Holy Women

I read something in a book by Wendy Watson Nelson, titled What Would A Holy Woman Do? that intrigued me. She invited six of her friends to chose an activity, something they already did, just one activity a day for three days, and ask themselves the question, "How would a holy woman do this?” or, “What would a holy woman do?"

Their responses were fascinating, and made me want to try the same experiment, and to share the idea with my daughters and facebook friends.

“Want to try an experiment with me?” I wrote to them. “Just pick one activity you are already going to do today, and keep the thought, "How would a holy woman do this?" in your mind as you do whatever it is. Then let me know what happens.”

I thought about being holy a lot that day, but couldn't really see how to change most of the stuff I did. After all, how do you clean up a compost pit or burn branches holily? But I did change one simple activity in the morning. Instead of just hurrying outside to start working in the yard, I looked around the kitchen and thought about how a holy woman would keep her house. After all, if I used the Temple as a model for my home, like a holy woman would, I would take extra care to keep my house clean. Not that it was dirty. Since there was only Krissi and me at home, (Moe was hunting) things stayed pretty nice. There were just a couple of dishes in the sink, but instead of leaving them for later I rinsed them off and put them in the dishwasher. Then I noticed the crumbs on the stove, again not dirty, just not really clean, so I wiped it off. The sun was shining through the front windows, illuminating little specks of dirt and crumbs on the floor, so I grabbed the broom and swept. All of that took less than five minutes, but you know what? It made me feel good to walk out the back door knowing my kitchen was REALLY clean.


That evening I got an email from my daughter, Holly, who has a new, three-week-old baby. She said, “I thought about being a holy woman today, mom, while I nursed Griffin.” It made me happy to know someone had taken up the challenge with me.

The second day was again, pretty ordinary for me. Still, it was better than it could have been because I was thinking about trying to be a holy woman. Don't get me wrong, I'm wasn't trying to be perfect all day long. If I had tried that I would have been frustrated most of the time, and that's not how I imagine a holy woman feeling. I just tried to pick one little area to work on, which on that day was trying to act like a holy woman when Moe came home from hunting.

I was out front, working on laying brick for a flower bed when he came home. I was sitting on the lawn, (a hard thing to do for a 57 year old grandma, but easier than kneeling on my knees all day) with my hands covered with mortar when Moe drove in. Under other circumstances I would have looked up, waved, and called out a hello. But since I'd thought about this moment in advance, I got up off the ground and walked over to the truck as he slowed down in the driveway. I started to walk up to the passenger window, since that was closest to me, but decided a holy woman would give her husband a welcome home kiss, so I walked around the back of the pickup and went to Moe's window to welcome him home. It wasn't a hard thing to do, but it was different from what I would have done if I hadn't thought about it before.

Later, as Moe recounted his hunt, I tried to listen like a holy woman would. I was doing a pretty good job until he told me, "Thanks, Gale. You have made this the best hunting season ever." Now, you might think that would make me feel good, but I'm ashamed to admit it didn't. That was the second or third time he'd said it that season, and it had begun to make me cranky. After all, what was he really saying? That because I hadn't complained about him going hunting he'd had a great time? So, that meant that all the previous years I'd been a nag and made his life miserable? I started to point out to him that I hadn't complain last year, or the year before, either, but he stopped me and said, "I just mean this has been a great hunt, and you've made it that way."

To tell you the truth, I still wanted to tell him that it wasn't my fault if he hadn't had a good time in the past, but a little voice in my head whispered, "A holy woman would let it go and not get offended," so I shut my mouth. Moe kept on talking, and slowly I realized that what he was really saying was that he was having a fun time looking for elk this year, and that he appreciated me making sacrifices so he could go. He wasn't alluding to the past at all.

I'm glad I was trying to listen like a holy woman. If not, I'd have ended up cross and cranky and offended over something that my husband didn't really even mean. Hopefully, I learned a lesson I'll be able to remember in the future.

