiteYku3dxiF_ijqI4uZ9eGoeMe19JPE_g0r6AxjOlsB78gHyL36iv0Dm-MMXjGObag_gJOIeWJROLszIfb7xoNogzePnQowq1z7WteICF4K6M575xRXHpgYQR9Z5n9ktvqiI2U/s1600/SacredGrove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="1600" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXe8zJLiteYku3dxiF_ijqI4uZ9eGoeMe19JPE_g0r6AxjOlsB78gHyL36iv0Dm-MMXjGObag_gJOIeWJROLszIfb7xoNogzePnQowq1z7WteICF4K6M575xRXHpgYQR9Z5n9ktvqiI2U/s400/SacredGrove.jpg" width="400" /></a>That was over ten years ago. The painting we created is still in the room, with the canvas stretched on framing boards and hung on the south wall.<br />
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Since then I have both encountered and created many sacred spaces. Places so beautiful it takes your breath away. Places so peaceful it could only come from God. Places where God has spoken directly to me. They are as banal as the chenille blanket on the bed where I knelt as a child. As grand as Capitol Reef National Park, where twice I've spent a week teaching students how to paint. As quiet as a trail alongside a stream where I walked in the early morning with a friend. As illuminating as the light streaming through a leaded-glass window in an otherwise dark parish church.<br />
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My question to you now is this: <b>Where are your sacred spaces? </b>Where have you gone to talk to God? Where has God answered your cries? Where do you feel a divine presence? Respond with a comment, a story, a picture, anything to represent your sacred space.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-88231685819243842742020-02-03T07:00:00.000-07:002020-02-03T07:00:05.871-07:00A Visit from Mary Penopause<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">At first she was a total stranger. So why was I flying into bouts of rage whenever she was around? Suddenly everything was wrong, everyone was annoying. Who was putting me constantly on edge? It had to be Mary Penopause.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My husband asked how long this nightmare could go on. When I answered "ten years," his look surpassed dismay and bordered on despair. That’s <i>way</i> too long for any houseguest to stay, let alone one who leaves such misery and turmoil in her wake!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For one thing, she was a kleptomaniac—tip-toeing around the house, taking my things. Where was my phone? My glasses? The car keys? I had no idea. Later I’d find them stashed in illogical places. So she didn’t actually want my stuff, she was just messing with my mind?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And why was she erasing items from my calendar, my to-do-list, and my planner? It didn't matter how many times someone reminded me of a task or an event, this phantom menace deleted it from my brain. What kind of sick pleasure did she gain from watching me struggle to keep all the balls in the air, dropping them with increasing frequency? She wasn’t just a klepto; she was a sociopath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She started following me around, playing her little mind games. I’d run into friends I hadn’t seen for awhile, and suddenly my evil companion would shout “LALALALALA!” How could I possibly remember their names with all that racket going on in my head?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And she was so invasive! I’ll never forget that first night when I awoke, certain that someone was holding a space heater against my chest. I was burning up, frantically kicking off the covers, afraid I’d have to dial 911 and report a fire. Then I realized that my night clothes were dripping with sweat. The only thing burning up was <i>me</i>, thanks to Mary Penopause and her space heater. I wanted to wring her neck, but she was nowhere in sight. (Probably hiding just outside the door, still holding the heater and laughing.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Soon, it wasn’t just at night that she taunted me. It was any time, any place, when she randomly cranked up the heat. What kind of sadist messes with the thermostat in someone else’s house? I’m burning up, while my husband complains it’s too cold. It feels like 90 degrees to me, yet he’s pulling on a sweater. And then a parka. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She also took control of my appetite, coercing me to eat vast amounts of sugar and chocolate, while adding equally vast inches to my waistline. My belly was expanding like a lump of bread dough set out to rise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Because the number on the scale surged upward every morning, I finally set up a nanny cam in the bedroom to see if she was feeding me fats through an IV during the night. She must have army-crawled across the carpet to avoid detection, because the camera never picked anything up — but I know she was involved!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Mary Penopause was wearing me out! All this nonsense from her, and suddenly I was needing naps, slipping into a coma around 3 pm every day. I was exhausted when I woke up in the morning and fatigued when I went to bed at night. When was this nonsense going to let up?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I did all the usual things to combat her sabotage tactics—eating better, ramping up my exercise, drinking half my weight in ounces of water</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "Songti SC"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">─</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">but nothing worked the way it used to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That's when I realized my intruder was making me crazy. Einstein's definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results." But Mary Penopause had the opposite effect. I was doing the same thing over and over, <i>expecting the</i> <i>same results</i> (like any normal person would), but she was <i>giving me different</i> <i>results</i>. Every time. Who could predict what would happen next? The rug was being pulled out from under my feet. By the worst visitor ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Once I realized she was at fault, it became quite convenient to blame her for all kinds of things. I thought this would make me feel better about myself. But that didn’t work. I didn't need a scapegoat. I needed solutions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Things turned a corner when I discovered friends who were going through the same thing. Mary Penopause was wreaking havoc in their homes too. One friend had to get up and blow-dry her hair in the middle of the night after Mary Penopause drenched her, dumping a bucket of water over her head in bed! That made me feel better about my own space-heater scenario. Another friend got fired from her job at the local church because she was raging at their members. (Okay, and I almost got myself banned from a doctor’s office for launching missiles at the evil secretary!) Talking and laughing about the weight, the temperature, the brain fuzz and the rage helped a little. And sometimes a lot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But at the end of the day, it didn’t matter how many of my friends she was visiting. I was stuck with her. —And for heaven knows how long. I decided there was nothing to do but embrace her. Make friends with her, no matter how troublesome and annoying she was. Be ready for whatever she throws at me next. Dress in removable layers and carry lots of water. Buy a cheap paper fan from a flea market and carry that too. Learn sanity-saving relaxation and breathing techniques. Take naps. Spend half our monthly budget on nutritional supplements. And just say no when she chases me down with her cookies and cakes, urging me to eat not one, not two, but <i>damn near all of them</i>!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If I must have this infuriating guest for the foreseeable future, enough with being miserable! I have to trust these new coping mechanisms. Dare to be myself, despite her presence. Keep things in check, rather than check-mate. Find ways to reward my husband for putting up with her ridiculous antics. And relish rare moments of Joy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yes, Joy. I thought she was on hiatus. But she still pops in every once in a while to remind me that even Mary Penopause can’t keep Joy away forever!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Many thanks to my friend (and UCLA writing instructor) Victoria Zackheim for helping me polish this essay. And kudos to my son Josh who worked magic on the illustration with his photoshop wizarding skills! And extra big thanks to my husband for putting up with me all these years! I love you!