Open Letter to My Family

Dear Family -

In the years ahead you will no doubt be telling stories about lessons learned during this COVID-19 laced year of 2020. What will you be telling each other twenty or thirty years from now? Will you recall how the world seemingly shut down over night because of that little virus cell that turned deadly? Will you recall how the pandemic seemed to split families apart or drove them closer together? Will you be saying that it was all over-hyped and that it was a government controlled hoax in an election year? Or will you be recounting the many advantages that you gleaned for closer family togetherness?

Whatever you envision happening to you in the future years as you tell your stories, I would hope that you found some pearls along the COVID-19-strewn pathway. Pandemics are nothing new. We have witnessed them before, and we have overcome them too. Those who have lost loved ones during this pandemic will not soon easily forget the memories. I read a story about a young daughter whose mother is now in the ICU on a ventilator barely clinging to life this week. The mother was a beloved school teacher who welcomed her students back, eager to re-engage with them, only to be struck down by the virus. When interviewed, the daughter admitted that neither she nor her mother had taken all the warnings very seriously about the deadly virus. Now the daughter is pleading for prayers and faith in a miracle that her mother's life might be saved.

I've had friends who contracted the virus and were hospitalized, only to die a few days later. I never thought I would be the one who needed brain surgery until it was me who needed brain surgery, and all that happened during the pandemic. I will forever remember 2020, not as a throw-away year, but as a year full of lessons to increase my faith and to return me to wellness. I will forever remember it as a year when I drew closer to my Savior and His healing power. I will remember the love and the solicitude of my family who fasted and prayed for my welfare, when hope for a full recovery seemed more like a Pollyanna wish than anything else. I will remember how valued our technology was so that we could remotely and virtually enjoy baptisms, baby blessings and welcome home missionaries. 

I will also remember a living loving Prophet, President Russell M. Nelson who has been uniquely qualified because of his medical background to lead the Church during this time. He has said of himself that he is a man of science, but he is foremost a man of faith. 

I will remember how precious the temple became to me as I recited the words of the temple ordinances I had memorized while I was serving as an ordinance worker. I heard those precious words replaying in my mind as I was recovering from surgery, and I was reminded how precious you all are to me. I will always remember how important each of you is to me, and I will forever cherish my relationship with each one of you.

As the Church has begun leading the way carefully back to more normalized worship services each week and gradually reopening the temples, and as governments continue to grapple with the best practices in health care advisories, I have also begun re-thinking what our approach should be as a family as we enter the fall and winter season of family traditions we hold so dear. 

I might have scared you all away with setting some boundaries over travelling to Woodland to be with us. I was responding to an abundance of caution suggested by the medical team who treated me. I have been growing stronger each day, and now feel it is time to consider easing restrictions for us too. Merilee hasn't seen us for a year. It's time to re-evaluate, perhaps, how we might follow the guidance of our living Prophet and still remain safe while interacting with one another.

I hope we may all continue to learn valuable lessons from this year that we can share in some future day with our children and grandchildren. Even in the most extreme circumstances we can exercise our faith in the Savior, have hope in a glorious future, make memories together, and develop the love of Christ in our hearts for all those around us. 

At the very least, let us love one another as never before. Sometimes that's even a virtual long-distance kiss over face time on your smart phone.

Love and blessings to all of you,

Mom and Dad

Beware the Warning Signs

Several months ago I was giving one of our daughters a ride to Salt Lake. She commented that my car seemed "noisy" and wondered if I thought so. I dismissed her comment because she isn't often in town and I was giving her a ride to the airport. I thought she didn't know much about cars and probably wasn't in a position to make that judgment.

Then another daughter a few weeks later drove it home from Salt Lake when she was with Patsy, and the next time I saw her she made the same comment. "You know, Dad," she wisely counseled, "if you just let it go with a car things only get worse in time." "Women," I thought to myself, and once again I dismissed the warning.

Over the holidays we swapped cars with a son and his wife who live over in Heber City. When he returned it to me he wondered aloud, "Why is your car noisier than I remember it? Isn't a Prius supposed to be quieter?" Well, he didn't drive it as much as I did and I chalked up an explanation in my mind that it was probably a little noisier with snow tires on it during the winter months.

Then, after digging it out repeatedly in January and finally being able to drive it once more on a regular basis in February and March, I had to admit to myself - this car really DID sound noisier than I remembered it being. There was a distinct humming vibration in the steering at freeway speed that could easily be discerned in the steering wheel when I turned slightly left or right.

Then I took a group of colleagues (men and women) out to lunch last week. All commented on how noisy it sounded. Our collective wisdom led us to suspect a faulty wheel bearing assembly. One said, "In my professional opinion (he is not a mechanic) this needs to get into the dealership for an inspection."

I heeded the warning signs finally, and took it in for an evaluation. Sure enough, the right front passenger side wheel bearing assembly was badly compromised, and the mechanic told me I would have been a dead man at freeway speed had it failed en route. He thought it might have happened as early as the next two or three trips I took it on.

My purpose in telling this story is to remind us all that warning signs constantly seem to pop up in our lives on a frequent basis. Some we heed, others we dismiss. Some amount to nothing, but others may have life or death consequences if left unattended.

Recently, I have been made aware of some who are leaving the Church. There seem to be a variety of reasons, but each story suggests there are warning signs that left unattended can be catastrophic in time.

In one case, after a lifetime of service to the Church and a pension plan from "the Lord's university" in his hip pocket, it was reported a man and his family had exited the Church. He had been making increasingly bombastic statements about the humble servants the Lord has put in place. "Joseph Smith was the only true prophet," he maintained, "and all the others are just false prophets who have been leading the Church astray ever since." He asserts it is our Mother in Heaven who will judge us, regardless of what the scriptures have revealed. He is now helping Denver Snuffer raise money to distribute a new and improved version of the scriptures and build an "undefiled" new temple.