That afternoon I got a message from a young woman I once knew. She wrote:

“I thought of this when I was outside playing with the other moms and their babies in my ward. I thought that a holy woman would enjoy those little happy moments and share a smile with the people she is around. Thanks for the challenge yesterday. Hopefully I will remember again and do better today. :)”

Maybe my experiment was making a difference for other people, too.

The third day I decided to try studying my scriptures like a holy woman would. I always try to read scriptures for half an hour every day, but sometimes it's hard to focus, and I feel like I'm just going through the motions. On this day I started out like always, wondering what I should read, when the thought came, “Why not study the Sunday School lessons you are missing?” A few months ago I began teaching a Sunday School class for a young man who has severe autism. It's just Victor and me in our class, and I have enjoyed getting to know him and trying to prepare simple lessons that he can understand, but I no longer get to attend the adult Sunday School class. But just because I wasn't in class didn't mean I shouldn't still be studying the lessons, right? So I found the adult Sunday School lesson schedule and used it to guide my scripture study. What a difference it made to have something specific to study. I think a holy woman would study her scriptures with purpose, not just randomly.

I received a message from an old friend later that day. She said,

“I have loved reading your posts! You always inspire me. Well tonight I finally did something as a holy woman. I got home around 8:00 and dishes were piled high in the sink (as they always are :)) With a heavy sigh, I turned on the faucet and started washing the dishes with a frown on my face and negative thoughts swarming in my head UNTIL I thought of you and asked myself, "What would a holy woman do?" The answer came to sing hymns and so I did. I sang hymns and not just in my head but at the top of my lungs with all of my heart (regardless of who heard me) and it made my frown turn into a smile. Thank you for making a dreaded ritual a happy moment. :)

After my three day experiment ended, I reflected on how I wanted to continue trying to be a holy woman, afraid that I would eventually forget as life went on. What could I do to remind myself? Then a light went on inside my brain. That's what taking the Sacrament on Sunday is for! Every week I get to reflect on my actions, review in my mind what I have done, and haven't done, repent, and then recommit myself to being a true disciple of Christ, a holy woman.

In her book about being holy women, Wendy Nelson sighted two scriptures that touched me. The first one was in D&C 46:9, where the Lord tells us that he gives us gifts for the benefit of those who love him and keep all his commandments, but then he adds,
"AND HIM THAT SEEKETH SO TO DO"
He knows we can't be perfect all the time. What matters is that we want to be, and that we are trying to do His will.

Add to that D&C 60:7, where the Lord says " .....For I am able to make you holy, and your sins are forgiven you," and what do I have left to worry about? I don't have to make myself holy, that's what the atonement is for. I just have to desire it, and try my best. He makes up the difference.

My Glasses

I had a whole list of projects to do in our yard today, starting with digging out my compost pit, cutting down the low growing branches behind it, and I clearing an area where I could plant a baby apple tree I'd raised from a seed.

It wasn't long before my glasses got smudged and dirty, making them glare in the sunshine until I couldn't see. Not wanting to stop work long enough to take them to the house, I put my glasses on top of my head and kept working.

It was a couple of hours later when I suddenly realized that my glasses were not on my head. Hopelessly I retraced my steps, searching everywhere I'd worked, but the glasses were not there.

Maybe they fell into the compost pit when I was digging and were buried with mulch. Maybe they fell as I dug the hole for my apple tree and were covered up with dirt. Maybe they fell into the fire I built to burn up the branches I'd cut down. Maybe they just fell off as I was walking, raking, and pulling.

“Heavenly Father,” I plead, “please help me find my glasses. I really need them, and we don't have the money to buy another pair.”

I retraced my steps again, hoping the Lord would prompt me to know where to look. This time I used the rake to move dirt around, I pulled up and looked under stuff, and walked around everywhere I'd been, but still no glasses. Finally, I gave up.

About this time I remembered that I needed to run into town to go to the bank, so I decided to take a break for a little while. When I got back I went back to work. The branches I had been burning were just smoldering ash and cinders by this time, so I took the rake and moved them around, thinking I might find my glasses melted in the ashes, but they weren't there.