</i></span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-51187310960380060362020-01-30T00:43:00.001-07:002020-01-30T00:43:51.745-07:00On Death, Memory, and Discovery<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I just finished reading the most delightful book! </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> is written by Jane Riley, an Australian woman, and has quirky British humor throughout, even while dealing with things that could be considered morbid—and sometimes <i>because of </i>said morbidity. I read bits of it aloud to Jeff and we were laughing out loud together over the zany characters and descriptions. The main character is highly fastidious and leads a very regimented life. He runs the family funeral parlor and is obsessive about ironing his clothes, including his underwear. Practically an old man, although he’s only 39. Can he find himself and break free? I won’t give anything away, but this was one of those books I was sad to finish. I was so immersed in the story and in love with the characters I never wanted it to end.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Serendipitously, we watched a movie over the weekend that was a perfect match thematically. Both treated the topics of death and dying, relationships, and how we choose to keep and hold onto memories. Surprisingly, both also dealt with (slight spoiler alert) the discovery of being loved by someone who has already passed on.</span></span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0RBr1SeMUlJURo-9SqViGuCRv5QLqcXpbLehn75euyWBWuqhTFtrybphEbSdBnDGf9Q5rGVKGlgjIwrRDsPWCVGNWpG3isQmAmNWNM44B4E56VrxpXREuqN-4E28KEqnIIcZO_eciMQA/s1600/MV5BMTQ4MTg3OTIwMF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMjg1MDIyMQ%2540%2540._V1_UY268_CR4%252C0%252C182%252C268_AL_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0RBr1SeMUlJURo-9SqViGuCRv5QLqcXpbLehn75euyWBWuqhTFtrybphEbSdBnDGf9Q5rGVKGlgjIwrRDsPWCVGNWpG3isQmAmNWNM44B4E56VrxpXREuqN-4E28KEqnIIcZO_eciMQA/s1600/MV5BMTQ4MTg3OTIwMF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMjg1MDIyMQ%2540%2540._V1_UY268_CR4%252C0%252C182%252C268_AL_.jpg" /></span></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The movie, called <i>After Life</i>, also dealt with the topic of death using a gentle sense of humor, and moments of sheer delight. It reminds me of how my friend Cari used to refer to the things that will become clear in the hereafter as, “the great DVD in the sky.” This movie has a similar take. A random group of people interview new intakes as they cross the threshold after death, and help them choose a favorite memory to capture on film before they move on to the next realm. </span></span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The salient question is: If you could choose just one memory to hold onto forever, what would it be? Jeff and I asked each other this question after the movie ended. He talked about meeting me for the first time, pulling up to my missionary apartment in Burbank, and that first conversation we had, right there on the doorstep. </span></span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I chose another favorite day, when we were dating. I found out he was back in town unexpectedly. He tracked me down at my grandma’s house, and I drove home to meet him. It’s <a href="https://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2008/08/kiss-that-could-stop-traffic.html">the best story</a> and totally makes me smile every time I think about it.</span></span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ironically, my second choice was the day <a href="https://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2009/05/sing-me-to-sleep.html">my mom passed away</a>. I literally felt the veil part, and experienced so much love and light and joy seep through, welcoming her on the other side. I’ll never forget the experience, which completely eclipsed my grief, and strengthened my faith in a higher power and the continuance of life beyond this mortal sphere.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>I got an advance copy of The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock through Amazon Prime. The book’s official release (and when my audiobook will arrive, a little too late…haha) is February 2.</i></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-72482195459589554042019-11-27T08:31:00.000-07:002019-11-27T08:31:00.257-07:00Twelve (more) Gifts: #3 A MOVEABLE FEAST<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPDTvsIE3agDmI1YT5J_X-ZcCzr8IYh7yHgGPKG-SZj7nZgTEuyH8RGk3IAYfMAS5vmMfvFntv3gk2FRBFeNes4myizcRP0AIM66Z-V-gI6MJR7YKg1dD7i_4enhMzdb900TKd2CVEtI/s1600/Firstfruits+of+Harvest-S.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPDTvsIE3agDmI1YT5J_X-ZcCzr8IYh7yHgGPKG-SZj7nZgTEuyH8RGk3IAYfMAS5vmMfvFntv3gk2FRBFeNes4myizcRP0AIM66Z-V-gI6MJR7YKg1dD7i_4enhMzdb900TKd2CVEtI/s1600/Firstfruits+of+Harvest-S.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="226" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPDTvsIE3agDmI1YT5J_X-ZcCzr8IYh7yHgGPKG-SZj7nZgTEuyH8RGk3IAYfMAS5vmMfvFntv3gk2FRBFeNes4myizcRP0AIM66Z-V-gI6MJR7YKg1dD7i_4enhMzdb900TKd2CVEtI/s640/Firstfruits+of+Harvest-S.jpg" width="284" /></a><br />
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I had been hosting the family for Thanksgiving in our California home ever since Mom got sick, and after she passed away it became a treasured and time-honored tradition. Our California Thanksgivings were wonderful -- besides all the delicious food (traditional fare with a gourmet twist) we had incorporated a whole weekend of annual activities -- going out to movies, spending an afternoon at the beach, shopping in the garment district in downtown Los Angeles, watching home movies, and even shopping in Tijuana! We lived for those Thanksgiving weekends!<br />
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But in the monumental year 2000, I delivered a beautiful but stillborn baby girl -- and I felt like a big part of me died with her.<br />
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Just a month later we were making plans for Thanksgiving. My heavy heart wondered if there was any way I could pull off dinner for fifteen, let alone the traditional outings and the day-trip to Mexico. My ever-sensitive younger sister somehow knew there was no way I could host a dinner (and multiple houseguests) that year. And she did something extraordinary.<br />
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She started researching restaurants in our area, and found a wonderful little spot in Montrose which offered Thanksgiving take-out in boxed dinners. She ordered a full meal for the five of us, and on Thanksgiving Day we picked up our boxes and drove to a shady little picnic area in Monrovia Canyon. We ate our delicious dinner al fresco, to an enchanting backdrop of breezes and birdsongs, then took a short hike along a lovely trail to a waterfall. It was pure heaven. And it in some ways felt more like a real Thanksgiving — or at least the <span style="font-style: italic;">original</span> Thanksgiving — to be dining so simply outdoors.<br />
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That moveable feast is a gift of caring and thoughtfulness I will never forget. I think of it every year with immense gratitude.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-89446830065751024952019-11-11T01:15:00.000-07:002020-04-04T00:57:03.126-06:00No Ordinary FlowerI remember discovering these lovely purple flowers for the first time. I think I was maybe four years old. The little pinkish-purple flowers were growing outside my grandma's kitchen door. I loved the color! I decided to pick a few and take them in to Grandma. She was ingenious at finding just the right vase for every flower-picking treasure. Imagining its perfume to be as lovely as its brilliant color, I got closer, and took a whiff. Peeyoo! What kind of flower is that?!? I was utterly shocked. Why do these flowers stink? Did God make them this way? I ran inside to ask my grandma.<br />
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She just laughed. "Those are chives!" she said. "I cut up the stems and sprinkle them on soups or deviled eggs. Take another whiff and imagine them adding extra flavor to something savory." I wasn't entirely convinced, but I took my grandma's word for it. Let's just say it was an acquired taste.<br />
