My Hero Dad

Last summer Daniel marched with members of our ward in the Salt Lake City Pioneer Day Parade. I wanted to see him, so my father and I met about 5 am at a south valley MAX stop, found a cozy place along the parade route, and settled in to wait for the parade to start. It was a great morning. We drank juice and read the paper, watched the marathon runners, and commented on beauty queens as they rolled down the street on glittery floats. I think we were both home by noon.

The best part of the whole day was being with my dad. He has been my hero for a very long time. I promised him after his 50th wedding anniversary party that I would write a "Top 10" list for why I love him. Dad, it might be six months late, but this list is for you!

10. My dad knows more than anybody about everything! He keeps up with sports and politics, history and business, but he especially knows about God's creations. He knows about stars and mountains and every kind of rock in the Earth. For all the 25 years I've been a mother, if my kids ask a question and I don't know the answer, I say, "Ask Grandpa." He always knows!

9. My dad loves beauty of all kinds. Everyone loves a purple sunset or a majestic mountain, but my dad finds beauty in a desolate desert landscape or a high windy plateau. If he was one of the pioneers, he would have glowingly reported the possibilities available to settlers of the most barren wilderness. He also creates beauty. From rocks collected all over the earth he cuts and polishes, designing a unique silver setting for each one, and makes necklaces, bracelets, rings, and belt buckles. Notice the people around him. The lucky ones are wearing his priceless jewelry.

8. My dad has limitless energy. At age 73, he became a pioneer trek legend in his stake. He was NOT one of the original planners, otherwise they would not have staged their trek so early in the year at too high of an altitude during a late, snowy spring. He knows better. But once the decisions were made, he supported and strengthened their efforts. He helped alter plans to make the trip safe for all the participants, and he led them in miles hiked with enthusiasm and speed. I love hearing the stories of hiking with President Green! He is a marvel!

7. Did I say my dad has limitless energy? At age 74, he works at least two mornings a week at the Jordan River Temple, starting his day at somewhere around 2:30 a.m. After a 9-hour shift, he still goes to work some days each week at the state office he retired from (and did I say the man who replaced him when he retired just resigned because the job was too stressful? That man only had 1/2 my dad's job.) Then he handles various committee assignments with the City of Taylorsville and other church work. His work days are often 16-20 hours long. I work hard but I could never keep up with his schedule!

6. My dad can do anything! This is really part three of my dad's limitless energy. After all that work, he still maintains an acre of stubborn land, preserves all the garden produce, and shops and cooks for my mother and him. He invites us all over for dinner once a month and cooks like a gourmet. His apple cobbler and dutch oven meats are the best ever. He sends us out the door with homemade salsa and jelly, and makes fresh bread most of the time when we eat over. Does this sound like hyperbole? It's not! He really can do anything!

5. My dad is a pancreatic cancer survivor. It's rare for my father to be sick, but when something happens, it is bad. When I was in 9th grade, he got pneumonia and had to stay home for several weeks. It was so not like him to be under the weather! I remember his sadness at not being able to attend a performance of "The Crucible" at school where I was playing a role. He also got a rare eye disease when I was a young child. We were scared he might lose his sight. The worst, though, was when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My mother was so frightened! How could we lose this man who had the energy of a volcano and the peacefulness of a still mountain lake? His cancer was treated surgically, and miraculously, he is cancer free. He says his hospital stay was completely pain free too. My father's life is a miracle.

4. My father loves his family. When I was a child, I knew my father loved us. I was the first born, lucky enough to be born to newlywed parents. My mother tells the story that as a little girl I called everyone "Honey" and charmed the rough construction workers building their first new home. Truth was, all I knew was the love of my parents for each other and me, and all I ever heard was "Honey". Later, my father wanted to protect me from all the dangers of the world. My mom let me know that my dad was considering chaperoning me on all my dates until I was 18. That would not have worked so well! As a compromise, I was only allowed to date the same boy twice in a row, and then I had to see someone else. It was a tricky plan, and it only worked because I was in a group of kids that dated around a lot. It did keep me from having boyfriends, sort of. He also kept an eye out for me at church. Once, before I was even 16, the boy I was going with broke up with me one evening after Mutual. He said he couldn't stand the way my father scrutinized him during Priesthood Meeting. Turns out, he was drinking every weekend with his friends and had a guilty conscience. Thanks, Dad, for watching out for me!