“Oh, well,” I sighed. “I guess it's not thy will for me to find my glasses, Father. But, if it is, would you please help me, because I just don't know where else to look.”

Dejectedly, I picked up the rake and headed towards the barrel behind Moe's shop, where we keep shovels and rakes and hoes and stuff. Suddenly, right there in the middle of the path between my garden and compost pit, I saw my glasses. I couldn't believe my eyes. They were laying right there on the dirt, exactly where I'd walked a dozen times while I was searching.

“Thank you, Heavenly Father,” I exclaimed, and then had to repeat, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Whether I'd walked back and forth over my glasses without seeing them, or whether the Lord moved them to a place where I could find them, I'll never know. But this much I do know. I was sure happy that Heavenly Father helped me find my glasses!

You're Kicking Me Out of Seminary?!!!!

School started the day after Labor Day in 1970, whether I wanted it to or not.  I was 14, in 9th grade, and still at the junior high.  I suppose it wasn't so bad: at least I was finally one of the older kids and I knew where everything was.  It seemed to me that Junior High students could be divided into three groups.  There were the cool guys, the cheerleaders with beautifully long hair and super cute clothes and the jocks who played every sport; the nobodies (I was one of them) who were not so cute, popular, talented or rich, but they were OK; and the want-a-be hippies who hung out on the street corner across from school, smoked behind the bushes and talked about dope.  They still scared me, but since I didn't know them personally they didn't bother me too much.

One good thing about starting 9th grade was finally being old enough to go across the street to release time Seminary.  For an hour we went to a scripture study class put on by our church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day-Saints, (the Mormons).  I'd heard all about seminary from my older brother, Keith, who started the year before.  Every day he came home with awesome stories about his cool teacher and the jokes he told. 

My teacher’s name was Brother Moss.  This was his first year teaching, and he wasn't very sure of himself, nor was he a very good disciplinarian.  The kids, especially the boys, really gave him a hard time.  My hour was probably the worst, as there were a lot of popular boys in class who thought they were very cool and never stopped talking. It was kind of fun at first, but after awhile they got pretty annoying.   Poor Brother Moss eventually gave up trying to teach lessons and made us read the scriptures all class long, which was extremely boring.

Although I was not one of the talkers, I didn't help things out.  I thought Brother Moss was a terrible teacher, and a lot of the time I hid an Agatha Christie murder mystery inside my scriptures so it would look like I was reading the scriptures when I wasn't. I didn’t do the assigned reading at home, either, so I didn't learn very much. 

Each week we had a test over the chapters we should have studied.  Since I hadn't read the assignments I didn’t do well on the tests, and I failed the mid term exam.  That was really embarrassing.  I knew I shouldn’t fail any tests, but especially not in Seminary.  Instead of feeling bad for not doing my work, though, I blamed Brother Moss for being a terrible teacher.

We took the midterm on Wednesday.  Thursday, after Seminary, some of the boys in my class snuck into the girl’s bathroom and put a cherry bomb behind the toilet.  Somehow they rigged a long fuse, so they were gone before the explosion, but it wasn't hard for Brother Moss to figure out what happened.  The next day when we went to Seminary there was a sign on the door telling us that we had all been expelled, and to go back across the street to the school auditorium. 

Our Junior High School Principal was waiting for us when we straggled into the auditorium, and he really read us the riot act! As well as being our principal, he was also a member of our Church, and a Bishop.  He yelled at us for the whole hour, telling us what bad examples we were, how much damage we had caused in the Seminary building, and how mean we had been to Brother Moss.

I was never more embarrassed in my life, or scared!  How could I be kicked out of seminary?  When the principal told us we should be ashamed of how mean we'd been to poor Brother Moss, a brand new teacher, I didn’t feel sorry for him at all.  As far as I was concerned, it was his fault I had a bad grade in Seminary and had been kicked out, and it didn't make me feel any better when at the end of the hour the principal told us we'd only been suspended for the day.

