Teaching Charity

I have been struggling with how to teach my children about charity at Christmastime. I actually had a disagreement with another woman in my ward about whether or not giving to beggars on street corners sets a good example for your children. I don't think it does. Here in El Paso we have regulars. There are always the same people at the same corners with the same signs. I do not believe that giving these people money helps them one bit. It simply ensures that they stay at their corners with their signs. This being the case, I believe that those who give do it more for themselves than the beggars.

Of course there are a lot of good organizations that actually do find people in need and provide them with help. We have given to food banks and charities in the past. I talk to my children about tithing and fast offerings. But I wonder how much my kids really learn by seeing their mom hand over something to the poor and then lavish them with much more.

I shouldn't have worried about my kids knowing charity. This week I was presented with the opportunity learn what charity means. My sons became the teacher.

Getting Sean to do his daily chore is like pulling teeth. He wanders around the room he is instructed to clean for hours, allowing anything to distract him. But, starting last week, he had a new motivation. He came home with a flier for the school's Book Fair. Both he and Ryan poured over it for hours, deciding exactly which book they wanted to buy. Sean wanted a Star Wars book. It was $3.99. I told him that if he wanted the book, he had to earn the money before the book fair was over. I have given him various chances to do this. He always has to do his daily chore, but I have told him that if he does it within 20 minutes, he will earn a dollar. Suddenly, his work was getting done enthusiastically and quickly. He has also been given extra jobs to earn the money he wanted. We put a paper titled "Sean's Money" on the bulletin board. Each time he earned a dollar, I would write it on the paper. Sometimes he did the work and got the dollar. Sometimes he played around and didn't make it. As of last night, he had four dollars written on the paper. He had earned enough for his book.

This morning, he came to me and said, "Mom, I want to take one of my toys to school for toys for tots." He showed me another flier from the school, asking for donations. I pointed out that the flier said the toys needed to be new. He looked so sad.

I knew what I should say, but I had to drag the words out. It made me sick to my stomach to make him make the choice. I said, "Sean, you have four dollars. If you want, you could buy a toy with it, instead of a book. Do you want to do that?" He didn't hesitate. He nodded. I think it was harder on me than on him.

Ryan, who had also picked out a $3.99 book and earned the money to buy it, said, "If you buy the toy, I will get a book for us to share. Which book do you like?" He had agonized over which book he wanted. They both had. On the way to school today, I listened as Ryan committed to buy the book Sean wanted, instead of the one he had been saving for. They both wanted to know when I would take them to the store to buy the toy.

I suppose I didn't need to worry so much about teaching my children charity. I just had to wait for them to teach it to me.

The coolest thing since a driver's license...

This is the kids' blog, but if you will permit me a moment of indulgence, it's time to say one word about Nate. We got Nate's USMLE Step 3 score this week. He got a 229/98. Translation, since none of you knows what that means: NEXT STEP- License!!!

It's been over a decade of schooling and test after test. He's finally fulfilled all the requirements and once he does the paperwork, he will be licensed to practice medicine in the great State of Texas. He will even get his very own DEA number. I think I should buy him a prescription pad to celebrate.

Congrats, Nathan!!! We're so proud of you!

Thankgiving Thoughts

I am going to ask you to ponder how you would answer the question, “Who are you?” while I tell you a little bit about who I am.

In 1979 my mom was expecting her forth child who she hoped to call “Celeste.” My dad favored, “Amy.” It wasn’t until mom did some research on the two names that she relented. She found that Amy was a Latin name that meant Beloved. She knew that my dad’s name, David, also meant Beloved. And so I was named Amy, after my dad.

My dad changed jobs a lot when I was young because of the nature of auto-mechanics. He often had to work two jobs or my mom had to take on odd jobs to take care of their six kids. There came a point, though, where my parents were sure their prayers for a good job had been answered and my dad started a business selling large equipment to auto-shops throughout Utah. He had to travel a lot and he slept in his little car, but things went well for a while.

Within the course of a single year, though, my dad was in the hospital four times. He shattered his wrist installing a hoist and had to have pins put into his arm and later taken out. That same year he had emergency gall bladder surgery and an appendectomy. It was during those months that his largest client declared bankruptcy and he knew he would loose his business because of the money this client owed him. Still, my dad refused to declare bankruptcy himself, insisting that if it took his whole life he would pay off his debts.