3. My dad loves our Heavenly Father. I was a toddler when my father was first called into a bishopric. I've been told that one time I was misbehaving in Sacrament Meeting and my father left the stand to come take care of me. I yelled, "Daddy, don't spank me!" all the way down the aisle. All through my childhood and adolescence, and even into my adulthood, my father was a leader at our church. I love his ability to give moving and eloquent talks, teach inspirational and interesting lessons, and be a hero to the youth. I was a young wife when he was called as a stake president and set apart by Elder L. Tom Perry. I loved being proud of my dad. I love it even more, now, that he is a temple worker. Attending a session where he was the officiator was one of the spiritual highlights of my life. My dad was so humble, so pure, so devoted to the Savior in that setting. There are no words to express my love for him! I hope to have many more experiences like that one.

2. My father isn't quite perfect. Once, when my dad was about sixty, he announced at dinner that he had just discovered that paying tithing throughout the year was better than waiting to tithing settlement and catching a year's worth up at once. I was stunned! My dad wasn't perfect? And maybe that's why I was always struggling to get the tithing paid off in December. He said he'd had a better fiscal year than ever before and gave us examples. Because of that, I decided to actually turn in my tithing checks every time we were paid, instead of holding them as cushion in the checkbook. Voila! My economic stability strengthened as well. For the past many years, through thick and thin, I've paid my tithing as quickly as I've earned any money. I hope I never do it any other way. There are other ways my dad still isn't perfect, and I'm glad. I like that he is still learning! He leaves a path for me to follow.

1. My dad is my friend. Even though my father has seven children, he has been able to maintain a unique, special friendship with each of us. My place is his firstborn. I always knew I was like him; he is the oldest child in his family too. As the oldest child, I was able to sneak back up after everyone was in bed to watch football with him in his study. I helped his set up the campsite and cook breakfast for all the family while on long summer road trips. I stayed awake to keep him company when everyone else napped in the car. I was the first one old enough to go on difficult hiking trips, and he let me always set the pace. Because he valued my company, we climbed Lone Peak together and backpacked into beautiful wilderness areas of the Uintah Mountains, the Wasatch Range, and the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia. If I knew as much as him, I could tell you all the peaks and rivers and valleys and campgrounds, but I simply don't know their names. I always relied on him. Countless times I followed my father as we drove from Salt Lake City to Portland, or Portland to Salt Lake City. Countless times he has listened to my troubles, given Priesthood blessings, made me a meal. Every week or two while I was a student at BYU, in the days before cell phones, he stopped in to visit me at my apartment. My dad has always been one of my best friends.

I love my father. My top ten list could easily turn into a hundred wonderful memories, or a thousand, or more. We have plans to meet again this July 24th for the Pioneer Day Parade. You can join us if you'd like, my dad and me, side by side in our lawn chairs, the newspaper spread out between us. We are a lot alike; he just knows more and does it all better. My dad will always be my hero.

Roses from Ashes, Part 3

Twenty four years ago, this past Christmas, one of my sisters told our family that she was pregnant. She was sixteen years old. Over the next six months, two memories stand out most in my mind, the first being my mother's grief. My tender mother spend whole days and nights in broken tears--for the sudden maturity facing her daughter's young body, for the public response that would not always be understanding , for the private heartbreak of a daughter whose pregnancy came without the support of a marriage relationship. Over time, though, I think her tears sprang from suffering the pain of more bitter truth: she was too ill after raising her own seven children to parent this precious grandchild, and her pregnant daughter was not ready to be a mother. Her grandchild would need to be given to more prepared and ready family. This child would not be hers.

The second memory is of my sister's devotion to her baby's well-being throughout her pregancy. She ate carefully, exercised moderately and took her vitamins. She got enough sleep. She had regular checkups with a good obstetrician. Though her body was young, she gave her baby every advantage any woman could offer, and she took no risks. She also glowed with love and tenderness. My son, Seth, just a toddler at the time, loved his Aunt Cherilyn with a new kind of attachment that could only be explained by her soft radiance. Whenever we were together, they were inseparable. She also took care of her own needs. She finished her school work and graduated from high school with her class. I was very, very proud of my smart, capable, and wise sister.

When the baby was born, a beautiful girl with lots of dark hair and unforgettable eyes, my mother visited the hospital often and held her for hours. A new thought emerged: could someone else in the family keep her? I had waited almost four years for my first baby, and it didn't look like a second child was coming any faster. This precious child, with her tiny hands and perfect face, could join my family! LDS Social Services advised against it; the child's identity would be complicated and attachments could be troubling for her. Emotions swirled as we discussed her future. Through all the discussion, though, Cherilyn was steady and her decision never wavered. The family selected for adoption would receive her. Cherilyn knew exactly what was right.