I went home that afternoon afraid to face mom and dad.  I had been suspended from Seminary, I had a failing grade, and I was in so much trouble. To my surprise, though, when I told dad and mom about what had happened I didn’t get in any trouble at all.  In fact, they thought it was kind of funny. 

“I bet those boys learned their lesson,” Dad said, and he let it go at that.  I didn't

We had planned a camping trip for that weekend so dad could take my brothers deer hunting. Mom and my sisters and me came along just for fun.  The weather was perfect, the fire smelled good, we had marshmallows and hot dogs to roast, but I didn’t enjoy myself.   I was too upset about Seminary.  I remember sitting by the fire that night, stewing over all that had happened, with my stomach twisting itself into knots.

Early the next morning dad and the boys went hunting.  Mom and my sisters played games in the camper, but I sat outside by the fire and worried.  My stomach was still in knots, but it was easing up a little. Finally I went for a walk in the woods, and as my anger subsided, I started to think clearer.  

“It wasn't my fault that we got suspended,” I consoled myself. “I didn't have anything to do with those boys and the cherry bomb, and I'm not going to get in trouble for them. Everything is going to be OK, you know.”

Once the fear was gone, I even began to feel a little sorry for Brother Moss.  He didn’t have any experience handling teenagers, and our particular class was really tough. 

“If I'd tried harder and done my homework I wouldn't have failed the tests, you know,” I lectured to myself. “And I could have been friendlier to Brother Moss, and been at least one person in class who listened.”

By the time we went home Saturday afternoon I was feeling much happier. I went to church Sunday morning, humbled and repentant, and by that night I had made up my mind to go to Seminary the next day and apologize to my teacher.

Monday I walked across the street to the Seminary building feeling better than I had the whole semester.  I was going to tell Brother Moss I was sorry, I was going to work hard, and I was going to try to make his first year of teaching a success. 

But Brother Moss wasn’t there, and I never saw him again.  Our new Seminary teacher told us that Brother Moss had quit teaching to become an accountant.  The new teacher was excellent.  He knew how to handle teenagers, even stinking boys, and he made learning the scriptures fun.  But in the end, I I learned more from Brother Moss than I did the whole rest of the year.  I learned about me. I learned that I don't like getting into trouble, and when I do I get mad. It's still hard, but I also learned that if I'll let myself calm down things will look better and I can figure out how to solve the problem. So, thanks Brother Moss, wherever you are. You may not have been born to be a teacher, but you sure taught me.

Now I'm Their Cheerleader!

“You cannot force your children to do what's good for them,” I heard a psychiatrist explain once. “You can encourage them, council them, do what you can to make it easier for them, but you can't force them.”

“My own daughter suffers from mental health issues,” he continued. “When she takes her medicine she does great and feels wonderful. But because she feels so good she thinks she doesn't need the medicine any more, and stops taking it. Then all heck breaks loose. But I can't be with her every minute of every day, and I can't force her to take her medication. I can't live her life for her.”

He gave us a long look, then went on. “Look, it's like you are the coach when your children are small. You make all the decisions, you call all the plays, and you're out there on the field with them, guiding them around and helping them play the game.

“When your children become a teenagers it's your job to back off a little and become the coach on the side lines, calling out suggestions and plays, but not actually being out on the field with them.

“But when they become adults you are no longer the coach at all. Now you're the cheer leader. If your son comes to you and says, “I've just spent all my savings on an expensive new sports car,” you may swallow hard, you may think it's the dumbest thing you've ever heard, but it's not your job to tell him so. Instead you say, “Wow! What color is it? Can I come look at it,” or something like that.

“On the other hand, if your son asks for your advice, if he wants to know if you think he should buy an expensive car or save his money for his education, then you can tell him what you really think. But if he doesn't ask for your advice, it's not your job to tell him what to do any longer. You just be the cheerleader and point out all the good stuff. He has to make the calls for himself.”

I left that day thinking really hard. What the doctor said had a ring of truth to it. It reminded me of how Joseph Smith, the first prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in this dispensation had explained his role in leading the church. “I teach them correct principles, and then I let them govern themselves.”