Another boldly declared, "The Church is talking out of both sides of its mouth on gays and lesbians. They are all our brothers and sisters, but same sex attraction support groups are nothing more than lip service. The leaders of the Church tell us to love them as our brothers and sisters, but they are not allowed to have full participation in the blessings."

Still another railed against the Church's policy to not permit minority-aged children of openly rebellious same sex couples from having the blessings of baptism and priesthood ordinations. They have been deeply offended and have asked that their names be removed from the membership rolls of the Church. "I cannot pay tithing to a Church that discriminates," he told me defiantly.

Most recently, I heard about a group who plan to protest next week's Conference proceedings because of a decades-old grievance about a Scout leader who was abusing Scout-aged boys and the activity had gone unreported for years until now when the boys had finally come forward. They have filed suit against the Church and are seeking judgment to avenge the loss of the innocence of those boys.

Still others, I have been told, plan to protest at the Conference for women to have priesthood ordinations, and others who would advocate for the leaders of the Church to overthrow President Monson because he is now senile. Stop me if you're old enough to remember that one before. News flash - the President of the Church is almost always an old man subject to the infirmities of the flesh.

These warning signs among us are real, and those who hold these often political and highly charged philosophical positions are certainly entitled to express their opinions. I believe most are sincere in their passionate assertions that they are right.

These conditions, it seems, are persistent now, but these conditions have always been with us. The Lord's servants have never had an easy path in this dispensation or in any other. The blood of the martyrs attests to their diligence and faithfulness in the face of all the opposition. In their lives we see a pattern worth emulating, I believe. We will be beset and besieged on all sides in the days and years ahead. The path will not be easier. The "noise" will become deafening until we must give heed and take action or risk death spiritually and even temporally.

I suggest that we chart a course and make up our minds early to heed the warning signs and take steps to repair those conditions that threaten our safety and our peace. The solutions will not come through political means. The Republicans and the Democrats are dead to me. The solutions to our frustrations may not always come to us through the leaders of the Church either. In our impatience with them we may be left to look within. What is the path we will take?

I ignored the warning signs of a bad wheel bearing assembly that persisted for months before I took action, seemingly just in time to save myself and my family from some dire consequences. But in acting to correct a simple malfunctioning part on a car I was spared. How like that simple story are our lives?

What warning signs are you detecting in your lives? Is it something you see? Perhaps something you can hear? Or is it more subtle? Is it something you feel that isn't right in your life? What do you need to do?

Maybe it's time to take it to the Dealer for repairs. You don't have to wait as long as I did to find relief.

Elder D. Todd Christofferson

Observed Elder D. Todd Christofferson:

"What a precious gift is divine love! Filled with that love, Jesus asks, 'Will ye not now return unto me, and repent of your sins, and be converted, that I may heal you?' Tenderly He reassures, 'Behold, mine arm of mercy is extended towards you, and whosoever will come. . . will I receive; and blessed are those who come unto me.'" ("Abide in My Love," Ensign, November 2016).

He concludes: "Will you not love Him who first loved you? Then keep His commandments. Will you not be a friend to Him who laid down His life for His friends? Then keep His commandments. Will you not abide in His love and receive all that He graciously offers you? Then keep His commandments. I pray that we will feel and fully abide in His love. . ."

"Grandfather, Don't Shove Me!"

Every family has a few beloved stories about themselves that get enshrined in the family pantheon of memories. Today's post highlights one such story from our family. As most who read these pages will know, my maternal grandfather was President Harold B. Lee.

My mother preserved this insight among her writings to give the backdrop for the story that follows:

President Harold B. Lee

While I was serving as the chorister in our ward Relief Society when our first two sons were about two and a half and four years of age, I had arranged with Mother to come and tend my little boys while I attended a Friday afternoon stake leadership meeting. [This was circa 1951 - imagine how poorly attended a stake leadership meeting on a Friday afternoon would be today]. Mother called early that morning, however, to say that she had awakened with a bad cold and wouldn't be able to come. She felt badly to disappoint me but I assured her I could arrange with our pianist to excuse me and to bring me the information that would be given at the meeting. Sometime mid-morning, the phone rang again. This time it was my father, calling from his office in the Quorum of the Twelve. He said, "Dear, you plan to go to your meeting and I'll come tend the boys." I was appalled at such an idea and strongly protested. But he persisted and asked, teasingly, "Don't you think I'd be an acceptable babysitter? "Of course," I replied, "but-well-I just couldn't have you do that! I'd feel like I was thwarting the work of the Lord to have you leave your important work at the office just to come and tend my babies!" His reply was sobering and taught me important lessons: "Why, my dear, who is to say which is the most important work of the Lord - to stay at my desk at the Church Office Building, or to tend two choice little grandsons while their mommy goes to her Relief Society meeting?" He came; I went to my meeting, and two little boys were blessed that day by the full attention of a loving, devoted grandfather.

Indeed, our whole lives we have been blessed by grandparents we knew and loved on both sides of the family. The story to which I made reference earlier is this one:

On June 11, 1953, [Elder Lee] took "Skipper" (David), age five, and "Hal" (Harold Lee), age four, to attend the Mutual Improvement Association Dance Festival in the University of Utah stadium. His official diary entry stated that "they were tired boys, but seemingly very happy."

David, Grandfather Lee, Hal

The inside story, however, was a contest of wills from which this General Authority grandfather learned a lesson he often used in his sermons. As the long evening wore on, it became obvious that four-year-old Hal was not able to sit still that long, nor have his interest sustained in the panorama going on some distance away on the stadium floor. Grandfather Lee, not wishing to disturb his General Authority friends who surrounded him, tried in vain to quietly direct him to sit still as Hal taxed his patience by running up and down the aisle. Finally, in exasperation he caught the restless youngster with a firm grasp, sat him down very hard on his own lap, and held him tightly. A second later he felt the impact of a little doubled-up fist against his cheek, accompanied by Hal's indignant response, audible to all, "Grandfather, don't shove me!"

Embarrassed and realizing too late his mistake in handling the matter, he relaxed his hold on his young grandson, and reassuringly and lovingly cuddled him in his arms. It was not long until Hal submitted to the warmth and security of Grandfather's arms and drifted off into a contented sleep.

