The Key to My Dreams

Can you wrap a dream in gift wrap and give it to someone? Can you tie up hopes in red satin bows and make them come true? The Christmas of 1961 my parents found gifts that were the key to my dreams and changed my frozen heart to one filled with optimism.

Christmas of 1961 was cold and bitter, but I seldom felt its frigid bite because my heart was enclosed in a casing of ice. It was my senior year of high school, but I had allowed one decision (to not go out for pep club) to warp my whole year. It had appeared to be a simple choice, based on the fact that I didn’t care for sports and I had responsibilities at home. However that one choice had drastically changed relations between my friends and me. Furthermore it had changed how I viewed my future.

My friends went to school early to practice for pep club. They stayed afterwards for the games and activities. I walked to school by myself, hid in the library at lunch, studied during the pep rallies and pretended that I was happy. My friends planned excitedly to go away to this or that college, while I began to question whether college for me was an impossible dream. Rather than mention my fears, I withdrew from the few activities that I still participated with my friends in, and embraced my resentment like a prickly hair shirt. When my friends filled their wish lists with luggage and clothes for their college life, I didn’t even dare make a wish list.

It was more than pep club that divided me from my friends that year, but pep club was an easy scapegoat. My older brother had left for a mission for our church which put an economic strain on our family, but my mother’s failing health spelled doom to my dreams of college. My dreams of going away to college seemed selfish and impossible.

Perhaps if I had talked about how much college meant to me it would have been different, but I couldn’t. I was terrified if I said one word about college, the bitter truths that ruled my life at home would shatter my hopes like brittle glass. It was easier to hold the pain inside, letting it freeze my hopes and distort my attitude. I became secretive and resentful. Rather than enjoying the season, I made life miserable for everyone.

When Dad offered to take me shopping, I griped that I had too much to do. When Mother asked what I wanted for Christmas, I snapped back, "Why even ask? We can’t afford anything anyway!" My younger brother and sisters quieted in my presence, fearful I’d bite their heads off as sport. Eventually most of my friends began to avoid me.

My mother knew that I was unhappy, but I obstinately refused to tell her what had blighted my life. Perhaps I felt that it would be one more heavy burden for her to carry so I refused to let on how much college meant to me. My sweet mother with her gentle smile and unselfish heart had quit high school to support her family when her father died during the Great Depression. She was very intelligent, but she had never even been able to finish high school. In some unexplainable manner, previously I felt that I needed to get an education both for myself and for her. Now that my college dreams seemed impossible, I buried my hopes beneath a surly attitude and made myself miserable. I knew no one could find the key to unlock my dreams.

That Christmas morning dawned cold and clear. I growled when the younger kids tried to entice me to see what Santa had brought because I knew that what I wanted most could not be found under a Christmas tree. But I was wrong.

Santa hadn’t left a bushel of expensive trinkets for any of us. But my parents, with perception and hope had unlocked my heart with two unique and special gifts—a small bound book of Emily Dickenson’s poetry and a vinyl soundtrack of my favorite musical, Carnival. I looked at my mother and began to cry.

“How did you know I loved Emily Dickenson?” I sobbed.

“I called all your friends until I found out what you’d been talking to them about. You’ve always wanted to be a writer, and Sharon told me that your favorite poet was Emily Dickenson. The book will be useful when you begin your English studies at college next fall. Linda told me that you loved Broadway musicals. I hope you like the one I picked out; maybe it will do until you see one on Broadway someday.”

My dad was mumbling about the gifts he wished he could have given me. He said that when he won the lottery he’d buy me bushels of Janzten sweaters. But I didn’t hear him.

Through my tear-filled eyes, I could see their vision for me. It was a vision that I hadn’t dared dream about—that my mother would not live long enough to see.

Gifts are merely symbols of what we would really like to give others. For how can you wrap love inside silver paper? How can you place a red satin bow around dreams? How can you gift someone with hope and confidence? That Christmas my mother had searched for the key to my dreams. And she had succeeded.

My Father’s Legacy

My father was an ordinary, blue-collar man. He never accumulated great wealth, or served as president of an organization, auxiliary or club. He never wrote a book, invented a new machine, won war medals, or did anything to make him well known or famous. When he died, there were no buildings or streets named after him, no colleges endowed by him, or long obituaries written for him. What legacy did he leave for his children? He left a legacy of a strong work ethic, a willingness to help others, a love of learning, loving support, and a testimony of Christ.