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How many metaphorical chives are there in your life? --Things that appear to stink on the surface, until you find out they have a completely different purpose, nothing like your original mindset.<br />
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When I saw these lovely chive blossoms growing in the Herb Garden at Hampton Court, they instantly reminded me of my grandma, and I had to take a picture to paint from, to remember them.<br />
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Great news! This painting, Fresh Chives, laced with memories of my grandmother, on display in an upcoming show. (Don't worry -- it's not scratch and sniff!) "Fresh Chives" is part of my latest series, 100 Days in Europe. #16/100 (84 to go!) I'm really excited about this show, called Small Treasures, opening this weekend. I have 24 small paintings in the show. Most are just 4x10 -- I love this new panoramic format! This is one of my most affordable series, ranging in price from $125 to $210, perfect for gift-giving, and a perfect size to tuck anywhere in your home or office and add some color and light.<br />
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<i>Now</i>, of course, I <i>love</i> chives. I cook with them all the time. In fact, they appear in my new cookbook (link at left), in the recipe for Hungarian Chicken and Dumplings, and in the recipe for Almond-Crusted Chicken and Nectarine Salad with Buttermilk-Chive dressing.<br />
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--My cookbook is on sale at Art Access too. (Because it's also an art book). Not local? Just give them a call. I'm sure they can work something out.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arialmt";">Art Access</span></span><span style="font-family: "arialmt"; font-size: small;">230 South 500 West, #125</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arialmt";">Salt Lake City, UT </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arialmt";">84101 </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arialmt";">801-328-0703</span></span></h3>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-40102363530278533452019-06-12T17:00:00.000-06:002019-06-12T17:04:16.409-06:00Holding the Sun Hostage<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1nRH-hOhqXia3wOsyH5DTdQP_dCmZz5j12g5MoXUfuduNyezsOZx2-Ww7D4qbveeKZB1XkoW2vg8Uq62_kZ9nG1bcnQTYllMdwdAORvHX5DkeYqOv9m1upaTb28BYSPmrd23pU72m0k/s1600/IMG_1436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1172" data-original-width="1600" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1nRH-hOhqXia3wOsyH5DTdQP_dCmZz5j12g5MoXUfuduNyezsOZx2-Ww7D4qbveeKZB1XkoW2vg8Uq62_kZ9nG1bcnQTYllMdwdAORvHX5DkeYqOv9m1upaTb28BYSPmrd23pU72m0k/s400/IMG_1436.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: xx-small;">"Holding the Sun Hostage," original watercolor by Jana Winters Parkin, 10 x 14</span></i></td></tr>
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It was a dark and stormy day. Our bus was held up on a narrow road in the middle of nowhere for 2.5 hours. A motorcyclist rider who was lying in the road after a collision, and no one could traverse the byway until an ambulance arrived. I made half a dozen sketches in my sketchbook while we waited. and waited. and <i>waited</i>. I was suddenly very grateful for healthcare in America, where waiting for an ambulance translates into <i>minutes</i>, not hours. The poor guy on the motorcycle literally could have passed away right there on the pavement. (Fortunately they arrived with a big enough ambulance to transport him to a hospital before that happened!)</div>
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<i>Finally</i> we made it to Stonehenge! —Or at least to the point where the buses drop you off, a mile and a half away from Stonehenge. We had been there as a family before. We have great photos of our kids stacked across our shoulders like posts and lintels, in imitation of the giant Stonehenge pillars, memories of our visit there 21 years ago. Yet I was still excited to go back.</div>
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When asked if we wanted to wait for a shuttle, or take the footpath to the circle of stones, that was a no-brainer for me! First of all, I'm completely enchanted by footpaths and love to pursue them, beckoned toward wherever they lead. Second, WE'D BEEN SITTING ON A STOPPED BUS FOR 2.5 HOURS! Surprisingly, I was the only one of our group who chose the footpath. </div>
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So I set off on my own, following a light string of strangers down a soggy footpath, up a hill, then cresting across a meadow. Suddenly I desperately wished the rest of my family had come this way! The little footpath opened alongside a field of rapeseed (the unfortunate British name for Canola), exploding with sunlight!</div>
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It was late April in England, and practically every piece of countryside we traversed was covered with these brilliant yellow flowers! Every time I saw them it would take my breath away! And today, on this lonely little footpath, they were all mine for this section of trail. There they were, holding the sun hostage, on a deserted field <i>en route</i> to Stonehenge.</div>
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Yes, I made it to the famed circle of prehistoric stones. And yes, I reunited with my family there, who hadn't arrived too far ahead of me. And of course, the rapeseed really was controlling the sun, because once we got to the stones the sky darkened completely. It dumped buckets of rain on us, heightening the sense of mystery surrounding the neolithic wonder! </div>
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But my favorite image of the trip that day was my private showing of yellow rapeseed flowers, a burst of joy holding the sun in its grasp. </div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>This is #4 in a series of 100 watercolors based on our 100 days in Europe. See them all by following me on Facebook (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/jana.w.parkin?__tn__=%2Cd*F*F-R&eid=ARAojUm1RJ__I-fmctwrkIpjeyi3DKuSy7DtLZawCIkqJ5SCgndJU6TWlqy5iIVGhVP92AHL5LIKptd-&tn-str=*F">Jana Winters Parkin</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=jana%20parkin%20art&epa=SEARCH_BOX">Jana Parkin Art</a>) and Instagram (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/janawparkin/">@janawparkin</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/janaparkinart/">@janaparkinart</a>) and on my art blog (<a href="http://janaparkin.com/blog">http://www.janaparkin.com/blog/100-days-in-europe</a>). Look for the hashtag #100daysinEurope. You never know where the next painting will show up!</i></span></div>
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#100daysinEurope #stonehenge #rapeseed #watercolor </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-78804539197620709722018-09-18T01:19:00.000-06:002019-11-11T01:20:50.812-07:00Watching our kids grappling with a newborn takes me back 27 years...<br />
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Suddenly it’s all so vivid. We were that couple proceeding so cautiously home from the hospital with the world’s most precious cargo in his rear-facing car seat.
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Once home in our ghetto apartment, with all the help gone, we looked at each other thinking “when are this baby’s parents going to come pick him up?”— unable to quite wrap our brains around the idea that <span style="font-weight: bold;">WE</span> were the parents now. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpYWGlyTeKb7Tpw7TsTln7wrXc1I0vFC_KRdpiFo0b4nE0STvYEWnG_Qebc_dr7W0MfBj8ygGtKnypjpKDsAudcqNW9KuVsgd4YZvSQfq5mcKZEZINo4_iy4xUTPADknV0ffcBHYzcI08/s1600/IMG_2504+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpYWGlyTeKb7Tpw7TsTln7wrXc1I0vFC_KRdpiFo0b4nE0STvYEWnG_Qebc_dr7W0MfBj8ygGtKnypjpKDsAudcqNW9KuVsgd4YZvSQfq5mcKZEZINo4_iy4xUTPADknV0ffcBHYzcI08/s320/IMG_2504+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I remember the first time he awoke in the night, turning on all the lights and practically throwing a
party we were so excited to get up and "do the baby thing" — change his diaper and feed him
and snuggle him. I also remember how quickly the party died down as he
woke several more times that night and the sleep deprivation set in!
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There we were, certain we had the most angelic baby ever born because he slept so sweetly most of the day, only to be jerked awake from our fantasy every 45 minutes all night long because he was experiencing day/night reversal.