Somewhere during that year my dad taught me an important lesson. Our car had broken down and we went to a parts store to buy what he needed to fix it. As my dad and I walked out of the store, he examined his receipt closely and declared we had to return. I grudgingly followed him, not finding auto parts to be all that interesting. At the counter he handed the salesman his receipt and said, “This is for my personal car, I need to pay the taxes.”

I never said anything to my dad about that experience, but I have thought about it often since. How many people would have just walked away? How many would have reasoned that they certainly pay enough taxes or that it was a small amount and not a big deal? He certainly wasn’t likely to be called to account for it. Even as a young girl this experience made me profoundly grateful to be named after my dad, a man of amazing integrity.

My parents struggled a lot when I was young, but I was never very aware of it. I think that’s the ultimate example of gratitude. My mom and dad were so engaged in service and love that they didn’t have time to complain.

President Benson explained that, “Today we are aware of great problems in our society. The most obvious are sexual promiscuity, homosexuality, drug abuse, alcoholism, vandalism, pornography, and violence. These grave problems are symptoms of failure in the home—the disregarding of principles and practices established by God in the very beginning.” I confess that I didn’t know much of these problems growing up and the credit for that belongs to my parents and the example they set.

When we think about who we are, we ought to be profoundly grateful for parents who taught us the gospel and, if they did not, they certainly deserve credit for in some way instilling in us the values that brought us here today. Parents, teachers, church leaders, and friends all deserve gratitude when we consider who we are.

My middle name is Jensen. I have always been glad my parents didn’t give me a real middle name because I didn’t want to give up my family name when I married. To me it represents all my ancestors. Naturally, I cannot carry with me the names of all the ancestors who influenced who I am, but I want to tell you about one of them. Baint Johnson was a farmer in Sweden when the missionaries came to his home. He accepted the gospel and his family was baptized. It turns out that the Swedes weren’t much more accepting of the church then the people of Illinois at that time, because his neighbors organized a mob and came to his house where he was alone with his seven-year-old son. He pushed his boy under the bed and instructed him to stay there until it was safe. The mob forced their way in and beat Baint so severely that his son would later tell people he was baptized in his father’s blood. As soon as Baint was well enough to travel he and his family took what they could carry and walked to Stockholm. There were other saints there and he thought to settle but word came from the mission presidency that he was to move again to Denmark. He moved his family again and prepared to start a life in Denmark, but was told he was supposed to take his family to America. He packed again.

On an over-crowded, rickety old boat he headed for the east coast, but was soon put way off course by a huge storm. Instead of landing where they expected, the little boat went around Florida and forced all the passengers off in New Orleans. He worked there for a time to earn money to take his family to St. Louis and from there, to Nauvoo. Once again he was told he could not stay and he began the long journey across the plains to Salt Lake City. Brigham Young then sent him to Provo where he again began to farm. This trip took over seven years. It was the beginning of the gospel in that line of my family. When we ask who we are we need to remember those that sacrificed to bring us the true gospel of Christ.

Remember your ancestors, and be grateful for them. If you are a first generation member, be grateful for missionaries and friends who helped you get to where you are. Be grateful for loving mothers that sent their children to answer the call of a living prophet. To the youth and primary children, take advantage of living grandparents. I remembered that story from speaking with my grandpa when I was very young. When I called him to ask him to refresh the details for me, I discovered my own mom didn’t know it.

Sometime before the restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ a young boy was orphaned and went to live with his uncle, Thomas Hancock. The boy later grew to become the first signer of the Declaration of independence. While none of John Hancock’s children lived to maturity, his cousins passed the Hancock name down a few generations to prominent members of the church who lived in Nauvoo who carried it across the plains and eventually passed it down to Nathan Hancock who, six years ago, asked me to share it.