When I was young, I never realized my father had a testimony, because it was hard for him to show it. I assumed he believed in the gospel because he always took us to Church. However, because he was Fay 1957 shy or whatever—I don’t know why—he never blessed, baptized, confirmed, or ordained any of us older children. He did participate in priesthood confirmations and ordinations, so I never felt deprived. That was just how it was. Looking back, I never recall a time when he gave me a father’s blessing during my early years, but maybe I never asked him for one.

I never saw my father gradually take on the mantle of noble patriarch of his family, because after I married, my husband’s work took me far from my childhood home. Even after my mother’s death, as Dad remarried and reared a second family, I was never around to see him magnify his priesthood.


My sister was more fortunate because she lived only a couple of miles from Dad. It was Dad who blessed and named her first son, who helped ordain her husband to the Melchizedek Priesthood, and who participated in all of her sons’ ordinations. He came to their Family Home Evenings and always participated. She recalls that every Christmas Dad would tell of his love of Heavenly Father.

It was 25 years later, when we moved back in my home state with children of our own, that I realized what a strong family leader my father had become. He participated in every ordinance that his many children and grandchildren received. He helped give my children and grandchildren priesthood blessings, and I received several very special father’s blessings that I will never forget. He went to the temple with each prospective missionary, and sat in the special place of honor at their weddings.

It was in May of 1998 that I first heard my father bear his testimony. He had helped name and bless a nephew’s newest baby, and afterwards he stood in the fast and testimony meeting and bore a simple, heartfelt testimony.

“So many of my family are here today, that I can’t let this opportunity pass without letting them know I have a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel,” my father said gripping his canes to keep his balance. “I love the Savior. I know he hears and answers our prayers. I know that we have a prophet at the head of this Church.”

My brothers and sisters and I looked at each other in amazement, because although we had assumed our father had a testimony, we had never heard him bear it before. How grateful we were for that treasured testimony, because soon afterwards he suffered a massive heart attack and never had the opportunity to bear his testimony in public again.




Although my father had difficulty expressing his testimony, his life was a testament of his concern and love for others. He was always the first to help someone in need, to mow someone’s lawn, or fix someone’s car. He shared the bounty of his gardens with everyone.

My father was always intrigued by technology and progress. I recall that we had one of the first television sets in 1950 before there were many channels or shows broadcast. He never lost that enthusiasm for learning new things, and in his 80s, he embraced computers, e-mail, and scanners. I’ll never forget his words in the Intensive Care unit, “I can’t die yet. I haven’t learned how to use my scanner yet.”

My father attended all of our activities and those of our children. He sat through countless recitals, concerts, plays, and games as he cheered his posterity on, and took us out for ice cream afterwards.

Like many of his generation, he was a hard-working man, who expected us to carry our own loads. But, even as he taught us to work hard, he helped us realize how exciting work and training can be.

Although my father found it difficult to express his love when we were young, he more than made up for it telling us how much he loved us in his later years. We never left his home, but that he said, “I love you and appreciate all you’ve done for me.” You knew it wasn’t ritual or meaningless phrases, but came from his heart.

Although his faith was a quiet, unspoken kind, he demonstrated it in countless ways. I recall a time when I was living in Hawaii and had to have a biopsy of my breast. Because my mother had died of breast cancer, everyone was very worried. My father organized a special family fast, and gathered everyone together afterwards for a special family prayer. I wasn’t aware of the fast, but half a world away, I felt the effect of their father and prayers, when I had a special answer—I felt a peace enfold me that helped me face the challenges ahead. It was a real demonstration to me of my father’s and my family’s faith.

Faith cannot be weighed on a mortal scale. Nor can the value of a father’s example be counted in coin or currency. The worth of a life is not always reflected in the number of scholarships endowed, or buildings bearing one’s name. It may not even be measured by the length of a man’s obituary.

Sometimes a man’s legacy is reflected only obliquely through his posterity’s faith, lives and testimonies.

Angels Watching Over Me

The huge painting of Christ in Gethsemane fascinated me. I could not turn away from it. I felt its impact throughout my whole body. I felt the comfort of the Savior, but I also felt something else, the comfort of the angel that held the savior in his arms, comforting Christ after he had suffered for the sins of man. For this was not the usual scene of the Savior in Gethsemane. This was an unusual altar piece from a Lutheran Church in Odense, Denmark, painted by Carl Bloch, a Danish artist 1878-79. See http://carlbloch.byu.edu/index.php

This beautiful painting illustrates the scene in Luke 22: 42-43 when Christ is praying in Gethsemane and accepts the sacrifice of the atonement, “Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done. And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.”

As I viewed this tender scene, I thought of the many times an angel has comforted and sustained me in my trials. Sometimes I have felt their influence, and other times only later I have known that they had been with me.