These memories are on my mind because a few days ago my sister's daughter found her. At the time of her birth, LDS Services arranged closed adoptions, and it wasn't possible for a reunion until after the child's eighteenth birthday. Cherilyn gave contact information a few years ago, so that if her daughter wished to locate her, such a reunion would be possible. And now a reunion is happening. The daughter sent an email, which has led to more communication, and after almost 24 years of wondering--joy.

The specifics of this daughter's story are not mine to tell. It is enough to say that she is good and happy, and forever grateful for a young mother's recognition of her inability to provide a stable family. I hope we get to share her a little bit. She loves music and the gospel and writes like we do. She might be interested to know that her birth mother's mother has a song in the church hymnal and her family includes a long history of poets, writers, musicians and artists. Her baby has beautiful dark hair and unforgettable eyes, just like all the girls in our family. My daughter, Rachel, is nearly her age (yes, I did become pregnant again soon) and would love a cousin with so many similar interests. But the future is as tender as the past, and it must be written with steady, careful hands. We will wait and see.

God is in the details. Again, roses spring from ashes.

The Wind Beneath My Wings

When I was 21 I opened a little preschool in Provo. Not needing to work full time, but wanting a project, I designed a program blending early literacy with lots of playful exploration and recruited my husband to build a school. Since we had a detached garage and lived on a charming street in a quiet neighborhood, we decided to make the garage into a school house. For three years I welcomed about a dozen precious little children into my school for classes twice a day, made a little money, and gave their mothers a few hours of relief. I quit a few months after Seth was born; parenthood was my new fascination.

One of my favorite books in our classroom was a poetic story about the seasons. On the pages about Spring, I read that the wind blows in March to dry the earth from Winter's storms. I had never thought much about the purpose of wind; certainly blustery spring days had seemed more annoying than useful in my world. After that, though, in class we danced the wind, sang the wind, listened to the whisper of the wind. And I suppose I remembered about trade winds and sailing explorers, and the need for pollination and rain, fresh air and kites, and wind became, after all, very useful.

I've been thinking lately about adversity and how much it is like the wind. A little breeze of it barely stirs a leaf; a shrieking gale can shred everything in sight. But in between these two edges, wind is a constant, steady agent of change. So is adversity. Looking back, I am amazed and grateful for its effects.

Ten years ago, I became responsible for the financial needs of my family, and I wasn't at all prepared. Even during my BYU years, financial needs were largely provided for me, and I went from college to a husband who paid most of the bills. My university degree suddenly was the most valuable paper I owned, though my teaching certificate had long before expired. I had no idea of what to do. Inspiration came from a church employment seminar; I learned there about financial aid and nearby college programs, and I was encouraged by stories of other parents who survived unexpected financial turmoil. Within a few weeks I was enrolled in a master's program, completed the necessary recertification tests, obtained a temporary teaching license, and interviewed with local school districts to substitute teach. Oregon requires a current teaching certificate to be a substitute teacher, so at the beginning I was only qualified for a limited kind of job.

My first substitute assignment changed my teaching perspective forever. I walked into a classroom lit with flashing Christmas lights and met a radiant teacher whose sole focus during daytime hours was to provide stimulation and enrichment to a half dozen children with severe mental and physical impairments. Most of them could not even sit, so with the assistance of her aides, she rotated the children between several therapeutic chairs and beds to keep them comfortable. Regular ed children visited often to read stories or sing. My assignment was to assist a ten-year-old boy who was both blind and mentally challenged. For hours I walked him around the playground, singing "Zippity Doo Dah." I spent four days in that environment, amazed that for ten years their teacher had greeted every day with passionate love for her children, never bored or cynical about their limitations. I wanted to be like her.

That first year I supported my family on $9500, some leftover student loan money, and the sweetness of good neighbors. I worked as a sub about 3 1/2 days a week and went to school at night. My children ranged from kindergarten to tenth grade, and even though our lives were stressful, we laughed together more than ever before. Often we would find a sack of fun groceries on our porch--sugar cereal and brownie mixes, dropped off anonymously by kind friends. One day I was called in to our bishop's office; someone had given him an envelope filled with cash for us. It held $600. When my car broke down, a mechanic from a reputable shop called me with news that someone was covering all the repairs I needed. There were angels all around us.

After a year at school, though, I was more broke than ever. I'd sold the grand piano and taken out $16,000 in student loans. More than anything, I wanted to keep my home--for the sake of my children. Then one night I had a dream. In it, I'd been designing a kitchen remodel, but to my horror, I looked out the kitchen window to see a bull dozer driving straight into my kitchen wall, demolishing everything. I only had time to run in and save some glass dishes belonging to a friend who had brought us dinner, and watch my house crash down in ruins. I woke up knowing my divorce was far more than a remodel to my family, that we would have to completely start over.