The title of Elder Lee's next sermon to Primary leaders? "Love-Don't Shove!" (L. Brent Goates, Harold B. Lee: Prophet & Seer, 314-15).

* * *

Sometimes in life the "contest of wills" is an unrestrained force to test us and threatens to destroy every relationship. As parents of children who have a tendency to stray from the path, our immediate reaction is to "shove" not love. We are invested in the outcomes of the decisions our children make. We sometimes recoil in horror when we observe their rowdy behavior when it does not comport with the careful life lessons we have sought to imbue in them. To uphold our reputations as Church leaders and neighbors in the eyes of others becomes first and foremost. 

Next time you're tempted as a parent to "shove" one of your children into a certain acceptable path of behavior, think again and remember the moral lesson here - love, don't shove!

Too often we succumb to the tendency to use the heavy whip hand and beat those around us into submission. We know the way, they don't, crack the whip. Resist using the whip. Instead, slowly recoil it in your hand, set it down and do what is hardest to do when confronted with a defiant child - try loving them instead. Relax your grip. Risk failure for a season. Look to the long-term day of the harvest, just as our Father in Heaven does with each of us.

"And it came to pass that when the Lord of the vineyard saw that his fruit was good, and that his vineyard was no more corrupt, he called up his servants, and said unto them: Behold, for this last time have we nourished my vineyard; and thou beholdest that I have done according to my will; and I have preserved the natural fruit, that it is good, even like as it was in the beginning. And blessed art thou; for because ye have been diligent in laboring with me in my vineyard, and have kept my commandments, and have brought unto me again the natural fruit, that my vineyard is no more corrupted, and the bad is cast away, behold ye shall have joy with me because of the fruit of my vineyard." (Jacob 5:75, emphasis mine).

Why is it so difficult to resist the natural man in such extremities? It's usually because our pride is invested first in the outcomes. Set aside your pride. Take the long view. Stop focusing on the offensive abhorrent behavior and look a little deeper into their soul. What is it you can discover about the underlying reasons for the outward behavior? Often what is needed is a little more cuddling instead of thirty-nine lashes in your flogging of them.

Most children understand and already know when they have done wrong. Their inner spirit knows. Trust that the Spirit will guide them unerringly. Teach them, instead of flogging them, how to recognize the still, small voice that speaks to them. You don't need to shove them into righteousness. Trust that the Spirit will do it better and more convincingly than you ever can. Be invested in the long-term outcomes. Be assured that if you have taught them correctly they are fully capable of governing themselves.

* * *

This was not an easy lesson for headstrong and self-willed Harold B. Lee to learn. Here's another sample from his history. I heard President Lee tell and retell this story many times:

A favorite, oft-repeated teaching lesson, which had its origin in President Lee's early welfare experiences, found renewed application immediately following the October 1973 general conference. President Lee found it necessary at this time to counsel with a Church-appointed administrator whom he had sustained in a stressful personnel controversy but whom he later privately counseled with love so he would become more compassionate with his workers. President Lee wrote to this leader of "lessons that I had to learn the hard way," recalling this experience:

On one occasion, just before I was called to the Council of the Twelve, a certain matter was referred by the Welfare Committee to the new Presiding Bishopric, the President of the Relief Society and myself, for a study and a recommendation. I waited to be invited to a discussion of that subject, but I received no invitation. Shortly there came a letter signed by all three members of the Presiding Bishopric announcing a decision. This, of course, was construed by the Welfare Committee as a slight and an affront to the Welfare Committee.

Brothers Henry D. Moyle and Robert L. Judd of the Committee went over to see President J. Reuben Clark, Jr., and voiced their disappointed feelings. President Clark, being a good diplomat, sidestepped any head-on controversy between these brethren and the Presiding Bishopric.

Within six weeks of that incident I was called to the Council of the Twelve. President Clark invited me one day to ride with him to his ranch in Grantsville so that he could have the opportunity of talking with me about some matters, and during the course of our visit together I made mention of the incident with reference to the Presiding Bishopric refusing to meet with me, representing the General Welfare Committee, and then I made some such remark as, "I suppose that now the Presiding Bishopric would be willing to sit down with me and discuss the problem."

President Clark saw in this remark a continued feeling of resentment on my part. He said to me, rather sharply, but with a fatherly look: "Yes, my boy, now you do have the whip hand, but in your position, you must never use it."

As additional responsibilities have come up to the present time I have found that President Clark's counsel was very wise and timely. The greater my responsibilities the more careful I must be in using that authority in a way that would be not inconsistent with my position. The greater authority one has the more careful he has to be to not use his whip hand.

Then, after assuring his leader-student of his personal love for him and confidence in his operation of one of the Church's largest corporations, he summarized: "I would have you think, as I have been taught to think over the years, that the greater my responsibility the more careful I must be in using my authority to the hurt of individuals whose feelings might be more tender because of my position." (Ibid, 554-55).

* * *

May this lesson from the life of President Harold B. Lee serve to guide us in our interactions with our children, grandchildren and co-workers. My hope is that by sharing it we may not have to learn it "the hard way." Restraint, patience, love unfeigned and long-suffering is the way of the Master.

The Jar, by Dianne Bayles, Christmas 2011

[Editor's note: On May 17, 2012, Dianne updated and revised this original post]:

I have always been a sponge for a sweet, sappy, touching Christmas story.  Whether they are true or fiction, I love Christmas stories, books, and movies.  Often they seem a bit far-fetched, but I still revel in them and the spirit of Christmas that they convey.  Snuggling on the couch or in my bed to read and share is among my favorite traditions I take pleasure in during the Christmas season.  We have enjoyed Christmas miracles in the past and along our journey.  Another Christmas miracle at least three years in the making has come to pass this year.