What is the doctrine concerning angels watching over regular members? In Ensign, March 1988, “I Have a Question,” written by Larry E. Dahl, associate professor of Church history and doctrine, Brigham Young University, he discusses guardian angels and ministering angels. He says “the term ‘guardian angel’ is not used in the scriptures.[1]” However, the author does explain that “The scriptures are clear about the role of “ministering angels,” as Mormon testified:” and then lists the various roles of ministering angels including, “—bring comfort, instruction, and warnings to faithful individuals in times of need (see Gen. 16:7; Ex. 23:20–23; Matt. 2:13, 19–20; 1 Ne. 11:14–15:30; Alma 8:14–18).”

“President Joseph F. Smith gave us some insight about angels who minister to those on the earth: ‘When messengers are sent to minister to the inhabitants of this earth, they are not strangers, but from the ranks of our kindred, friends, and fellow-beings and fellow-servants.’[2]

Most of the time I felt the influence of an angel—a spirit who has passed from this life to the next, it has been my mother. My mother died of breast cancer in 1964 when I was 20 years old. I think the times I have felt her spirit it was at the times she would have comforted me if she had been alive.

The first time I felt the influence of my mother was in 1980 when my siblings got together for a family reunion in Utah and all of us (except my youngest brother) went to the Ogden Temple together as a family for the first time. As we waited in the chapel, I felt an uncharacteristic sadness descend on me, and I began to cry. Everyone kept asking me if I was okay, and I kept saying, yes, I was fine. I felt sadness, it was true—but it wasn’t me—I was very happy to be there with everyone. Once we left the chapel and began the temple session, the sadness was gone. My one sister whispered to another (as I was told as we got outside the temple), “Maybe mother is telling Beth that something bad is going to happen to one of us.” That thought had never occurred to me.

However, less than two months later, I was diagnosed with invasive breast cancer, the same cancer as my mother had, at the same age as my mother had been diagnosed—36 years of age. As I came out of the anesthesia after my first mastectomy, I saw my mother’s face; but she wasn’t sad or feeling sorry for me. I saw her as she had been when she had been in pain and suffering. I saw her thin lips stretched with pain as she said, “I hurt.” I felt her pain and I thought, “Yes, Mother, I hurt also, but I can be as strong as you. I will make it through this just as you did.” I would open my eyes and see the medical people helping me, but then I would close my eyes and see my mother again, and know she was there with me, strengthening me, and loving me. It is interesting that she would “comfort” me in a way that did not allow me to pity myself, but in a way that strengthened my determination to be like her—strong and overcome the cancer.

>The next time I felt my mother’s spirit was as a young mother. As my younger sisters married and had children, we often turned to each other for advice, but many times I’d wish I had my mother around to ask questions and talk to. When I had my second child, a daughter Athena, 20 months after my first, she was as different as night from day as my first born. Athena was a fussy eater, and would nurse for a minute, wiggle and look around, eventually get back to nursing and wiggle again. She wouldn’t cry; she just wasn’t interested in eating.

Athena was hyperactive, didn’t sleep much and she was never still. Holding her was like holding a pack of monkeys. She was the cutest, adorable little baby, but she drove me crazy. I had imagined a sweet, doll-like daughter to dress up. I dreamed of a daughter who would coo at me, and I had a fidgety, squirming bundle of nerves who was never still. Getting her dressed was a 20-minute gymnastic trick and laying still and cooing was something she may have done in her sleep—if she ever slept. She didn’t nurse well, and when she did, she threw up everything—projectile vomiting. For the first year, I smelled like sour milk and I didn’t dare try to feed her any solid food.

One day in Mineral Wells Texas where we were living, my older toddler son was playing happily and my daughter was going 100 miles per hour. Exhausted, I put her in the playpen, and sat down on the couch and broke down in tears. Suddenly I could see my mother standing across the room by my daughter.

“Oh, Beth, I knew Athena’s special spirit before she came to earth! I knew how difficult it would be for you to understand her,” I felt her voice say.

I jerked my head up and stared at the playpen. There was no one, especially my long-deceased mother, standing by the playpen where my daughter was trying to climb out and I had thought I saw. I was sure I was going crazy. Not only was I a bad mother, now I was crazy, besides. I put my head in my hands and began to cry harder.