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I was the one curling my toes in pain, wondering why no one ever told me that breastfeeding hurt so horribly at first! I remember setting a timer and gritting my teeth while he nursed for the requisite seven minutes per side, until I somehow toughened up, and breastfeeding became one of the sweetest bonding experiences imaginable. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNa99U86eI57kwMdad_PT0gNwMxBSQJivjnr0_2k0B7QNFMhbNaKTI9mIVhjEMQNS5Eda32oW_oKwYK7IJp_tWk1Bsr-Qs6P-YlRv233qfVzfkagldyM_x8Xm70meuv53-2KMWMNqZM4k/s1600/Baby+Josh+B%2526W.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNa99U86eI57kwMdad_PT0gNwMxBSQJivjnr0_2k0B7QNFMhbNaKTI9mIVhjEMQNS5Eda32oW_oKwYK7IJp_tWk1Bsr-Qs6P-YlRv233qfVzfkagldyM_x8Xm70meuv53-2KMWMNqZM4k/s320/Baby+Josh+B%2526W.jpg" width="227" /></a> <br />
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The two of us gave him his first bath, shocked at how slippery a naked
baby is as we held onto him for dear life over the bathroom sink, our
laughter barely drowning out the ensuing panic.</div>
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I remember realizing for the first time, “My parents did all this for me when I was a baby, and I had no idea.”
And then, “Wow! This must be how much my parents loved me!” </div>
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Those early days with a newborn were some of the hardest, craziest times and some of the sweetest, most blissful times, all rolled into one.
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And now it’s their turn. They are loving and feeding and diapering and checking for bilirubin and all the things. They are fighting exhaustion, and overcome with love. Parenting is one of the most amazing, humbling, overwhelming, incredible journeys — and they've only just begun.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-67667153598867260942018-09-09T00:02:00.003-06:002020-10-05T16:14:05.284-06:00This Girl is My Hero.<h4>
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This girl is my hero. </h4>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had the privilege of a front row seat this past summer as she worked hard, getting up extra early, on her feet all morning teaching children with special needs. Never mind that she was eight-plus months pregnant, it was 100 degrees outside, and her husband was away on an internship in San Francisco for the summer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1Z3Gkv3tGQpW7aI9uuZ7uFk4xXYlbQS9Fy66nTqCxSXUuY7X1FO-r4QQP5FMJo63af0pGUuVWaaQWDOh2jzKhs5LoGMzJ8OQRU7t4q5ZXMsRldgqbfrUhlm55U3lgXGgESfj7Y_t-Lk/s1600/IMG_2342.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1Z3Gkv3tGQpW7aI9uuZ7uFk4xXYlbQS9Fy66nTqCxSXUuY7X1FO-r4QQP5FMJo63af0pGUuVWaaQWDOh2jzKhs5LoGMzJ8OQRU7t4q5ZXMsRldgqbfrUhlm55U3lgXGgESfj7Y_t-Lk/s400/IMG_2342.JPG" width="300" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I watched her hit the gym on a regular basis, research every possible baby contraption, and purchase an online breast-feeding course. I watched her continue to grow and improve daily in preparation for the all-important role she’d be assuming.
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">But when her husband announced that he was coming home that weekend (a week early), she burst into tears. That was when I realized just how strenuous it had been for her all summer without him here.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">This girl also has an iron will. Not only did her husband return a week earlier than scheduled. On August 27th she decided she was well and truly DONE with being pregnant. And her water broke that afternoon. Right on her due date! The next thing we knew she was checked into the hospital's labor and delivery and issued a blue gown. It was go time!</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">We dropped by to see how she was doing, and the nurse commented on her great sense of humor as they cranked up the pitocin. We even played a round or two of cards. Then suddenly she asked for her epidural RIGHT NOW (again, with that iron will) and we knew that was our cue to leave.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She labored all through the night, with Austin faithfully by her side, attending to any need he possibly could. Sixteen hours later (after a dutiful and detailed thread of updates all night and morning from Austin) we got word that the our grandson had arrived!
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">Watching her, I can only say that what she did was positively heroic. It is such an extraordinary feat to bring a brand new human <span id="goog_1468801347"></span><span id="goog_1468801348"></span>into the world. Even though I did it four times myself, twenty-something years ago, I am still in awe.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">Within a couple of hours we were there at the hospital visiting our very first grandchild. Oh, my heart!</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the days that followed, I have had the enormous privilege of watching our daughter step into the role of Mother. It is so humbling and beautiful to observe her natural nurturing instincts surface, and see her step up to the plate...and knock it right out of the ballpark. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2SMNd64AFbP3aWNTav0MtDNcJ8xTsTYCW9vkI24P0jy7GsSw926BK9SBJ0I87f901fcdKuqS-Su2jd7G5ggrI-662TADNvll8x-8suzwhfUeRQXvYyv_0pBOaSecQRw_s4JlepszOVc/s1600/IMG_2315.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2SMNd64AFbP3aWNTav0MtDNcJ8xTsTYCW9vkI24P0jy7GsSw926BK9SBJ0I87f901fcdKuqS-Su2jd7G5ggrI-662TADNvll8x-8suzwhfUeRQXvYyv_0pBOaSecQRw_s4JlepszOVc/s400/IMG_2315.JPG" width="300" /></a> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Through a set of heroic acts she has made her husband a father, made me a grandmother, made my husband a grandfather, made my father a great-grandfather....and on and on it goes....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">(<i>And if you remember how much your love for your husband grew when he became a father, and you saw him loving and interacting with your children...just you WAIT until he becomes a grandpa! Get ready to swoon!) </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzmiARjBG9wXIgT5KBM_D15c-1SKpaWPpThP2GIoyY-rbWrjCI0FdCh1509OoZOJMWEBqKXceXmiHaIhMfr6FnJpgwlM6COxU1qIIrC4oX6z74UgCv_KwaURWHdf0lsy86zhWMhYLiMM/s1600/IMG_2378.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzmiARjBG9wXIgT5KBM_D15c-1SKpaWPpThP2GIoyY-rbWrjCI0FdCh1509OoZOJMWEBqKXceXmiHaIhMfr6FnJpgwlM6COxU1qIIrC4oX6z74UgCv_KwaURWHdf0lsy86zhWMhYLiMM/s320/IMG_2378.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD93FLgmk680uqoZ0GNmc3mLdSf7wP2e8LzpXNVdNnO1Cb0CGDO_jA_DZd9ZPwWm9ffMkeC7pzjCaDJNWGW6PQMI_mOAs8t-1-h4GMX2OZgikOHBf-mhbO26iuqc4N__RCIvLpVvUVGNQ/s1600/IMG_2313.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD93FLgmk680uqoZ0GNmc3mLdSf7wP2e8LzpXNVdNnO1Cb0CGDO_jA_DZd9ZPwWm9ffMkeC7pzjCaDJNWGW6PQMI_mOAs8t-1-h4GMX2OZgikOHBf-mhbO26iuqc4N__RCIvLpVvUVGNQ/s320/IMG_2313.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOe_pxJQEOevsYiAOM3w11bUyRQ7a9uPi0A7YOtXYaONz4_0mVAF__x_nzpPZ8x-YtjmqnvXWEcl9y0ScXIZ1cZ60S6DZ1BT2liMmTTePKAZf4Sg0veXy20irU5objcCnz-d1XOqu1ZAU/s1600/IMG_2290.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOe_pxJQEOevsYiAOM3w11bUyRQ7a9uPi0A7YOtXYaONz4_0mVAF__x_nzpPZ8x-YtjmqnvXWEcl9y0ScXIZ1cZ60S6DZ1BT2liMmTTePKAZf4Sg0veXy20irU5objcCnz-d1XOqu1ZAU/s320/IMG_2290.JPG" width="240" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-6982928269401198002018-07-23T23:43:00.000-06:002018-07-25T01:06:14.223-06:00In Honor of Those who Paved the Way<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yesterday I was baking cakes for my husband's birthday and a big family dinner. Waiting for a cake to come out of the oven, I checked my email, and noticed a message from FamilySearch. It said, “You have a pioneer ancestor!” Honestly, my first thought was <b>“Duh!”