A month later we moved to Utah. That was nine years ago. Adversity pushed us out and on, and in spite of the devastation it created, our lives are better and stronger for it. Each day I learn something new, and some days I actually make a difference in a the life of a child. I now have a resume that can sustain me as long as I am healthy and able to work. I am pleased with my accomplishments and the possibilities ahead. All this because of adversity.

In between my divorce and my remarriage I dated a wealthy man for a couple of months. He watched the financial crumbling of my life, promising that he would buy me more and better, when we married. When that relationship ended, I realized there was no knight on a white horse, racing in to save me. (Actually he was a pilot, owned his own plane, and he kept promising he would fly me to exotic lands.) But that's okay. With the love of good people around me, I can fly my own plane, thanks to adversity. It has been the wind beneath my wings.

Sing Your Way Home

I've always known my mother is a pretty smart lady, but like almost all daughters, I haven't always seen eye to eye with her about everything. One time I thought she was particularly crazy. I was a young mother, and my little sisters were teenagers, going through typically tough times. Every time my mother expressed her concerns for them to me, she would say, "Would you please just encourage them to take singing lessons?"

Singing lessons? They needed help with clothes, friends, confidence, more sleep, scripture reading, homework, gas for their cars, money for college, good boys to date, and my mom was thinking about music?

Nothing makes a child appreciate a parent more than parenting, though, and now I realize that my mother wasn't just pretty smart. She was genius smart. She knew that music, and particularly singing, directs all of the essence of humanity into one potent experience: physically, singing is an aerobic activity that increases the flow of oxygen to vital organs and releases endorphins, creating pleasure; emotionally, singing allows the expression of a reservoir of raw feelings as the singer interprets the meaning of the song; socially, music is almost always a shared modality, as it is practiced and performed with coaching, accompaniment and an audience; mentally, music stretches the mind as new lyrics and musical phrases are mastered; spiritually, because well-written music comes as close to communion with God as does prayer. Singing is a complete body-mind-soul activity that overpowers worry and pain, sorrow and fear. Music, particularly singing, is the answer to life's heartache and the incarnation of life's joy. My mother knew all of this.

My childhood was filled with singing. Like the VonTrapp family, we sang on family road trips, at home, and at church. My first experience singing harmony in public was when my brother, age three and I, age four, sang "I Wonder When He Comes Again" in Sacrament Meeting. (Years later, when we moved to Salt Lake City, kids taunted my brother and me, calling us "Donny and Marie". What they didn't know was their words didn't hurt my feelings all that much. I kind of liked the comparison.) As the number of children grew, so did the complexity of our songs. We sang our favorite, "Rain", at our parents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration last August. My brothers' soprano voices disappeared a quarter of a century ago, but the song was just as beautiful sung with the maturity and tenor of men. All seven of us sang together, and it was a tender, sacred moment.

Singing fills my home now, and singing lessons are alongside my 403b plan as investment money well spent. These are the results:

Aubrey received a superior rating at the Federation competition yesterday. Three notes into her first song, her accompanist was in tears. Everything they have worked for the past five years is happening with Aubrey's voice. She sang clearly, with strength and volume. Those who know Aubrey well, knows she has a piece of a chromosome missing, and the missing genes have affected her speech. Singing has been therapeutic for her, and her spirit has triumphed. Her disability is nearly gone, and her singing voice is exquisitely beautiful. Aubrey, I love you! Sue, Shelley, and Smith--thank you!

Daniel has joined the ranks and sang in his first Federation competition yesterday. His best friends are part of our music circle and his life is happier for music all around him. He has the grace to not complain when I am practicing my songs for the 100th time, just to learn the words, when he could memorize them instantly. Daniel, thanks for your patience.

Rachel just joined the Portland Mormon Choir. She has the voice of an angel. One of these days, soon, I will fly there just to hear her perform.

A few years ago, my children's voice teacher offered to teach me too. I hadn't had voice lessons in many years, and I was rusty and creaky. I tremble just like the teenagers when it's time to sing at a recital or competition. But the effect on my soul is remarkable! Sue (our teacher), and Shelley and Shauna (accompanists) have become my dearest friends. And when I am singing, everything painful in my life is gloriously still.

Last week we sang at a recital, and my mother came to hear us. I was last on the program. I stepped up on stage, took the microphone into my hands, and walked over to the piano. Three notes into my first song, my mother burst into tears. She loved listening to me, and I loved watching her. Thank you, Mother, for music, for singing. You always knew it was the solution. "Singing my way home" is my resolution.