While Governor of Massachusetts, John Hancock declared a state holiday which he called, “A day of public Thanksgiving.” I want to share with you a bit of the article Gov. Hancock wrote as his declaration. He asked that on this holiday the people should, “devoutly and sincerely offer to Almighty GOD, the gratitude of our Hearts, for all his goodness towards us; more especially in that He has been pleased to continue to us so a great a measure of Health—to cause the Earth plentifully to yield her increase, so that we are supplied with the Necessaries, and the Comforts of Life—to prosper our Merchandise and Fishery—And above all, not only to continue to us the enjoyment of our civil Rights and Liberties; but the great and most important Blessing, the Gospel of Jesus Christ”

This, like the others I have discussed, is a legacy we all share. Not only was our country founded by men who were blessed with a profound understanding and gratitude for Jesus Christ, it was created by the Hand of God to be the place he would restore his gospel. Elder L. Tom Perry explained, “Among other things, the Constitution guarantees the religious freedom that allowed the Reformation to continue and flourish. The great religious reformers began to throw off the rituals and dogmas that had been attached to Christianity during the dark ages and sought to return to the pure and simple truths of the New Testament. “

Joseph Smith said, “The Constitution of the United States is a glorious standard; it is founded in the wisdom of God. It is a heavenly banner.”

Brigham Young said, “[The Constitution] was dictated by the invisible operations of the Almighty.”

Spencer W. Kimball added, “One of the reasons America is great today is because those men who formulated the Constitution had vision. They looked ahead to today, and all of us here are recipients of their wisdom and foresight.”

How grateful we must all be to be partakers of the blessings lavished upon those Heavenly Father brought to this promised land. I am grateful for freedom and for those that made the United States a part of who I am and those who continue to fight for it today.

My final name is one that I chose to take upon myself, but also one that came to me as the result of the divinity of all Children of God. At the age of 8, I was baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ and on that day I covenanted to take upon me the name of my Savior. When we are considering the inconceivable blessing of being chosen to bear the name of Jesus Christ, we ought to be humbled by so great a trust and responsibility. And, in turn, we need to ask ourselves how we can live up to that name, the same way we should always be striving to live worthy of the other sacrifices people have made so we could be all that we were born to be. I think even as adults we sometimes tend to become casual in our behavior, our language and actions may be more to receive a desired reaction from the people around us then a reflection of what we believe. But even when we are less then diligent in reflecting our Savior, we still bear his name. When we stand before him someday, may we be proud of the way we represented him.

President Hinckley further explained this principle when he said, “As His followers, we cannot do a mean or shoddy or ungracious thing without tarnishing His image. Nor can we do a good and gracious and generous act without burnishing more brightly the symbol of Him whose name we have taken upon ourselves. And so our lives must become a meaningful expression, the symbol of our declaration of our testimony of the Living Christ, the Eternal Son of the Living God.”

While we are counting our blessings this year, may we also list those things that make us who we are. Ignoring all that I’ve said today, I could stop after listing Nathan’s wife and already be in great debt to my Heavenly Father. Adding the mother of Ryan and Sean kind of makes me the proverbial poster child for the unprofitable servant. But then I am also a daughter, Member of Christ’s Church and, of course of the Gurnee first ward, an American, a Child of God and the list could continue forever. I became who I am not because of anything special about me, but because of the amazing sacrifices of thousands of people who prepared the way, most long before I was born. And I will be forever grateful for that. And I pray the Lord will help me live up to it.

A Conversation

It all began with Chloe pushing a chair around the kitchen. Sean was standing on the chair.

Sean: Mom, Chloe's making me jiggle and I'm going to fall.
Nate: I'm going to make your butt cheeks jiggle when I kick them.
Sean: Butt cheeks!!(uproarious laughter)
Amy: You don't realize the effect two such simple words can have.
Nate: I recognize the inherent comic value of the words butt cheeks and that's why I use them.
Chloe: What's a butt cheeks?
Amy: (pinches Chloe's bottom) This is a butt cheek.
Chloe: (with a very serious look on her face) Mommy...Daddy has big butt cheeks because he has a big butt.

Don't you wish you spent more time just hanging out at our house?

Do You Believe in Miracles? (Subtitled: A really long story about my crazy week)

I suppose this story actually starts a week ago. I was standing on the edge of a canyon with my family. There was an iron bar blocking us from falling in most places, but the bar was interrupted in two spots by large rocks jutting up from the ground. I was distracted by a couple deer that had somehow gotten on the wrong side of the barrier. They were standing on their hind legs, balanced on a small ledge, trying to find a way back to safety. I stared at them in worry, wondering if there was anything I could do to help. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Quentin scrambling up the back of one of the tall rocks. In a panic, I turned and took one step toward him. I was too late; he jumped off the edge, plummeting downward.