The Christmas of 2008 found our family depleted of all financial resources.  My husband had been without a job in his chosen field in which he holds a Masters Degree, for nearly two years.  Together we worked five different jobs and could barely pay our house payment.  Carrying our own health insurance premiums and just keeping current on our utilities had eaten our savings. Our food storage had sustained us with the help from my in laws’ garden and many neighbors, friends, and brother, who, just as the freezer was empty would miraculously bring a box or several coolers full of meat that they couldn’t use and wondered if we could.  One time, it was a loaf of white bread (a huge treat for the kids who were tired of whole wheat) and two cans of tuna fish.  Countless times, we found in the mailbox, taped to the door, under the front mat and tied to the doorknob envelopes of money.

Sometimes notes were attached of encouragement, but always anonymous.  One time it was a twenty-dollar bill with a note written in a shaky hand (obviously from one of our very elderly friends).  Another time it was a back-to-school kit with gift cards from a sister’s family that lived far away, or a check from a sister that said, “I love you”.  At first our hearts were filled with pride, not wanting to accept the loving offerings, or believing that they were needed, but our hearts were softened, humbled, and filled with hope.  There were so many gifts left that we gave up trying to figure out who our secret friends were and simply offered prayers of gratitude.

On Christmas Eve we returned home from my family's Ranch and having been with my extended family, we were filled with the spirit of the Savior after acting out the nativity and singing around the piano, concluding with family prayer.  My heart was filled with love and tenderness.  We had been able to buy a present for each child with the Christmas dollars from my in laws.  To our amazement, on the front porch we found three large garbage bags (obviously from three different secret Santas).  We felt the love of those around us even though we had no idea who had left the gifts.  We felt the hand of the Lord in our lives as others blessed us.

Thankfully, six months later, my husband was once again employed in his field of expertise, making a steady income.  Money was and has continued to be tight as we raise our six children and try to pay off accumulated debt and rebuild our savings.  As a family we decided that more than anything we wanted to save our money and visit Nauvoo.  We started a Nauvoo fund in a large pickle jar.  We taped it shut to prevent the temptation to dip into it.  Each time the kids received Christmas or birthday dollars, they went into the Nauvoo jar.  Grandparents and great grandparents made donations occasionally.  The children were amazed at how long it took to accumulate.  After a year we had saved about $150.  We knew we needed a lot more to be able to visit Nauvoo.  As a family we talked about our anticipation and excitement. We predicted when we would have enough money to go on our dream trip.  We dropped our change in and added a few bills slowly but steadily.

In the spring of 2009, a close friend, father of six was killed instantly in a car accident.  Three of the children attended our local elementary school with our children.  Their youngest and one of our daughters were best friends and initially brought our families together.   As an outreach of love and support the teachers and children of the school did a penny drive to collect as much pocket change to help the family.  Our little children asked if they could take our jar of change, our Nauvoo jar and donate it to help our friends.  Everyone instantly agreed.  Our mite was nothing compared to the desperate need of this family who we love.  We started over to collect pennies and change in our pickle jar for our Nauvoo trip.

The Christmas season of 2010 was approaching quickly.  Our Nauvoo jar had continued to fill, but we still had a long way to go before reaching our goal.  As I went to church the first week of December, I heard a devastating story of our home teacher’s daughter.  She was a young mother of three small children.  She was battling cancer for the third time.  The doctors had very little hope for her recovery and her response to further treatment.  I was told that this sweet mother was very weak, but her desire was to take her children and husband to Disneyland.

I went home and told my family the story.  We talked about what we could do to help them. The father of this young mother was the first home teacher we ever had that came regularly.  At the time of my husband’s unemployment, he and his saintly wife served our family selflessly, brought us hope, love and kindness in their quiet, humble way.  It was suggested by our 14 year-old daughter that we give them our Nauvoo jar.  All but one of our children thought that was the perfect idea.  I knew we all had to agree if we were to give our precious Nauvoo fund.  I prayed in my heart that I would know what to say to my reluctant child.  I promised our children that if we did this with pure hearts and the desire to bless this family that we didn’t really know, that it would multiply and come back to us in ways that we couldn’t comprehend at that moment.  Tears were shed, hearts were softened and it was agreed that we would give our jar to our home teacher and his wife for their daughter.

We invited them to dinner that night.  Following dinner, unprompted, our five-year old daughter went to the cupboard, retrieved the jar and gave it to our home teacher.  They were overcome with emotion and tears as we gave them our offering.  They didn’t know what it was, other than a jar of change.  At first they didn’t want to accept it.  As each of our children, one by one, told them to take it to their daughter, they were gracious and grateful.  In the scheme of overwhelming medical bills and a terminal disease, our little jar of change wasn’t significant in financial support or solution but we hoped they would feel our love, support and more importantly that Heavenly Father was aware of them.  We were grateful for the opportunity to share what little we could to lighten their burden.

The next day we started another Nauvoo pickle jar, penny by penny.  It seemed that rather than multiplying as I had promised my children it would, it was taking longer to accumulate.  October came and the kids asked if they could dump it out and count the money.  I was a bit hesitant. I knew there wasn’t much in it.  They did and there was just over $200.  They were so excited that we had collected that much.

Just after that, my oldest nephew received his mission call.  He is a young man who had overcome great difficulty and challenge in his life.  His parents have as well and were in the middle of the greatest financial crisis of their lives.  We decided we would contribute $100 of our fund to his mission.  There was not even a question in any of our minds if that was what we wanted to do.

Weeks after that, around Thanksgiving, we realized another family member was in need.  They had generously helped us when we needed it during our unemployment and we wanted to help them.  We sent them our last $100 from our Nauvoo jar.  It wasn’t much, not near enough to really help them, but we wanted them to know how much we loved them and they lived so far away that we couldn’t even visit them, hug them, play, or lift their spirits.