</b> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But then I clicked on the link, because the ancestor they named was <a href="https://history.lds.org/overlandtravel/pioneers/59599/john-foster-bennett">John Foster Bennett,</a> my great-grandfather. I was so surprised, and a little curious. I thought he was way too young to be a pioneer. It turned out he was just one year old when he crossed the plains, following a sea voyage from England. It took him and his family 66 days to make the journey. I thought of the empire he eventually built in the Salt Lake Valley, and wondered if his surviving all that hardship as a baby contributed to his later success. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I scrolled to review the details on his parents, and instead was taken to another pioneer ancestor, <a href="https://history.lds.org/overlandtravel/pioneers/8891/oscar-winters">Oscar Winters</a>. He is my dad’s great-grandpa. He had gone ahead to build a house for <a href="http://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2009/07/plains-and-trainsand-what-remains.html">his mother</a> in the Salt Lake Valley, but she died of cholera along the way, and was buried in Scotts Bluff, Nebraska. Can you imagine Oscar's heartache when he found out his mother didn't survive the journey? Oscar made a second trek a few years later when he went to aid in the rescue of a perishing handcart company.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I kept scrolling and they kept showing me more and more pioneer ancestors. Many I knew about, and knew their stories well. Others I hadn’t even heard of. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The final tally? (Which may not be final at all) I have 20 pioneer ancestors, at least one from every single bloodline. As I read each name, looked at each face, and reviewed the dates, along with some details of their journey, I was overcome with emotion. My heart expanded with love and appreciation. So many have sacrificed so much so that we can be where we are right now. I was flooded with a powerful sense of connection and gratitude that spilled into tears and sobs</span>. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH01aZMRjfbBpwBCUzRSByN_kWHlePfbB7aRiksGLYxfxMkVWHVX5lVTANKA0-APOfd26tRPhnVgyKC1HSCKZCGX1uYPJD00DoUGMHt-QtI9Wp7IHzZIippoFAA3cdHsR3YcRnGzXZiJw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-07-23+at+11.39.38+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="359" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH01aZMRjfbBpwBCUzRSByN_kWHlePfbB7aRiksGLYxfxMkVWHVX5lVTANKA0-APOfd26tRPhnVgyKC1HSCKZCGX1uYPJD00DoUGMHt-QtI9Wp7IHzZIippoFAA3cdHsR3YcRnGzXZiJw/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-07-23+at+11.39.38+PM.png" width="278" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I imagine these amazing people, stalwart examples of courage and commitment, would roll their eyes a little if they saw us continuing to don pioneer bonnets and march around in celebration of their hardships and journeys. Instead, I find it most fitting to walk in the company of others and find joy in the journey, to notice others in distress and run to their aid, to practice tolerance of those with differing views and beliefs rather than turn them away. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I think it's important to add that whether you came from this sort of pioneer stock doesn't matter at all. If your ancestors fled a foreign country to escape persecution, they are <a href="https://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2015/09/refugees-are-pioneers.html">pioneers</a>. If they immigrated here or anywhere with hope for the future, and more faith than fear, they are <a href="https://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2015/09/refugees-are-pioneers.html">pioneers</a>. If they were the first to join the church in their family, their town or their country, they are <a href="https://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2015/09/refugees-are-pioneers.html">pioneers</a>. If you yourself did any of these things, <i>you</i> are a <a href="https://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2015/09/refugees-are-pioneers.html">pioneer</a>. And I salute you.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-25440716218608475772018-07-08T15:23:00.001-06:002018-07-08T15:25:56.797-06:00Neal A. Maxwell on PatriotismWhen I was a young girl, I grew up about a block away from this
amazing man. And I can't begin to describe the amount of influence this
genuine disciple had on my growing intellect, as well as my young heart
and fledgling faith. It was an extraordinary opportunity to experience
the way he lived in the day-to-day, not just at the pulpit. He walked
the walked, served with deep, deliberate compassion, and inspired as
much through his simplest actions as he did through his eloquent
sermons.<br />
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For
example, I heard how gently and affably he responded when a zealous
troop of scouts found his suits freshly delivered from the dry cleaners
on his front porch, and assumed they were placed there for the
neighborhood Deseret Industries Drive (basically the Utah version of
Goodwill) and hauled them away! (Yes, he eventually got them back.) I
saw him jog over with a plate of brownies on a Saturday morning for a
missionary farewell, just like any other good neighbor might have done. I
watched as he and his wife, Colleen, reached out to a family on the
fringes of the ward and invite them over to dinner to form a friendship.
I received kindly personal letters from him on my mission, simply
signed, "Neal." I often observed tears streaming down his cheeks as he
sang the sacrament hymns about our wounded Savior. All had an enormous
impact on me. I think I can honestly say that I see <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/alma/5?lang=eng"><i>the image of Christ</i></a> in his loving face, more than in the countenance of anyone I've ever met.<br />
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A couple of times this week (leading up to Independence Day), I took the opportunity to relisten to <a href="https://speeches.byu.edu/talks/neal-a-maxwell_our-need-for-true-patriotism/">"Our Need for True Patriotism,"</a>
a devotional he gave on July 4, 1993 — a full twenty-five years ago —
and was amazed by how prescient it was and relevant it still is today.<br />
<br />
Here are a few choice nuggets I transcribed:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Today,
we cannot seem to see beyond the political moment, let alone “beyond
the years.” By contrast, James Wilson, one of our founding fathers,
urged the delegates to the constitutional convention of 1787 to “<b>look beyond their own time and constituencies to the needs of generations yet unborn.</b>” They did it! and all succeeding generations were blessed. <b>Patriotism which sees beyond the years leaves legacies to rising generations</b>.... It leaves a clean turf, not the debris of a selfish society. <br />
<br />
More than we realize, <b>our whole society really rests on the capacity of its citizens to give what is called “obedience to the unenforceable.”</b>
We do this by complying willingly with the law, and behaving
voluntarily according to time-tested standards… In contrast, widespread
and sustained lack of self-control will bring either severe external
controls, or anarchy.<br />
<br />
The quality of self-control is best grown in healthy family gardens…<b>Healthy families are the first places we learn to balance rights and responsibilities, </b>and to take turns<b>. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Instead
of increasing brotherhood, there is increasing separatism in America.