By the time my kids became adults I had taught them all the correct principles I knew, and it was time to turn them loose to make their own decisions. It sure was hard, though.

“Please, Heavenly Father,” I have often prayed since. “I've tried to be a good mother and teach my children right, but I'm sure I've left a lot of things undone. Please, make up the difference and help them learn the things I have neglected.”

And you know what? I believe He will. That's the promise, after all. After I have done all I can do, I know the Savior will step in and finish the work. That's what Grace is for.

Mormor's Story

Mormor means mother's mother in Swedish, and my mother's Mormor was a Swede.

Mormor first heard about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or the Mormon's, when she was a in her twenties. Her friend thought it would be interesting to go listen to the Mormon missionaries preach, and as soon as Mormor heard them she knew they were speaking the truth.

Mormor decided to be baptized into this new faith, even though her husband and friends tried to discourage her. They thought she'd been hoodwinked, and ostracized her for her decision, but Mormor was baptized anyway. It took time, but gradually she won her friends back as they realized she was still the same good, Christian woman she had always been, and ten years later her husband joined the church, too.

Mormor was a compassionate woman, and over the years she cared for numerous foster children in need of a home. Her husband's sister had two little girls she could not raise, so Mormor took them in and raised them as her own daughters. My grandmother, Edith, was the same age as little Gertrude , and Greta was two years older.

About the time that Gertude and Edith were five years old a new Lutheran minister moved into their parish. Although Swedes could join other churches if they wished, the Lutheran Church was the State Church of Sweden, and everyone belonged to it as well.

“I will stop this nonsense,” the new Pastor swore when he found out there was a Mormon family in his parish. He paid a visit to the Johnson home and tried to reason with them, but Mormor and Morfar were fixed in their devotion to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When the pastor realized that reasoning and arguing with them wouldn't work, he finally gave them an ultimatum.

“Either you denounce the Mormon church, or I will take your two little foster daughters away from you,” he threatened. “They deserve to be brought up in good, Christian homes, and I will see to it that they are.”

Poor Mormor and Morfar. What could they do? They knew their church was true, and they knew that God knew that they knew it. They plead with the pastor, but he wouldn't listen. Their friends and neighbors tried to reason with him, but he turned a deaf ear. Even Morfar's employer, the most influential man in their parish wrote a letter in their behalf, but to no avail. The government said it was a “church” matter, and the church upheld the minister. Finally, despite all they could do, Greta and Gertrude were taken from Mormor's home and sent to live in a far away fishing village, to be servants for families there.

Mormor and Morfar worked and worked until they were able to earn enough money for Mormor to travel to the village to see “her” girls. She was horrified when she saw the terrible conditions they were living in. Their foster families were Lutheran in name only, attending only the required church meetings, and not teaching the girls the gospel or taking good care of them.

“What are you so upset about?” one of the foster mother's belligerently asked when Mormor took her to task for the shape her little girl was in. “It's only Easter time, and I personally washed her hair at Christmas,” the woman declared.

Seeing the girls in such shape caused Mormor so much heartache that she was sick for a year after the visit, and she was never able to visit them again. They did correspond with each other, though, always calling Mormor their “little mother” in their letters.

Even before this tragedy, my great-grandparents wanted to move to America so they could associate with other members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and go to a Temple of God to be sealed as a family for eternity. After the little girls were taken from them, this became their main goal.

They were not able to immigrate until 1919, by which time the girls were grown and married. Mormor never saw them again, but as soon as she could she went to the Temple to be sealed to Morfar and her children. Much later, after Greta and Gertrude died, my grandmother, Edith, took their names to the temple and they were vicariously sealed to Mormor and Morfar.

I grew up on this story. Mormor's faith and determination always amazed me, but I've got to admit a little part of me wondered if she couldn't have figured out another way to save her girls. Couldn't she, perhaps, have just pretended to denounce the gospel? If she'd just told the minister they would come back to his church she could have continued living the gospel in the privacy of her own home, couldn't she? I knew that wasn't right, but it broke my heart to think about these little girls growing up in such a hard way. Poor little things.