It was now two weeks before Christmas of 2011.  I had done most of the shopping and purchased “knock offs” at a much lower price of the items on my children’s wish lists.  I still had the Nauvoo trip in mind for a gift for Christmas.  I stayed strictly within my budget and spent the least amount that I ever had.  I started my research and realized even with the frugal gifts I had purchased, we wouldn’t be able to make up the funds from the emptied jars.  We’d just have to wait.  I had forgotten about the promise I had made my children that if we gave what we could with pure hearts that it would be multiplied and come back to us.  That remembrance came as my three oldest children bounded in the door from mutual with a green gift bag that had been left on the front porch.  The rest of the family had been home all evening, and even answered the door several times to receive popcorn and homemade treats from the neighbors with no notice of the green bag.

We opened the green bag and found inside a jar filled with silver coins and the book Christmas Jars, by Jason Wright.  I was overcome with emotion; my family is used to that.  As we read the book out loud, I realized that the promise that I had made to my children was beginning to come to fruition.  As we read the book together my heart was touched as each of our children made connections of our experiences of giving, spreading the light of the Savior with good deeds, secret acts, and sharing our jar in different ways.

The night after we finished reading the book, I found a black garbage bag as from Santa himself, in our garage filled with the gifts that my children had asked Santa.  It had been left inside the side door.  No note or explanation, simply there filling Christmas wishes.  Each gift was exactly what children were wishing for.  Santa was the only person who knew, they had not told anyone else their wishes.  If I took back the gifts that I had purchased and received the money back and added the Christmas dollars from Grammy and Grandad, it would bring our Nauvoo jar more than double of what we had given away from our collection of coins. The promise that I made to our children of receiving back what we had given had indeed multiplied in miraculous ways through others.  Our dream of visiting Nauvoo is a reality.

I have been reminded again of Heavenly Father’s plan. He is in charge and oh so mindful of each of us.  As we strive to bless and lift others, He never stops blessing each of us.  We can never truly pay Him back for the most precious gift of His Son, His Plan; we will never be caught up or ahead of the blessings.  My greatest desire is to serve Him and be His instrument in blessing His children.  I have certainly been blessed by many of His.  How grateful I am for the miracle of our jar, through the hands and hearts of many.

Epilogue:  

I wrote this story of our Christmas Jar the week before Christmas 2011.  I shared it with my parents, my husband’s parents and my grandparents asking them not to share it with anyone else until after Christmas.  My husband and I wrote a treasure hunt to give to our children on Christmas morning that ended with the filled jar and this story.  Our oldest read the story to her siblings as we were overcome with the blessings that the Lord had given us and the amazing Christmas spirit and giving.  They had not realized that the multiplicity that I promised had come to pass.  By the time Christmas evening came, our jar had doubled twice more.  I knew the reality of how much our trip would cost, we were still a long way off what it would really take to make the trek to Nauvoo, but we determined we would go for spring break.

January ended with a two-day stay in Primary Children's Hospital with our youngest with a random Staph infection in his toe.  I paid cash for the ER and all the bills as they came, not something we generally have budgeted for.  I was accepting every cleaning and sewing job that came my way and was stashing the extra dollars hoping to increase our chances of going to Nauvoo.  We were getting closer all the time but still had a way to go.

My husband is really physically active and a triathlete.  He had mentioned on occasion that his knee had been bothering him since Christmas.  After an appointment with a doctor, it was determined that he needed surgery.  Again, I paid cash as we went to the doctor and the hospital, thinking I was taking care of the bills the day of the treatment.   While he was recovering (the two days I could get him to stay down) we really got serious about Nauvoo.  He researched on the computer the different places to stay.  We booked our rooms, made appointments to visit the Nauvoo temple, mapped out our route and planned our meals, etc.  We were totally committed to the days we would stay in Nauvoo, as we had to pay 50% up front to stay at a pioneer cabin.

We enjoyed General Conference weekend as we prepared to leave the following Thursday for our trip.  That week we received more donations from our parents and another anonymous gift that came in the form of a plastic Easter egg taped to the front door with a note and cash.   In the mailbox on Wednesday, I received not such happy news in the form of medical bills from each hospital in the amount due of $500 each.  Our insurance deductible had changed to $500 per person per year.  It was a blow!  We did not have $1000 to pay the bills.  Immediately thoughts came that we should not go.  How would we pay these bills?  I decided that I would not think about it and I would deal with it when we got home.

Thursday night we were off on our adventure!  This was the first trip we had ever taken our kids on and we were filled with gratitude for all that had led us to this point.  As we offered a prayer of gratitude and asked for safety and peace to accompany us; we were all touched by the spirit of love and anticipation.  We drove as far as my brother’s home in Green River, Wyoming, and stayed the night there.

Friday we drove to Mount Rushmore and drove as far as Sioux City, South Dakota.  Saturday we got up early and stopped at the Winter Quarters temple, visitor center, and pioneer cemetery.  It was a powerful experience as I realized that my 5th great-grandfather was born there, and lived.  There are so many babies that died.  The temple itself is magnificent.  The stained glass windows are breath-taking.  Onward on the journey as we made PP&J in the car, and only stopped for gas and potty breaks to arrive in Nauvoo, which we did at 5pm that night.  We drove straight to the temple.  What a feeling!  We checked into our pioneer cabin (which was so fun in and of itself!) and got settled in for what was to be the most amazing experiences we have had to this point.

Easter Sunday we went to church and started visiting the sites of historic Nauvoo.  Each place the missionaries shared the stories of the people who had lived, run businesses and built the temple and the city.  A gospel principle was shared.  We felt the spirit.  Monday we continued to see historic Nauvoo, went on a wagon and carriage ride and absorbed the amazing pioneer spirit.  We made some special connections with the couple missionaries.  At each spot, the people we interacted with were divinely placed.  Because we were there in the off-season, we had their full attention, private, intimate tours everywhere we went.  It was everything we hoped it would be!

Tuesday was our temple day.  What sacred experiences we had!  I could have stayed in the temple for a week.  The craftsmanship was unlike anything I’ve ever seen, the spirit undeniably special, the gratitude for the restoration of Priesthood keys on the earth was tangible.  The spirit I felt and we felt as a family was building with each experience.  How grateful we felt.