I sat up in my bed, panting. I looked at the clock. It was two in the morning. In an attempt to shake the horror that was still filling my body, I got up and went to the bathroom. After that, I laid back down, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw my baby jumping inches from my hands. I woke Nate up and asked him to put him arms around me. He obeyed, without really waking up. It took another hour, but I finally fell asleep.

At about four a.m., I was awakened again. Quentin wandered into my room, whining, “Mommy.” I felt none of the exasperation this would normally cause. I was grateful. I knew I would sleep much more soundly with him next to me. I scooped him up and hugged him tight. My relief quickly melted away. He was so hot.

That was the beginning of a great adventure. I spent the next several nights sitting up with my baby, pouring water into his mouth whenever he opened it and alternating Tylenol and Ibuprofen every four hours. Of course, life still continued. On Tuesday, I went to Young Women’s and was regaled by stories of who knew who who had a friend that had died of the swine flu. Now, I have been the one telling people to stop freaking out about the disease. It's less dangerous than the regular flu. But, if people can be dumb enough to pour money into the lottery for a chance, I can harbor the secret fear that I will be the one whose kid is especially susceptible. Quentin obviously had the flu, swine or otherwise. He had experienced several days of paralyzing fevers that returned within a few hours of being subdued by the Tylenol/ibuprofen exchange. He had been throwing up, including once on the way to take Ryan and Sean to school. I had to strip him naked and wrap him in my coat when we arrived, in order to get the others inside.

Sean was afflicted by some mystery disease. It looked like chicken pox, sort of, but it had been holding on for more than two weeks. Eventually, I took Nate’s word that he didn’t know what was wrong with Sean and hauled him to the pediatrician. This doctor came highly recommended as a Stanford graduate and a man who had been practicing for several years. I figured he would know immediately. He clearly didn’t. He examined Sean for a long time before sending in another doctor to take a peek. Eventually, he gave me a weak diagnosis, of which I was very skeptical, and told me it was almost impossible to know for sure. When I told Nate, he was irritated. He thought the doctor’s diagnosis was clearly wrong, but he really didn’t have a new theory to offer.



(Pictures of Sean's Rash- Any of you guys have a better guess as to what's causing it? I'm going with the Swine Flu...)

By Friday, I was teetering at the edge of the cliff from the dream. We were supposed to go to a family fun fair at the boy’s school, but after standing in line at two pharmacies for over and hour with all four kids, and visiting the doctor, Quentin was done. He wasn’t crying, it was much worse than that. The edges of his eyes had turned red. He was staring into space, sort of wavering back and forth in his seat as if he was about to collapse. Thick green snot kept flowing from his nose, replaced quickly whenever it was wiped away. The only sounds that escaped him were whimpers and that hacking, congested cough. And, worse of all, was that omnipresent fever. Nate was working an extra shift that night, so he was gone from seven in the morning until eleven at night. I placated the kids’ disappointment in missing the fair by letting them choose a Red Box movie and we all went home.

I did the best I could that night. I was snapping at the slightest provocation. Somehow, I managed to get the three older children bathed and into bed. Quentin and I laid on the couch together. I didn’t want to put him to bed. I wanted to keep a vigil over him. I had read that fevers from the flu were supposed to last from 2-5 days. It had been a week. What was wrong? Eventually, it got to the point where he had been drifting in and out, trying to find a comfortable position for several minutes. I knew he needed his bed. So, I carried him into the kitchen and got the bottle of ibuprofen and cough medicine out of the high cupboard above the sink. I gave him a teaspoon of each and put him to bed. I tried to wait up for Nate. He found me asleep on the couch and took me to bed.

Here is where the real story starts…

As always this week, Quentin came into my room during the night. I was glad. He was so sick that having him not wander in would have been the real worry. I gave him Tylenol and water. We snuggled and I slept with him in my arms. Sometime in the early morning, he wandered out of my room. I kissed his head as he got down. He was still very hot. I could hear Sean up already and I was glad to have more space. My body ached from trying to sleep around Quentin and Nate. I went in and out until about seven, when Quentin came back in. He smiled at me, I kissed him again. The fever was gone, despite the fact that I hadn’t given him more medicine. I was elated. I was so thrilled, in fact, that my exhaustion washed away. I had been worried for several days that Quentin wasn’t eating anything. I wondered if his recovery meant he was hungry. I got up to get him some breakfast.