Then, almost a hundred years later, my Aunt Ejvor told me the rest of the story.

Aunt Ejvor is our family historian and genealogist. One day when she was looking through some records she discovered that not all of the Temple work had been done for Greta. Although she had been sealed to Mormor and Morfar, she had not been sealed to her husband. To do his Temple work we needed to know his full name, where and when he was born, and where and when he died. Greta had been dead for many years by this time, and my grandmother, Edith, was in her nineties. Even Greta's son had passed away, so grandma wrote to his wife, asking if she had any information about her husband's family. The wife wrote back that she didn't know anything about them.

Grandma, Edith, died in 2000 without being able to seal Greta to her husband. In December of that same year, Aunt Ejvor was working at the family history library one day when a Swedish couple came in. Because she knew Swedish they got to visiting, and she discovered that the man had lived in Vestervik, Kalmar when he was a little boy, the same town Greta lived in.

“I should ask him if he ever knew any of our family,” Aunt Ejvor thought, but she worried she might offend him when she explained the story, since he wasn't a member of our church and she'd have to explain how the Lutheran church had persecuted her family.

The couple came to the library for a couple of weeks, and each time she met with them Aunt Ejvor thought about bringing up her relatives, but she held back. When the couple left to go back to Sweden they exchanged e-mail addresses, but that was all.

Later that month Aunt Ejvor received an e-mail from this man, thanking her for her help at the library. As she typed her reply the thought came to her again that maybe he could help find her lost relatives, so she asked if he knew of a genealogist she could hire to find her cousins. Then the thought came, “Type their names and birth dates,” so she got out her records and typed in the names and dates for Greta's children. The next morning she received an e-mail:

“December 30, 2000. Subject: Unbelievable Coincidence!

Surprise ---- surprise! I know them all PERSONALLY,....how about that!”

It turned out that this man had known Greta's son in school, and spent every Saturday afternoon at her house. He gave Aunt Ejor the names of our lost cousins, and she was able to contact them and exchange family pictures, and best of all, the Temple work was done for Greta and her husband.

“I could just imagine Mother and Greta up in heaven, hitting me over the head that day at the family history center, saying 'ask him, ask him',” Aunt Ejvor told me with a laugh.

I could, too And now I know something I didn't understand when I was small. Yes, Mormor could have lied to the Lutheran pastor and told him she would stop being a Mormon, intending to continue practicing her religion at home, in secret. If she had, she would have kept Gertrude and Greta for another fifteen years or so, and they would have known each other throughout their lifetime. But if she had, she would never have felt the urgency to leave Sweden and come to America, and my family would not be here. Much more than that, though, they would not have gone to the Temple, Mormor and Morfar would not have been sealed to each other or to their children, and they would have lost those two little girls for eternity, not just for this life.

How proud I am of my great-grandmother, and how thankful I am for her courage and foresight. Eternity is a lot longer than a lifetime.

The End (But not really)

“There are no happy endings, because nothing ever ends.”

It's been close to thirty years since I first heard that quote in the movie, “The Last Unicorn.”

It has played around in my head ever since, and I believe it is true. Nothing does end, not really.

But I have come, at last, to the end of this story. Not because it's over, I'm just up to the present and will have to live some more before I have something to write.

If I were to summarize the lessons I have learned in my life, I believe it would be this: Today is not the end, Heavenly Father is in control, and things will get better.

I knew this in my head when I was young, I know it in my soul today. I learned it as I watched my marriage dissolve twenty-six years ago. I experienced it as I struggled through years of single-motherhood, then blending a family, raising teenagers, emptying my nest, leaving behind my home, and loosing mom and dad.

As Ugo Betti once said, “To Believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair, and that there will be wonderful surprises.”

Believe me, there are!