The air was chilly Wednesday morning as we checked out of our pioneer cabin, and prepared for our last day in Nauvoo.  We got an early start as we went to the Nauvoo Grove.  There are quotes on plaques from journals and testimonies of the Prophet Joseph that bathed us in the spirit of the faith and testimony of Jesus Christ that was written in the hearts of the early saints.  Following the grove our next stop was the Joseph Smith sites that are owned by the Community of Christ.  They own the original homestead of Joseph and Emma, the Nauvoo House, the Mansion House, and the Red Brick Store; they also have and visitor center/museum.  We learned and saw much and were given a lot of information.  There was a different feeling, a lack of burning spirit, than we had experienced in the other places in Nauvoo.  My children noticed the difference and mentioned it throughout the tour.  I was grateful that they could feel the lack of the spirit that they are used to feeling.

Following the Joseph Smith sites, we traveled to Carthage Jail about 23 miles from Nauvoo.  As I made PP&J sandwiches, our daughter read to us an account of the 21 days leading up to the martyrdom of Joseph and Hyrum in Carthage Jail.  It was literal accounts of the eye-witnesses and other members of the church.  The spirit was present and reverent as we drove.  It set a perfect stage for what we were about to experience.

As we opened the doors to the car in the parking lot at the visitor center in Carthage, the spirit washed over us.  We began the walk to the visitor center reading the granite markers that detail the first vision and testimonies of the Prophet.  I was overcome with the spirit.

We were able to have a private tour, just our family of the jail.  How blessed we were to have time in the upper room to sit and feel the power of the spirit testify to each of us that what we thought we knew, we know we know.  It was a sacred event for each of us.  We had the opportunity to sit and ponder and share our testimonies with each other.

I have always had a testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith.  I knew that he was the prophet of the restoration, that he saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in the Sacred Grove, that he was taught by angels, that he translated the gold plates that is the Book of Mormon, that the heavens were opened to him to restore all things in Christ’s Church to the earth, and that he was martyred in this very jail of Carthage.  I knew that before, but what an incredible thing to be able to see and partake of the spirit in such a way.  I am so grateful for the experiences and the testimony that I am blessed with and was strengthened.  I am equally grateful that my children were able to have faith building, testimony fortifying, love enduring experiences and feelings that will be burned in their hearts and mine forever.

Friday, we visited Far West, Adam-ondi-Ahman, Liberty Jail and as the crowning jewel of our trip we went through the Kansas City Temple open house.  These sites are particularly reverent and sacred.  We had felt the spirit along our journey, but what a tremendous way to end, especially for our little children who aren’t old enough to go into the Nauvoo temple, to walk from room to room in a holy house of the Lord.  Each room was more exquisite, more beautiful, more full of light and symbol.  It was the perfect way to end our journey, the reminders of covenants, eternity, sacrifice, love and all the other gifts we have and had been given.

As we returned to “real life”, the after-glow of our experiences has lingered.  We have an increase of love and commitment to each other.  The medical bills were still here and I really didn’t know how we would pay them.  We had paid cash all along the way for gas, lodging, food, souvenirs and everything.  I was sure we had spent what we had.  A couple of days went by.  My husband was going to go to Costco and wondered if I needed anything.  I told him that I better check out our account and double-check what we had spent before he spent any money.

To my amazement, we had $1000 left.  How could that be?  We had accounted for every penny, and yet, we had just enough to cover the medical bills.  The multiplicity and out pouring of blessings continue as our every need is met.  Not just our temporal needs, but our spiritual needs.  I am grateful for each mite, each sacrifice, each blessing, each miracle.

Others may say that it all came together as it should or by coincidence, but I choose to acknowledge His hand in it all.  Every miracle, small or big, each act of secret service and all gifts is because of Him, the giver of all.

What 100% Looks Like

Submitted by today's guest blogger:


There is a great scene in the Bill Murray classic, "The Man Who Knew Too Little." In this scene the oblivious Murray, playing the clueless Wally Ritchey, believes he is acting in an elaborate audience participation drama, despite being a real-life hostage. At one point, after accidentally knocking his captors unconscious, Murray criticizes their lack of effort with the words,"Come on! Ya have to give it 100%. Let me show you what 100% looks like." He then, while tied to a chair and his hands tied behind his back, flops down onto the ground, digs out the knife from one captor's sleeve and cuts himself loose.

Growing up playing sports, I thought I knew a little something about giving 100%. In fact, as one having little natural ability, I prided myself on always working as hard as I could. Coaches often talked about this concept of giving 100%. By high school, giving 100% apparently wasn't good enough and before I knew it I had a sticker with 101% on my football helmet.

With time, even 101% wasn't enough and the cliche became "give 110%!" With a few of my more intelligent teammates it became a sort of inside joke that no matter what we did, it was never going to be enough. When I gave 100% the coach wanted 101%, when I gave 101% he wanted 110%. I even remember a professional basketball player who gave an interview where he said all he wanted to do was "go out and give 1000%." It made me want to go out there and give a million percent, a google-plex percent, or maybe an infinity percent. I got to the point where for me, the "give 100%" cliche became like most other cliches, overcooked and meaningless. It became difficult for me to see what giving 100% really looked like.

Then I grew up. . .

I remember coaches saying their goal in coaching was to teach players how to be good husbands, fathers, and contributing members to society. I never anticipated the realization of why I ran so many sprints, spent so many hours practicing my jump shot, and dedicated such a huge percentage of my adolescent years to sports, would suddenly make sense as I stood at Disneyland as a 30 year-old father of three.

I am a slow learner, but it was there I finally fully grasped why learning to give 100% in sports was such an essential lesson to learn.

My wife and I had been trying to get our family to Disneyland for awhile and the trip for our kids, 7, 5, and 2 was highly anticipated. We went on all the traditional rides, and because of the time of year and the soggy weather, we avoided the lines most anticipate finding at Disneyland. We did Space Mountain and Thunder Mountain Railroad half a dozen times and went on every major ride at least once, most twice. The kids loved everything it seemed, and this Disneyland trip was truly magical.