There is even rising racism. There is also a decrease in the respect
among our citizens for each other.</b><br />
<br />
George Washington’s biographer wrote: “In all history <b>few men who possessed unassailable power have used that power so gently and self-effacingly</b> for what their best instincts told them was the welfare of their neighbors and all mankind.”As one thinks about Washington and power, it reminds us that <b>power is most safe with those…who are not in love with power.</b></blockquote>
<br />
Perhaps you can see why he remains one of my spiritual and intellectual heroes!<br />
There is no transcription available, but you can listen to the devotional in its entirety here:<br />
<a href="https://speeches.byu.edu/talks/neal-a-maxwell_our-need-for-true-patriotism/">https://speeches.byu.edu/talks/neal-a-maxwell_our-need-for-true-patriotism/</a><br />
I think you too will see how timely his counsel is for today's political arena and society at large.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-89163071091758304932018-05-09T23:48:00.000-06:002018-05-09T23:48:41.991-06:00The Embarrassing -- but true -- Story of What Happened the First Time I Opened This Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have been following </span><a href="http://onceuponachef.com/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">this blog</a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> for quite a while, and I have never prepared anything from Jenn that we didn’t absolutely love. I pre-ordered her cookbook as soon as she announced it. This was months ago, and I have been very impatiently awaiting its arrival. The Amazon box finally came, (thank you, Amazon!) and I promptly ran off to teach a class and forgot about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">[<i>This never happens. Amazon boxes are like Christmas — I can’t wait to tear open the packages and see what’s inside — even if I only ordered it two days ago! But for some reason this package got swept aside and tucked in a dark corner of the basement.]</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Long story short — Mother’s Day is approaching, and I started wondering what happened to my book. And then I remembered that abandoned box in the basement (and since we’re not at the airport, I felt completely fine about opening it.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First of all, I was impressed with the heft. This is no flimsy leaflet. It is more than 300 pages, beautifully bound in a hard cover and dust jacket. It feels SIGNIFICANT. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I immediately opened it up and started thumbing through the pages. As fate would have it, I landed on Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding. Okay, forget about the Mother’s Day Brunch. Can I pease just have this <b>right now?!?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There was beautiful photography throughout. Dozens of amazing-looking recipes I can’t wait to try. And a few favorites from her blog I’ve already been enjoying. The book includes fun, chatty side notes about her former job, her kids, and her kitchen. I noticed there were official looking stamps on certain pages, marking each as a “recipe tester favorite.” She includes her "Pro Tips" in the margins. Likewise, “Sourcing Savvy” and "Heads-up" advice.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But what really just kept me spellbound was the photos and their accompanying recipes:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Blueberry Scones with Tart Lemon Glaze</i>. <i>Pan-seared halibut with cherry tomatoes & basil</i>. <i>Cauliflower puree with thyme. Toffee Almond Sandies. Fiery Roasted Tomato Soup. Thai Crunch Salad with peanut dressing. Baja Fish Tacos. Red, White, and Blue summer berry trifle. Steak Au Poivre. Curried Roasted Carrots. Classic Chocolate Lover’s Birthday Cake. </i>They all look and sound amazing!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Now for the embarrassing part:</b> The next thing I knew I was shocked to see a little string of saliva escape my mouth and land on my blouse. That’s right. I drooled. Not just figuratively. I did the deed. Oh, my. (T.M.I.) I guess the cookbook is just that good. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmQn6n5Qn0o23D6XXYB5Vq0noUSqAMOcSccUOOysl2FIIB6xkQOfg9QxIhOo3aqe33kfm6_vinX_WgVAQ_jur-pXFIuwoSP0RfrMEOmY9SHa9SZrrLVdVE5SjRXTwXK9sr_iP-tQcP3o/s1600/IMG_1365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmQn6n5Qn0o23D6XXYB5Vq0noUSqAMOcSccUOOysl2FIIB6xkQOfg9QxIhOo3aqe33kfm6_vinX_WgVAQ_jur-pXFIuwoSP0RfrMEOmY9SHa9SZrrLVdVE5SjRXTwXK9sr_iP-tQcP3o/s200/IMG_1365.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I raced upstairs and made <i>Blueberry Scones with Tart Lemon Glaze </i>before my husband left for work. They were as </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">delicious as promised. (Thanks, in part, to the 2/3 cup of cream.) The lemon zest in the glaze is a perfect addition. I may have eaten more than <strike>one</strike> two. Someone please save me from my baking addiction!</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The last time I <a href="http://divergentpathways.blogspot.com/2009/06/open-letter-to-luisa-perkins-author-of.html">reviewed a cookbook here</a> was way back in, oh, 2009! Since then I have bought, perused, and cooked from at least a dozen cookbooks (probably more.) And exactly zero of them have made me drool. Until today. Enjoy! <i>If it makes you drool, you don't have to tell anyone.</i></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-79496251558414815522018-04-27T16:08:00.003-06:002018-04-27T16:08:23.432-06:00Making the Leap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWa-5IJgEzqmMNSEnuHHMPPRkVPpxz-P6whdSTSYl6wLCXbWSXFwaLPHk4Jv9FDK3cycRiGcDyVO0Z30r55Dzgy1UT2tPxNawAd5diufv9QZOucas-GLBGqXZaVzqR02LGaKaMROYfAzc/s1600/100_0185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWa-5IJgEzqmMNSEnuHHMPPRkVPpxz-P6whdSTSYl6wLCXbWSXFwaLPHk4Jv9FDK3cycRiGcDyVO0Z30r55Dzgy1UT2tPxNawAd5diufv9QZOucas-GLBGqXZaVzqR02LGaKaMROYfAzc/s400/100_0185.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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A few years ago our son Josh was looking at some of my artwork and said he wanted to write some music that would inspire me while I paint. I told him I love to work to instrumental acoustic music. That December he wrote me a really beautiful piece of music–soothing harp, soaring trumpets, the works–and gave me the finished recording for Christmas. To this day it is one of my most memorable and treasured gifts! I'm pretty sure I cried when he played it for me that Christmas morning.<br />
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Since then every once in a while Josh would send us some new music he was working on...the soundtrack to a buddy's movie, some "beats" for rappers to use, a silly Beatles-esque song about the name he picked out for his baby brother, etc. It became very clear that music was his passion. And I love that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Iev1x7jZdzG6c5GZP_FvmzOpaAzKsU88Mk9pCsP8USX5fKfBkZ2lAxOftUuAnrmBO1Qh1qGB7FaYbilxdJL-GtDb7NMxnY_l9jIJd0KI81HELlsvvtKs-Urb2kXEvI1tOnGcOXAjTPM/s1600/Josh+-+guitar+timeline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="1600" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Iev1x7jZdzG6c5GZP_FvmzOpaAzKsU88Mk9pCsP8USX5fKfBkZ2lAxOftUuAnrmBO1Qh1qGB7FaYbilxdJL-GtDb7NMxnY_l9jIJd0KI81HELlsvvtKs-Urb2kXEvI1tOnGcOXAjTPM/s400/Josh+-+guitar+timeline.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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About nine months ago, Josh quit his full-time job, rented a U-Haul Trailer, and drove across the country in his Ford Mustang, with all his possessions trailing behind. He had a couple thousand dollars in a savings account, the address of a friend in Massachusetts, and the dream of becoming a music producer.<br />