Parents will recognize that the scene that met me was much worse than any horror movie.

On the counter, next to the sink, right where I had left it, was the bottle of ibuprofen. It was empty. There was a small amount on the cupboard. I was overcome with terror as my mind explored all the possible options here. My eyes darted around, looking for the medicine spilled out on the floor. I screamed, “What happened to the medicine?” Sean answered, “Baby was drinking it. He spilled some, so I cleaned it up with the rag.” I ran into my bedroom and asked Nate what to do. There has to be some value to having an ER doctor in your home.

After demanding to know how Quentin had gotten the lid off, (as if any of our children have struggled even a little with “child-proof” lids) He told me there was nothing we could do. He added that there is no antidote and in the ER they would just watch him and keep him hydrated. Since it was liquid, it would have been absorbed already. I was furious by his lack of concern. Perhaps he was acting appropriately for a doctor, but not a father. So, I went back out to figure out some numbers. Sean had gotten himself in the bath. I got him out and wrapped a towel around him. I told him I needed to know exactly what had happened and I needed the rag he had used to clean the medicine up. We found it. I was only slightly wet. I knew the bottle had been less than half full. It was an eight ounce bottle. With the spills and what I could estimate from the rag, Quentin had likely drunk a fourth of a cup. My mind was reeling. His normal dose is one tsp. At 16 tablespoons in a cup and three teaspoons in a tablespoon, he had taken 12 times what he should have.

There had to be something we could do. Nate had made his way to the computer, which made me even angrier. I demanded, “So if I took him to the Emergency Room, they would just watch him die?” He responded, calmly considering my anger, “No, they would watch him for a few hours and then send him home.” He explained that statistically, a child Quentin’s size would have had to drink one and a half cups to have a 50 percent chance of dying. To me, that was ludicrous. I didn’t care what gave him a 50 percent chance of dying. He wasn’t citing what gave him a 20 percent chance, or 10 or even one. Quentin was, after all, very sick. His body didn’t need something else to contend with.

Illogical or not, I decided I had to do something. I reasoned that making sure there was also food in his body to balance the medicine might be my only recourse. I needed to feel less powerless. I made pudding. I hoped that he would eat that even though he wouldn’t eat anything else. I spent the next little while stewing and spoon feeding my baby. I knew it was my fault. I had neglected to put the bottle back into the high cupboard.

Nate decided it was time to start the chores he had planned. It was his only non-Sunday off for the whole month and he had intended to fix some things around the house, change his brake pads, and get the transmission out of his dad’s car. He left to buy some supplies. As soon as he did, I got out his 500 pound textbook on emergency medicine and started to read about ibuprofen overdoses. It said there is little chance of any negative effects if the exposure is less than 100mg per kg and that the greatest risk is if the exposure is over 400 mg per kg. I did the math. As near as I could guess Quentin had taken about 120 mg per kg. It said the symptoms should manifest within four hours. They were the longest four hours of my life.

I suppose I should have trusted Nate’s opinion. I was just so angry that he seemed so calm about it. This wasn’t some person in the ER. This was his son. In retrospect, I realize that it was just a cultural conflict again. When Nate is scared, he gets angry. I was mad that he had yelled at Sean for not telling us sooner. I was mad that he seemed irritated with me for my persistent questions. But I realize that is the way he manifests concern. It’s a wrong-headed, backwards way of showing your feelings, but that is not the issue here.

At around two that afternoon, I finally decided Quentin was alright to take a nap. I wouldn’t let him before that, despite the fact that he obviously needed one, because I didn’t think I would know if anything was wrong if he was asleep. We went to bed together. He was breathing so fast. I could feel his little body getting hot again. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

Snuggle time was interrupted by the phone. It was one of my young women. Was I going to the dance tonight? I had a flash back to the Sunday before. The Young Women’s president had told me she was going out of town and asked if I would go to the dance as our ward’s chaperone. I told her I thought I could. I had completely forgotten. Why in the world was this happening now? I told the young woman I would have to call her back. I sat over the sleeping baby for some time. What was I worried about? I could certainly leave him home with his dad. The man is a doctor. I made excuses and then dismissed them for an hour before calling the young woman back and telling her I would go. The dance was at a chapel about 45 minutes away from our ward. I would pick her and the other young women up around 6:30.