Moe once told me that before we met his ultimate dream was to retire early, build a little cabin, and live quietly in the mountains where he could go out and watch the elk every morning and evening. Instead he married me, took on the responsibility of helping raise my five children, and blessed me with two more babies, the little girls I always knew belonged in my family. Now, twenty years later, Moe's dream has come true. He doesn't live in a little cabin, but we have a wonderful home just a half hour drive away from the mountains, where he can go every morning and evening to watch the elk and relax and enjoy nature.

Linnea now lives in Tennessee and is in the third year of pursuing her dream of becoming a doctor. Her rough and tough, outdoors-man husband has become Mr. Mom, taking care of their four children while running Dad's Restaurant, and they are all amazing!

Holly traded in her dreams of Paris and the stage for being the wife of a talented junior-high school science teacher, living in Idaho, and raising five wonderful children. She uses her talents to bless the lives of scores of children in her town, teaching voice, drama, and piano lessons, which provides enough mad money for she and her husband to travel to Europe, and gives me a chance to play with my grandchildren during their trips.

Russell continues to follow Grandpa Russell's footsteps, working hard not only to provide for his family, but also gardening and fishing and hunting with his awesome wife and four children. Work, to the rest of us, is vacation for Russell.

Alyssa lives happily with her true love, who she really did wait for and now supports while he is earning his MBA, and their four children in Utah. They spend their time training for Iron man competitions, teaching their children how to share the gospel, and making other people happy.

Stephen finally found the woman of his dreams, and they were married last spring. He has discovered that somethings really are worth waiting for, especially his sweet wife, and they are the cutest newlyweds you ever could imagine.

Kami found her true love last year, and let him go this summer to serve a two year mission for our church. Talk about sacrifice! She is learning the hard way how to put her trust in God, waiting upon him for the blessings he has promised those who do so. In the meantime, she has enrolled in the school of life, learning how to be a wife, a mother, and a housekeeper.

Krissi is just beginning her journey through life. She has one more year of school, and then watch out world, because she is coming! If you ever need a redheaded private detective with a flair for cake decorating and cross stitching, she's the one to turn to.

Me? Well, I'm living happily ever after right here in Snowflake, Arizona. In my wildest dreams I never imagined having such a perfect home and being so thoroughly satisfied. I love it! I miss mom and dad and being with my family every Sunday, but it's not like we are really so far apart. I know where everyone is, I know they are all busily doing the things they should be doing at this time, and I know we will be together again, someday. So life is good.

My only problem is I having too many things I want to do, and not enough time to do them all. But keep watching this blog. I've got at least two novels tumbling around in my head that I'm dying to start writing. One of these days.

Our New House

“Hey, Gale,” Brad greeted me when I answered the phone late one early summer afternoon in 2011. “The inspector just left, and I have your certificate of occupancy. You can move into your new house!”

Wow! Our house was finally done!

We spent the following day putting up beds and moving enough clothes and stuff over so we could sleep in our new house and go to church the next morning. I'd been moving stuff out to store in Moe's shop for months, so it wasn't too hard to make the transmission. In fact, it was kind of fun to go through some of those boxes and rediscover my old stuff. A lot of it I hadn't seen since we'd moved in to live with mother after dad died, two-and-a-half years earlier, and some I hadn't seen since we'd moved up from the Valley in 2007. It was kind of like Christmas!

It's funny, though. Even though I'd looking forward to our new house for the past five years, I spent that first evening a lump in my throat and a sick feeling in my stomach. It felt like I was homesick! It was so quiet up here, five miles west of town, on our own five acres, and sort of lonely.

Probably I was just worn out from moving, but you know, I never really cried when mom and dad passed away. It was always like they were just gone for a little while on a mission or something, but not really gone, gone. Maybe that was because we still lived in their house, where everything was the same, they just weren't there. Now, everything was different. I don't know how to describe it, but I was miserable that night, but still happy to finally have my own home. Crazy, I know.

Many, many years earlier, when I was sixteen years old, I was given a very special blessing by an ordained Patriarch in our church. In it the Lord promised me that if I was faithful in keeping the commandments and paying my tithes and offerings, He would provide for my needs. That blessing had been fulfilled over and over again, all throughout my life.