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His story took several twists and turns, involving:</div>
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<li><b>A roommate who came home drunk and tried to beat him up</b></li>
<li><b>Lovely people at the church in that small MA town who listened to him, fed him, and tried to help find him a new place to stay</b></li>
<li><b>A strong whisper of a feeling that he was supposed to move to Brooklyn</b></li>
<li><b>A church housing list in Brooklyn that miraculously had someone with a spare bedroom</b></li>
<li><b>Driving a U-Haul trailer through Manhattan (I love this image)</b></li>
<li><b>A kind branch president who helped him move in, invited him to dinner</b></li>
<li><b>A funny freelance job removing wrinkles from sheets in photoshop for hours on end</b></li>
<li><b>A guy at a storytelling event who just happened to need a lead guitarist for his band</b></li>
<li><b>Interning at Electric Lady a couple of times</b></li>
<li><b>Eating lots of ramen and dollar pizza</b></li>
<li><b>Finding a terrific full-time job in Midtown working for with some jewelry photographers</b></li>
<li><b>Still doing the freelance job with the sheets at night</b></li>
<li><b>Moving two more times in two months</b></li>
<li><b>Finding a great brownstone apartment in Brooklyn with space for all his sound equipment</b></li>
<li><b>Getting up at 5 am to work on his music before riding the train to his day job</b></li>
<li><b>So many miracles, and so. much. work.</b></li>
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I am so proud of him. It's been awesome to have a front row-seat for all this drama in his life...and then slowly watch the miracles unfold and see our boy work hard, trust his intuition, and learn how to make his way in the big, beautiful, scary world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcUgvjReL-HrNZ0LnXY1Jh38XUtVUVj6-1fqwE8ooO1Nz8pUXNjGLo__w0zo_3qusA8AQDacFA6PlxQY0gHH_k6D1L2t-h8Fm1pWxILvPyG1p2RK_CDn4lvqmi8uBw700xgSfIIxruX8/s1600/IMG_0937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1069" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcUgvjReL-HrNZ0LnXY1Jh38XUtVUVj6-1fqwE8ooO1Nz8pUXNjGLo__w0zo_3qusA8AQDacFA6PlxQY0gHH_k6D1L2t-h8Fm1pWxILvPyG1p2RK_CDn4lvqmi8uBw700xgSfIIxruX8/s400/IMG_0937.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
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Today he released his first album. How cool is that? It's available on every possible streaming service and device. To my great delight, it is nearly all instrumental–my ideal painting music. (WARNING: I guess it also sports an explicit label–but he assured me it is only one song that got the explicit rating–and I'll be skipping that one.) Here's the link, since I know you're interested: <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/the-tane/id1171215380" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/the-tane/id1171215380</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLvjGyPKklxWZ2FSMp64dIZ-_uFKao-1YKrnvx8W6QtB6NvIJ903OMJH7ZrTe8ecREkf6HFWELA9JLPo12GRTcKuIzC2eM0f3yaqYHfN3-g2y6ZidYmZwsm_1OWBhzYE_l3JzwJ-7Fzs/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-27+at+4.01.40+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="144" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLvjGyPKklxWZ2FSMp64dIZ-_uFKao-1YKrnvx8W6QtB6NvIJ903OMJH7ZrTe8ecREkf6HFWELA9JLPo12GRTcKuIzC2eM0f3yaqYHfN3-g2y6ZidYmZwsm_1OWBhzYE_l3JzwJ-7Fzs/s200/Screen+Shot+2018-04-27+at+4.01.40+PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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No matter what else happens, I believe he has accomplished something extraordinary! May we all so courageously follow our passions and bring our dreams to reality.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-50452175978362869142017-11-19T07:59:00.000-07:002017-11-19T07:59:10.172-07:00The Sincerest Form of Flattery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I was looking for an old set of scriptures with some notes in the back, and stumbled across this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCWSzoVK2RF5cv-zFvKGY_TmQI7LjTVBNSsxx2JrqpGpHTce8HBvwSr01Di6vYAUHZcXcDubKMhXhMCnUUn7fU1mhx9h5_agjMYkVdE0zhH238bBjWqMyMPZQ9vBEEfO8nIjPE86HFB0/s1600/IMG_0566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCWSzoVK2RF5cv-zFvKGY_TmQI7LjTVBNSsxx2JrqpGpHTce8HBvwSr01Di6vYAUHZcXcDubKMhXhMCnUUn7fU1mhx9h5_agjMYkVdE0zhH238bBjWqMyMPZQ9vBEEfO8nIjPE86HFB0/s320/IMG_0566.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nHY-hqWQx9hTZHvpAtP4RRhOx6Ed2mkigcFPdDYnZVaRtntncpuGdzwesixVvMjL97l3CQR_HX_asBYZf5N3KNj0o043MmbVlPd0d6xs5VlFYfbtsacqOJjg-pdIzNhvVOaYHiW90qM/s1600/IMG_0567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nHY-hqWQx9hTZHvpAtP4RRhOx6Ed2mkigcFPdDYnZVaRtntncpuGdzwesixVvMjL97l3CQR_HX_asBYZf5N3KNj0o043MmbVlPd0d6xs5VlFYfbtsacqOJjg-pdIzNhvVOaYHiW90qM/s320/IMG_0567.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />It made me smile inside, reminding me of a sweet, humbling experience that happened about 20 years ago:<br />
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When our daughter (now almost 23) was a toddler, I caught her scribbling all over the inside covers of my leather scriptures. She had been extremely intentional and diligent--using a combination of ballpoint pen and two different markers. (See proof above). I was mildly horrified.<br />
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"Sweetie, those are very special books, those are my scriptures! Let's not draw in there!" I said, gently taking the books and the pens away and handing her a sheet of paper.<br />
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Her response stopped me, stunned.<br />
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"But I want to be like you, Mommy. I'm marking my scriptures!"<br />
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I had no idea she was watching me....paying any attention at all to what I was doing when I could steal a quiet moment or two.<br />
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I will always think of her sweet response whenever I see those "marks" on this book. There are plenty of behaviors our daughter could have chosen to imitate, many of them unattractive and embarrassing, or involving bad words, but I'm so grateful that at that moment she was mimicking something actually worthy of imitation—studying the scriptures.<br />
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She didn't know that I was searching for answers and inspiration, singling out specific verses, making notes in the margins about what struck me as meaningful and powerful. But she saw me with these books, and an array of pens, every day. And she must have felt it was something good that she wanted to do too.<br />
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That was one of those moments when I realized I was doing at least <i>one</i> thing right.<br />