It was time to get dressed. Quentin was crying. He wouldn’t let me put him down. His nose was dripping. He was hot. Was he hotter than the rest of the week? I couldn’t tell. My kids had lost the battery cover to our thermometer. It hadn’t worked for months. I asked Nate to listen to Quentin’s lungs. He did it. No pneumonia. I told him to look in his ears. He asked whether I would stop bothering him if he did. I said, “No.” He did it anyway. No ear infection. I asked if he had a sinus infection. He told me he didn’t and that antibiotics don’t help them anyway. I shut myself in my room and knelt down to pray. I asked for a blessing on Quentin and then paused. What was wrong with me? Had I been the one that was too focused on Nate’s medical training? I went back to the kitchen and asked Nate to give his son a blessing.

He didn’t balk at that request. I finally understood. He was frustrated for the same reason I was: our lack of control. As a physician, he knew there was nothing he could do for his son. My constant demands that he do something were just reinforcing his helplessness, and irritating him further. When I came to him with a request of something he could do to help, he was suddenly empowered. He was able to help Quentin, as a father, if not as a doctor.

The baby was still very hot when I left, but I felt calm.

I took five youth to the dance. When we had only been there a few minutes, one of the girls took me aside and told me her little sister was feeling a little upset because their grandpa had recently died and his funeral had been at this building. The younger sister and I left the dance and went to visit her grandma. We came back about an hour later and she enjoyed her first stake dance. I kept wandering to the hall to where most stake centers have a phone. I called Nate and asked about the baby. He was asleep. His fever was the same. I got the same answer each time I called.

I started feeling physically ill. I was so worried about my baby. The dance seemed to go on forever. When it was finally over, I had to drive all five kids home. I wandered into our door a little after midnight. I went straight for Quentin’s bed and knelt down next to him. It took me a minute to get around to reaching out to touch him. When I did, my eyes filled with tears. He was cool and moist! I made Nate come in and evaluate. He said he didn’t feel feverish at all. I asked if he had given him Tylenol. He hadn’t given him anything. After a week of being so hot, I couldn’t believe the fever had finally broke-and tonight of all nights.

I woke up every two hours that night to wander in and check on him. He was the same every time. At six in the morning, he came and climbed into bed with me. But, he wasn’t sleeping. I let him lay there and squirm for about an hour before I said, “Do you want breakfast?” He started to climb off the bed. I added, “If you give me loves, I will make you breakfast.” He smiled and threw his arms around my neck, resting his cool little cheek against mine.

Healthy and delicious

(From now on, story posts are going to feature "flashback" pictures for my amusement)

Last night, I put a bottle of ketchup on the table so Nate could drown his meatloaf in it. Well, Chloe took it a step further. She put a nice helping of ketchup on her plate to dip her broccoli in. Halfway through dinner, my little princess held a broccoli spear up and declared, "Mommy! There's broccoli ALL over my ketchup. There sure was.

The Sweetest Laugh

All of the kids have been sick this past week. Sean got the chicken pox to start us off. The others are, so far, pox free, but they have each developed a fever and a cough. These were short lived illnesses, gone after a day. But it hit Quentin hard. Last night he was so hot and so sick, that I was up with him a lot of the night. He wanted to do nothing but lay on my chest. His breathing was labored. I held him on the couch with a bottle of water, putting it into his mouth whenever I got the chance. He drank it without much energy. Finally, I, again, lifted the water to his mouth and he purported to drink it. Then, for the first time all night, he lifted his head. He reached his arms up. I was so relieved by this development that I lifted him to my face. Too late, I noticed his puffed out cheeks. He spit the entire mouthful of water down the front of my shirt and laughed. It was a weak laugh, but it was the sweetest noise I had ever heard. I didn’t even waste time gasping over the cold water making its way down my body. I squeezed that boy so tight. I knew he was going to be okay.