We had heard a lot about a new attraction, The Magical World of Color. It's a new light show at Disneyland California Adventure Park where favorite Disney movie clips are projected onto a water canvas, beautifully created by an arsenal of synchronized water cannons. We waited in line early one morning to get our "reserved" spots for that evening's show. But when we got held up on another ride, we arrived at the show later than most and found ourselves in the back of our "reserved section." I came to realize that by "reserved," what was actually meant was that you got to stand in a crowded roped off section, rather than standing where you wanted.

As the show began, my wife and I quickly tried to find a realistic way of helping all three of our kids get a glimpse of the show. Because we arrived late and we have a vertically challenged family, I was the only one able to see the show on my own. I started with my boys in my arms and my wife holding our two-year-old daughter. It didn't take long for my seven-year-old son to realize such an arrangement was uncomfortable and silly for a seven-year-old. We tried to adjust them, on my shoulders, to my back, in my arms, even standing inside the stroller, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, after about five minutes the seven-year-old gave up and sat in the stroller for the remainder of the show, missing it almost entirely.

We settled with my daughter in my left arm and my five-year-old son in my right arm. Before too long, my daughter was asleep. Twenty-eight pounds of dead weight in the left arm and my thirty-seven pound five year-old in the other. The show was forty minutes long.

Five minutes into it my back was cramping up in a bad way and my arms were burning worse than they ever did during the last rep of any weightlifting class exercise I remembered. My feet were burning too. As if the pain of "Disneyland feet" weren't enough, I have suffered from plantar fasciitis for the past two years and the pain was nothing short of excruciating. I wanted to set the kids down, but I didn't want to disturb my sleeping princess or distract the one child I had who was actually enjoying the show.

So, there I stood -- arms, back, and feet burning -- for forty minutes frozen it seemed in eternity.

It was at that moment I finally understood what my coaches were trying to teach me with all that 100% talk. It was not the first moment I had ever exercised mental toughness outside of sports. There were lots of times in my studies at law school and as a husband and father where I drew upon my experiences from sports and did something that was hard.

However, it was at that moment standing there in Disneyland when I completely and acutely understood. Had I not given 100% on the last set of lines in basketball practice when it mattered to my team, I never would have been prepared to give 100% when it mattered more to my family. I knew at any moment I could have made the pain stop by putting the kids down. Instead, I drew upon the lessons I had learned from sports and I gave 100%.

As I watched the show in the midst of this pain, I thought back to all of the sacrifices my parents made for me and my many siblings. I realized how much work a Disneyland trip must have been for them with all their children. Even more puzzling was how it was possible for us all to have positive memories of such a trip!

I thought about the mental toughness of my Mom having not been to sleep all night because she was sick, cleaning up the throw-up of the fourth child with the flu that night. I thought about her hands, cracked and bleeding out of service to us.

I thought about how difficult it must have been for my Dad to be a good sport about always doing what everyone else wanted to do, rather than doing anything he wanted. There was his passing up the fancy new car in order for his herd of kids to have clothes and shoes, despite our best efforts to outgrow and destroy them all. I remembered his giving me his last $20 in his wallet to fill up his car with gas I thoughtlessly used. Both were sacrificing literally all their selfish desires for the good of their children.

That is what 100% looks like.

As we left the park that night, our daughter remained asleep on my shoulder. We talked about our favorite things from the day and about the Magic Color show. The seven-year-old was happy about the day and claims to have not missed seeing the show. I think it was his way of not making us feel bad. The five-year-old could not stop talking about how much he loved the show.

At that moment, I felt a sense of satisfaction I always dreamed winning a state championship would bring. Despite the fact two of the three children were oblivious of any sacrifice being made on their behalf, I had been given a precious insight into what it REALLY means to give 100%.

I also learned all it takes is for one to appreciate the sacrifice to make it all worth it.

"Losing" Adrienne

Adrienne Goates -- 1992

When a child dies, we often say, "We lost our youngest daughter Adrienne to SIDS."  She was seven weeks old, exactly forty-nine days, seven weeks of seven days, a perfect symbol of fulness and completeness in Jewish tradition, and she was perfect in every way.  She went to sleep one night, and when we arose in the morning as a family she had quietly passed away during the night while we all slept.

I don't think about the agony of it much anymore.  It was December 9, 1992.  I was scheduled on a business flight to Chicago that morning.  Patsy was tired that night and Adrienne had been fussing, so I offered to stay up with her and comfort her until she quieted down for the night.  I sent Patsy to bed, thinking I could sleep on the flight the next morning.  I never did that. 

At around 2:00 a.m., Adrienne finally settled down and I was able to go to sleep too.  When we awakened as a family the next morning, Emily was the first to make the horrible discovery.  I have heard screams in my life, but never one like that.

As I said, I don't remember to think about those events on a conscious level anymore.  Only when prompted by a reflection, a current event, or a person who asks about what it was like to "lose" a child do I reopen that subject.

But last week two things happened to bring it all back to the fore. 

I read an article in the Deseret News about a young couple who "lost" their daughter in a freak accident at sacrament meeting in Park City in 2008.  The writer described the tragedy in sensitive and comforting terms, and talked about how this mother had dealt with her grief by starting to blog about their "loss" in a blog page she dubbed "A Good Grief." 

The title intrigued me.  I checked it out.  Emotion welled up within me, as I recalled so many similar feelings about Adrienne's death.

Because I was the last one to be with Adrienne, the feelings of guilt were almost unbearable.  There had to be a cause.  That's the first thing a rational pragmatic male thinks.  What is the logical explanation for her death?  Why did this happen?  What did I do (or not do) that caused her death?  I know I'm a sinner and totally unworthy of the blessing of her life, so it must be my sins that caused this death.  And then "rational," "reasoned," and "logical" pieces of my existence were totally shattered in the ensuing moments and the flood of possibilities.

The details are not as important after all these years.  There was an autopsy.  The results were normal.  I was comforted, strangely somehow, in being vindicated, but still perplexed about the "Why" question.  Absolutely no logical explanation suggested itself. Reason was defied.  Rational thought escaped the medical professionals who examined her body in the post-mortem.