When I was a single mother, with barely enough to make ends meet, I had needed a car. I'd just been offered a teaching job, so I went down to a used car dealership and bought a small, older station wagon with payments I hoped I could handle. The next day a teenage boy ran a stop light and smashed into my car. It was totaled, but by the time the insurance companies and the car dealership got through figuring things out, I wound up owning a slightly newer station wagon, with no payments at all. I knew Heavenly Father was watching out for me that time.

A few years later, after having to leave the new house we'd built before my husband walked out on us, my dad decided he should build a large, double home on two acres he owned in Gilbert, so he and mom and the kids and I could all live together. Again, I knew Heavenly Father was taking care of me.

Seventeen years later, when dad decided to move to Snowflake, I really wondered what would become of us. I wasn't very happy about leaving our Gilbert house, or our friends and family. But it gave Moe and I a reason to move to Snowflake, too, and it was the best thing that ever happened to us. Now I had the home of my dreams, due mainly to mom and dad and the inheritance they left me. Again, I knew I hadn't done anything to earn this blessing, it was just another example of the Lord providing for my needs.

So, this move, although it was a bittersweet ending to another phase of my life, was also the beginning of the happiest period I have known.

“Thank you, Father,” I prayed before going to bed that night. “Thank you for always taking care of me, for providing for my needs and my wants, and for making me so happy. I don't deserve this, but I sure am glad you have given it to me.”

And we have lived here, happily, ever after.

Our Bathtub

Building my own dream house was so much fun! For years I'd drawn plans and made models of the house, but it was amazing to actually walk through the rooms I'd designed and see how they really looked.

Mind you, there was a lot of work involved, too. Picking out cupboards, counter tops, light fixtures, flooring, windows, sinks, and tons of other stuff was fun, but I wasn't sure I was choosing the right stuff, and it was hard to figure out what was best. Should I buy the more expensive, higher quality items, or the cheaper brands that might be just as good?

One of the most perplexing decisions was the bath tub.

For years, I had dreamed of having a big, soaking tub that I could relax in during the winter, while reading a book. I designed our bathroom with that kind of tub in mind, but when it came to picking one out I ran into trouble. Our plumber suggested we buy the tub from his distributors, but the models they had which were big enough were also way out of my price range. I looked and looked, but for months couldn't find anything that fit.

I had a friend who had also just built a new house. She showed me the huge tub she bought for the extra bathroom they intended to finish some day, attached to a guest room they were building. The tub was huge, and exactly like what I wanted, but when I asked where she got it she didn't know. Their plumber had picked it out for them.

The thought came to me the following week that I ought to ask her if she'd like to sell us that tub, but I decided that was silly. Just because they weren't using it yet, some day they would finish that room and put it in.

I looked and looked for a tub that would fit our bathroom, and finally found one that was sort of OK, so I ordered it. Something went wrong with the order, though, and it never came. It took forever to get the problem straightened out, and then even longer for the tub to be delivered. I was so excited when it finally arrived, but when we opened the box, guess what? There was a big hole in the front! Apparently they had shipped us a broken tub, because the outside of the box was fine.

I was devastated. Now what were we going to do?

Finally, out of desperation, I got on the phone and called my friend.

“Do you by any chance want to sell your bathtub?” I asked her, feeling like a fool.

“You know what, I actually think we might want to,” she told me. “It is so big I don't think it's going to fit in our guest bathroom after all. Why don't you bring Moe over this afternoon and take a look at it?”

I was so excited. We measured the tub that afternoon, and it was exactly the right size for our bathroom. They had never even taken it out of it's wrapping, so we bought it right then and there.

My bathroom turned out beautiful! I tiled around it, and painted a mural of the ocean behind it, and it makes me so happy! The Lord really was good to us. He helped me find the perfect tub, he helped our builder find beautiful outside doors for the same price as the plain ones I'd thought I would have to settle for, and all kinds of other things too. Maybe I had waited a long time to build our dream house, but believe me, it was worth it!