Happy Veteran's Day

My Grandpa, Reed Talmadge Johnson, passed away last month. His life was far from limited to the service he gave during World War II. But, today is Veteran's Day and I want to tell a story. I confess that I am embarrassed that I may not remember all the details correctly. Grandpa loved to tell stories and I loved to listen. But, as I got older, I became busier and the old stores were not always refreshed with new tellings. If you still know World War II veteran, write their stories down before they are gone forever.

My grandpa was anxious to enlist in the navy. In fact, he and a friend went in to sign up together when they were underage. They were promised that they would always be able to serve together. Well, grandpa wasn't able to get his parents to sign the release, so his buddy went into the navy without him. That friend was killed at Pearl Harbor.

When he did enlist, Grandpa served on a floating dry dock in the United States Navy. He liked to tell how he was hand picked for the position. He often described the majesty of the broken ships that came aboard to be fixed. Throughout his life his third love, after family and religion, was his country. His children were taught how to raise, lower and properly care for the flag in their front yard. Later, he kept dozens of little plastic American flags at his home and I was often given one to wave and told never to let it near the ground. I took that requirement very seriously.

I don't know how it happened that grandpa ended up on a beach somewhere during the war. I suppose he was on leave, but I can't recall where. He once told me a story of sitting on a beach with a friend who had been drinking. they were both missing their families. Grandpa had left behind a new wife to serve his country. The friend had said something along the lines of, "That's it. I don't want to do it any more. I'm going home." Then he had jumped into the ocean, intending to swim back to the United States. Grandpa had to jump in after him and pull him back to safety.

Sometimes I get so frustrated by how far we've come from the freedom loving people grandpa was fighting for. We're so concerned with our busy lives, immersed in our technology, consumed by our own problems, that many of us don't even realize what's happening. This Veteran's Day, Let's begin the long swim back to the United States. And, thank a soldier, honor a veteran, pray in gratitude for this divinely inspired nation. It is a sacred stewardship.

Like Roni

“I say unto you, can ye look up to God at that day with a pure heart and clean hands? I say unto you, can you look up, having the image of God engraven upon your countenances?”

-Alma 5:19

A few years ago, a friend of mine told me that Miss Utah reminded her of me. She couldn’t describe the similarities between us. She called it a wholesome beauty. Flattered though I was, I knew there was nothing similar between me and a beauty queen. I jokingly told her that I must have been “His image in our countenance.”

Today I had a quandary. Tonight there is a ward event that I have volunteered to bring a salad to. I didn’t have the ingredients this morning. Nate is working and I would have had to pack up all four children for a quick trip to the store. That was not the problem. The real problem was the coupon. If I spent $100 in one transaction to Albertsons, I would receive a free turkey! I wanted the free turkey. But I did not want to go shell out the money for the salad ingredients today and not have it count toward my $100. So, I did the only thing I could. I packed up all the kids for a major grocery shopping adventure.

When we had only been there a few minutes, I noticed a little old lady watching me. I had that usual defensive reaction in case she was wondering why I was trying to ruin the world with my 500 offspring. I sped up and quickly turned a corner. A minute later, she was there again. She had followed me down the isle. So, I smiled at her. She watched me for a few more moments before she approached and took Chloe’s head in both her hands. I let her. It’s my policy. Everyone is allowed to admire my children. She muttered about how beautiful Chloe was and began to rub Quentin’s head. Finally, she asked how old they were. We chatted about the kids. She looked at me speculatively and then said, “You are so happy. Most women who have many small children are like this…” She grimaced her face into an almost comical, angry expression.

I told her, “I have been very blessed.”

She said, “You are Mormon?”

I was caught completely off guard by the question. I was wearing cut off jeans and a t-shirt, looking perfectly normal. I didn't have on a CTR ring or any other "Mormon indicators." I was shopping in El Paso, not Provo. I answered that I was but was unable to keep myself from adding, “That’s a strange question.”

She shook her head fervently, “No, no. It’s not. I could see it.” She then launched into a story about a little Mormon girl who had grown up in her neighborhood. She described watching this child play and knowing from the time she was very small that she was going to be an amazing mother. She told me how this little girl had met and married a wonderful man. She had three small children, now, and she was different from the other young mothers. She added, “She is happy like you. She is beautiful like you.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I don’t remember what I said. But there were shoppers gathering up behind us and it was time to get out of the isle. The sweet lady smiled at me and walked away. I continued shopping for a few minutes before the lady came back again. She said, “Do you know Roni…” She couldn’t remember the last name. But, seriously, how many Roni’s do you know? I told her I did, that she attended my ward. We talked about Roni and her children for a few minutes. There were tears in the lady’s eyes as she told me her name and asked me to tell Roni “hello.” I will tell her. I want her to know that her neighbors have seen the light of Christ in her eyes.