And that is how her death got classified as a "SIDS" death, or "sudden infant death syndrome." 

The medical explanation was there was no explanation.

She just died.  

I said there were two events this last week prompting my recollections to suddenly come bursting to the surface.  The second was a visit last night from a dear friend who had "lost" her husband at a relatively young age in a tragic car accident a year and a half ago. 

I wrote about her husband, Dan Howells, in a previous blog post a year ago when I was recalling those events of his passing and his funeral.

We talked after dinner for awhile, and for some reason I opened my heart and shared the feelings and experiences I dealt with in Adrienne's passing, perhaps prompted by what I had read in the accounts on the blog.  I loved that title, "A Good Grief."  As anyone who has grieved will tell you, that title is oxymoronic in the highest expression of the word. 

I was always open about her death, I dealt with her death.  I don't think I left any stone unturned.  I played the tape of her funeral every day for months afterward.  I felt stuck.  I had a hard time moving on. 

I learned about all the steps of grieving one cannot avoid.  I got great counsel from everyone to comfort me.  "You just have to move on," was a favorite.  But nobody could tell me "HOW?"  I learned that grieving involves anger, helplessness, loss of control, deadness of spirit, lack of will, gradual acceptance, a gnawing sense of futility in everything that comes after, and a host of other emotions, thoughts and feelings with which I had never been previously acquainted.

As I spoke to Amy last night, I found myself doing all the talking, something rare for me.  I'd much rather listen, because I learn more.  But I talked and she listened.  As I poured out my heart and soul to her, I became aware I was saying things I hadn't really ever voiced to anyone out loud.  I felt as though Dan wanted all those things said, for whatever reason, to Amy.  But I didn't understand that until later last night when I pondered why I had done something so foreign to my basic nature.

Through all my grieving steps, I told her, I never lost my faith in God, in my Savior Jesus Christ, nor in my hope for eternal life.  That faith was rock solid throughout the ordeal.  But the one piece I simply could never dismiss in my grieving was the physical separation from that little baby girl who was "snatched" so suddenly out of our arms as a family.

She was our youngest child, the 13th of 13, our "baker's dozen" child.  Everyone at the time of her death offered, "But you have all those other children to comfort you, so you won't miss her."  That seemed like such an empty platitude to me.  Didn't they know this little girl was her own little person?  "Losing" her was a loss impossible to replace with all the other twelve.  She was unique to herself, and all those other children combined still could not assuage the sense of that physical separation from her. 

There was still a big hole in my physical, mortal heart that couldn't be repaired.

Life in mortality is filled with temporary farewells and partings.  Merilee has been away working this summer in the Bay area.  Andrew was away on his mission, as were six other siblings in their turns and seasons.  Families of our children and grandchildren come and go today, as they have this summer.  With each visit they are welcomed, then we say our farewells until we see each other again.  Life is all about separation, reunion, greetings and farewells. 

Our faith should dictate to us -- the spiritual part of our natures -- that death is nothing more than a parting for a season.  We can accept that as spiritual reality.  The reality of Christ's resurrection locks faith and hope into place in the very fabric of our souls.  "He is not here, He is risen."  We know it, we testify of it, and when these events we call death occur our faith usually sees us through.

Ask anyone, I don't care from what church they come or what their faith tradition may dictate, even if they profess NO faith whatsoever, and most will confess they hope their love for each other in marriage will somehow transcend the grave.  All the love songs ever written and the movies ever made, and the collective wisdom of the poets and philosophers are laced with the core hope love does not die, that it lives on into eternity, however that is defined.

But all that aside, some struggle mightily when the winds of adversity and premature death strike at us with the finality of a funeral, a casket, and a burial.  The one so loved and cherished is physically separated from us as the dirt fills the hole and we somehow attempt to pick up the pieces of our lives and move on.

No matter how hard we try, I explained last night to Amy, that hole in our heart never is fully healed.  There is always an empty place we go to when events remind us.

The passage of time helps a lot.  Life eventually does pick up a full head of steam again and hope re-emerges eventually.  Some measure of control is restored.  Gradually anger and blame subside.  It's no longer God's fault as we try to come out of the fog.  God still loves us, His Spirit is still alive within us to give comfort and guidance, peace and assurance all will be well if we are faithful.

Of all the well-wishers who came, who showered us with love and affection, who sent cards and notes of comfort, there is one phone call that still gives me the greatest peace.  It was a dear friend from a former ward, a deeply spiritual woman who was a paragon and tower of unshakable conviction.  She and her husband had also lost an infant daughter.  She said simply, "Now you have your first celestial child who will show all the rest of you the way home." 

I was filled with an image in her words.  I referred from that day forward to Adrienne as "Our Lighthouse in the Storm."  Those were the words we chose for her headstone.

The day we buried her on cemetery hill in Woodland, there was a snowstorm raging outside the chapel.  The wind was whipping snowflakes against the windowpanes throughout the service.  The Spirit in the meeeting was palpable.  But we knew the short trip to the cemetery would be challenging. 

It was a wintry day just like the morning she had died.  When we stood over the open grave, however, and dedicated her final resting place, the storm dissipated suddenly and the sun was shining brilliantly through the clouds for just those few moments.  When we were finished, the storm regained its fury and the snow continued to fall.

Last night Dan was whispering to all our spirits around that table, I think, that no one who dies is ever really "lost," because death is only a door into the next room -- a door through which each will pass in time.

Time is measured only to men.  Whether early or late by our feeble calculations, death will visit each of us.  But in death there is no victory because of Christ's atonement.

Our physical pain of separation now is all swallowed up someday in reunion.  What we feel here and now is conquered there and then.

Here and now we walk by faith not knowing the answer to the "Why" question.  But Dan knows, so does Adrienne, and so does everyone else you know who has passed that portal of death and awakened to their next stage of existence. 

It's universal.  The plan is perfect.  Hope lives on in each of us despite the temporary farewells.