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<i>If you're interested —like our daughter was — in what I do every day with those books and those pens, head on over to <a href="https://feastinguponthewords.blogspot.com/">Feasting on Small Plates</a>, where I have an entire blog dedicated to my personal scripture study and sharing the insights and truths I mine there. I'd love to hear your insights too.</i><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-24643355846665637122017-11-16T11:17:00.003-07:002017-11-21T13:53:00.479-07:00She forgot my biggest emotion! (I swear this is a thing.)A few weeks ago we heard our dear friend and clinical psychologist <a href="http://www.drjuliehanks.com/">Julie De Azevedo Hanks</a> speak at an arts retreat. Her entire presentation was engaging and captivating, and there's more I want to explore here, but for now I can't stop thinking about this one concept: the difference between primary and secondary emotions.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFva1NqV4FOT_9ULDdRJKhyphenhyphenwfzPRh-k4-2vrm-UKKgUni9Hm2CTTizR0hJMp3Kr1Q869paTC41UcV6L7I_XCjxYKvwYa8ezivJWSEsHU1yuckogbL5H0Ex5HSi4WusCaiY_1eJuUUyUr8/s1600/Emoji+Faces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFva1NqV4FOT_9ULDdRJKhyphenhyphenwfzPRh-k4-2vrm-UKKgUni9Hm2CTTizR0hJMp3Kr1Q869paTC41UcV6L7I_XCjxYKvwYa8ezivJWSEsHU1yuckogbL5H0Ex5HSi4WusCaiY_1eJuUUyUr8/s640/Emoji+Faces.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Her definition is so simple:</b></div>
The primary emotion is what you feel FIRST.<br />
The secondary emotion is what you feel MOST.<br />
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She gave several examples, such as an initial primary emotion of fear, followed by a stronger secondary emotion of anger. Loneliness, followed by a stronger secondary emotion of sadness.<br />
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But I think I have only <b>one</b> <b>secondary emotion</b> (this one wasn't on her list, but it has to be an emotion, because it works in the exact same way):<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Sad</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry </b>(what I feel most)<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Afraid</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry</b> (what I feel most)<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Ashamed</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry</b> (what I feel most)<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Lonely</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry</b> (what I feel most)<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Bored</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry</b> (what I feel most)<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Happy</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry</b> (what I feel most)<br />
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Primary emotion: <b>Sleepy</b> (what I feel first)<br />
My secondary emotion: <b>Hungry</b> (what I feel most)<br />
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Are you seeing a pattern emerge?<br />
I am clearly an emotional eater. Especially when it comes to <i>comfort </i>foods.<br />
No wonder I need to lose ten pounds!<br />
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QUESTION: Are you an emotional eater?<br />
Do you have a different pattern of experiencing primary and secondary emotions?<br />
I'd love to hear about it.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823847273927280303.post-47611545626911291422017-11-07T08:03:00.002-07:002017-11-07T08:03:44.747-07:00The Inherent Danger of "I'm Right! You're Wrong!" --Understanding Those With Different PerspectivesEvery day I sit at my kitchen window and look out at this patch of scrub oak in our back yard.<br />
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One day I was struck by the notion that while all the other scrub oak trees grow with crooked, twisted trunks, there is one tree that stands perfectly straight. So strange. Yet I could see it with my own eyes. There it was. Straight as could be. See it there on the left?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYFGXwx0n0YzpFlq9C5Fp_sikdJgPa7w51yT-4f0ypZeRhHs6CJSdosGR_GWh6tF8RPKZ7-N7qtDA4IYxSL5wgDTdgs-39RZKfQVSpgZSAD5Rq3MwyQfi7wJoLjP2zE18obyAduJ1Z0U/s1600/IMG_0797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="1600" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYFGXwx0n0YzpFlq9C5Fp_sikdJgPa7w51yT-4f0ypZeRhHs6CJSdosGR_GWh6tF8RPKZ7-N7qtDA4IYxSL5wgDTdgs-39RZKfQVSpgZSAD5Rq3MwyQfi7wJoLjP2zE18obyAduJ1Z0U/s320/IMG_0797.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I kept wondering how that one tree managed to grow straight up while all the trees around it grew in every chaotic direction.<br />
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Then I walked out in the yard and realized if I looked at the same tree from a different direction, the tree I<i> thought</i> was straight is actually just as crooked as all the rest—it just <i>looked</i> straight because of my point of view. From my kitchen window I was looking at it straight on and couldn't see the directional bend.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldBPxoQ8mCsUbTBHBnCQLrpL1kxn5_o8LCwJXzifoXm6Bn5Ua-eOFfLL-TOhDZUBrxO9Goe6WPyN_3iA2WqlcFOzvAK3S026DK_Tg84gcgfC8WSTXHoBqOY7GH7SOvm60apy3lrYFjSg/s1600/IMG_0795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldBPxoQ8mCsUbTBHBnCQLrpL1kxn5_o8LCwJXzifoXm6Bn5Ua-eOFfLL-TOhDZUBrxO9Goe6WPyN_3iA2WqlcFOzvAK3S026DK_Tg84gcgfC8WSTXHoBqOY7GH7SOvm60apy3lrYFjSg/s320/IMG_0795.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I also realized that from the new spot in the yard where I was standing, there was yet another tree that appeared to be perfectly straight, while all the others around them were chaotic and crooked. See it there, just off center in the back?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMISSM7wRz-hzl6b-NNGUjdKKWDFNFlOesYqJIC4SBoP8LlUPgg1RhcbMlSkYMA817MljrtnLqfmqbMJRjBRr32FJqKnFPaRw4QIN0QoT-m_EYj0DWk28MZU8bv_CmOj52nbLshV8b7w4/s1600/IMG_0339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMISSM7wRz-hzl6b-NNGUjdKKWDFNFlOesYqJIC4SBoP8LlUPgg1RhcbMlSkYMA817MljrtnLqfmqbMJRjBRr32FJqKnFPaRw4QIN0QoT-m_EYj0DWk28MZU8bv_CmOj52nbLshV8b7w4/s320/IMG_0339.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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In fact, from nearly ANY spot in the yard there might be one tree that appears to be straight while all the others are crooked. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9nAI1knvv_D6DHyslfis0Y_H8u1HW0Cu894nOt70o0Tg_jIEAULmQROqTjtJG7V-UHDvpft7LKJ-kkLq-tw1usQBwic-gAc9cV87O90VBAkAYEDuUvDCoih4teoNaJNK3FhjkTW8XSk/s1600/IMG_0340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9nAI1knvv_D6DHyslfis0Y_H8u1HW0Cu894nOt70o0Tg_jIEAULmQROqTjtJG7V-UHDvpft7LKJ-kkLq-tw1usQBwic-gAc9cV87O90VBAkAYEDuUvDCoih4teoNaJNK3FhjkTW8XSk/s320/IMG_0340.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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So three different people, standing in three points of the yard, could all be looking at different trees at the same time, and say that THEIR tree is the straight one. They would all be right. And they would all be wrong.<br />
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Oh, the lessons from nature! Could it be that all our perceptions are at least partly colored by our perspective and experience? How many ideas are we digging in our heels about, when it might pay to stop and look at the situation from another person's point of view?<br />
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QUESTION: <i>What political party might have a helpful perspective you haven't considered? When was the last time you added to your faith by including the perspective of someone from another persuasion? </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0