Mystery Solved

Today Ryan and I were reading the story of a man who was struck by lightning seven times. The story talked about how he knew when he was going to get struck because he felt the hair on his head stand up. Ryan stopped reading at this point to say, “Mommy, I know why that happens. It’s just the electrical charge in his body wants to go to the sky. So, it travels upward through his hair.”

Finding it rather amusing to hear my adorable little six-year-old using the words “electrical charge” in such a serious, scientific way, I smiled and said, “Ryan, that a great explanation."

He responded, “Mystery solved…You’re wel-come.” He even flourished one hand as if to bow. I laughed so hard!

My Brilliant Boys

There was a time when my friend was telling me something wonderful that her son had done. I was listening enthusiastically, when she stopped and apologized. She said, "I don't want it to sound like I'm bragging." Well, I want all of you to know that I have no such inhibition. I am going to loudly brag about my kids because I could not be more proud of them.

Yesterday was Parent/Teacher conferences. Nate was able to come home so that I could go kid-free and talk to Ryan and Sean's teachers. I went to Sean's teacher first. I admit I was a bit hesitant because at this point last year I had some real concerns about Ryan surviving in a dual-language class. He was struggling a bit with never being able to understand his teacher or classmates. Apparently, Sean has no such issue. Mrs. Almodovar pulled out his test scores and started showing me how his reading and comprehension were above average. I was not surprised. But then she looked up from the standard explanation of his scores, as if she had forgotten something important. She said, "And, of course, all of this is in Spanish." I was a bit taken aback. I asked about his comprehension. She told me he was doing amazing. She added, "You're shocked, aren't you? I can tell he's GT because he is doing better than most of the Native Spanish speakers."

I was so proud.

Then, I went to see Ryan's teacher. In the first grade they have actual report cards, so I have put a picture of it here for your viewing pleasure. I waited while she spoke in Spanish to another mother for a half an hour. When it was finally my turn she handed me the report card and said, "You can see that he's exceeding expectations. I have absolutely no concerns about him. Do you have any questions?" That was it. I asked about his Spanish verb conjugation and behavior. She just told me that Ryan was still a bit quiet, but he's doing outstanding.

I left feeling so puffed up that I went straight to Costco to buy the boys books to show them how proud I was.

Once again, I find myself wondering why in the world I've been so incredibly blessed. Sean has had the chicken pox this week and on Wednesday I asked Nate if I could just skip ahead to next week because I was done with this one. But if I had, I would have missed so much. It's not just the PTC. I spent a half hour snuggling in bed with Quentin on my chest. Chloe decided to give her brother the cup he wanted and then she smiled at me and asked, "Am I a peacemaker?" I got a letter from an old friend from Chicago telling me that his daughter (who I taught in primary) is demanding to know when the sequel to my book will be out. Sean told me he was getting over his chicken pox because, "I prayed to God to feel better." Ryan has been working for weeks to earn tickets at school to win a prize. Today, he brought home his trophy. He had picked a bracelet-for Chloe. I admit that those experiences are tempered a but by an entire root beer float getting spilled on my couch (not the kids-Nate), Quentin breaking a dozen eggs onto the floor and having to refold the laundry because it had been used to break a few cannonball falls off the side of my love seat. But each of these experiences were wonderful. I cannot begin to understand why I am so blessed, but I'll take it.

Happy Halloween

We had so much fun today. We're all in recycled costumes this year, but it really doesn't make it any less fun. Sean was a cowboy at school, but decided he wanted to be Superman for Trick or Treating. I told him the costume was too small, but he wouldn't budge. Chloe was supposed to be a witch, but she lost her witch hat. So, we did fairy princess instead. The ward had a little carnival and Sean won the apple eating contest. He was so proud. We feel especially blessed because Daddy got home from taking the USMLE Step 3 in plenty of time to go play with us. Let's hope he passed! It would be nice if he could get his medical license












































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