With my eyes closed, I saw my mother’s smile—she was almost laughing as she gazed at the baby. “Your daughter is such a special spirit, Beth. She and I were good friends in the pre-existence. When I knew you were going to be her mother, I knew it would be like it was between us—you two would struggle to understand each other because you are both so different in personality, just as we were. When you were little, I often wondered if you were from Mars because we were so unalike. But just as we loved each other, you and Athena will love each other and learn from each other!”I jerked my eyes open and although I couldn’t see my mother with my human eyes, I could feel her love and her laughter. I knew she was there in the room with me, comforting me and playing with my tiny daughter. I cried more, but it wasn’t tears of discouragement, but of happiness and love, as I picked up my squirming daughter. I held her and looked around the room, wondered just where my mother was as Athena kept trying to crawl over my shoulder to reach something behind me, then she would turn around and almost leap out of my arms grasping for something in front of me.

I often felt my mother near me during the years I was raising my children, especially during those times when I became exasperated and felt I couldn’t take it another moment. Then I would remember that day in Mineral Wells, and shut my eyes and know that my mother was not far away, even if I couldn’t see her, helping me.

It was only lately that I realized that the two years that my husband was in Vietnam when I was alone, I am sure my mother was with me, especially the second time when I had the three little ones, and Marlowe the oldest turned three just before the youngest was born. I had often felt so proud of myself for being so self-sufficient and taking care of myself during those difficult years. Whenever my daughters would call and complain about their husbands being gone for a day or two and how they couldn’t take care of their babies for a night alone, I’d pat myself on the back and say, “I was alone for a year with three little ones and NO ONE to help me, and I was fine.”

Recently the thought struck me very forcefully that I hadn’t been alone. I am sure my mother was with me, helping me every day. I remember the day I brought Marc home from the hospital as a new born baby. I had lost a lot of blood and was anemic after Marc’s birth and Aunt Wilma came to visit me. After she left I felt so overwhelmed; I cried and cried wondering how I could take care of my three little ones by myself with no one to help me—no one to spell me when I was tired or sick. I remember kneeling down and praying with all my heart for the Lord to help me so I could do it. The next morning, I felt strong and knew that I could do it. I am sure my mother was with me and helping me with the kids. I know I couldn’t have done it by myself.

Another time I felt the power of spirits was while I was working for the school district in the 2000s after I had acute pericarditis. I had had fluid around my heart, which they drained. Despite massive amounts of prednisone, the fluid reoccurred, and the doctors were planning on draining it again. Then my rheumatologist suggested that I take “hydroxychloroquine” a medication used for lupus and rheumatoid arthritis. This medication helped reduce the fluid, but the lining of the heart was still very inflamed and sensitized.

For months I still had episodes when inflammation would occur in the lining around the heart or occasionally around the lungs. When it occurred around the lungs, it was called pleurisy and was extremely painful; when it occurred around the lining of the heart, the doctor called it pericarditis and it was just as painful. I was still very weak from the acute attack, and the lupus, and an inflammation was usually set off when I became too stressed or tired. However, I was still trying to work full time and my youngest son was still in junior high school.

It was during this stressful time, when I felt overcome with life, that I started having the feeling that someone was behind me, especially at school when I was feeling I couldn’t do my job. I sensed that if I could just look over my shoulder or turn fast enough, I could see who was there. I wasn’t frightened of whoever was there; in fact I knew they were there to help me. One day I was at Morgan Elementary School; the lab where I was working was empty and I was frustrated because I was trying to fix some computers. Suddenly I felt that same feeling come over me so strongly. This time I knew it was my Grandmother Hendrickson who was in the room with me. I just stood there with my eyes shut and felt her love wash over me. She felt my pain; she knew how hard it was to keep going when you felt like you just couldn’t go another hour. I wasn’t alone. Another time I felt it was my Grandfather Hendrickson’s spirit there in the school with me; I had never known him as he had passed away long before I was born. But the few times I felt his spirit comfort me as I struggled with the pain and discouragement while working in the school, I felt uplifted. He had worked as a custodian at a school in Brigham City and had arthritis in his knee. I felt that he too, knew my struggle.

Eventually I recovered from my pericarditis and the attacks became further and further apart. Soon, the feeling that someone was behind me and the sense I had of my Grandmother and Grandfather’s spirit being near was gone.

There are many accounts of angels assisting people on earth; the pioneers of the Martin Willey Handcart Company felt the angels were pushing their handcarts when they were too weak to do so. There was the account of the Cokeville, Wyoming school where an armed couple took more than 160 teachers and children hostage 25 years ago and blew up the school. A recent account in the Deseret News http://www.mormontimes.com/article/20817/Cokeville-miracle-marking-25-years mentions just one account of the children who saw angels in the school that day, “Glenna Walker’s children saw a ‘beautiful lady’ who told them to go near the window right before the explosion. When looking at a picture in a locket later, one of the children identified the lady as Walker’s deceased mother.”

My sister Coleen died a number of years ago. When she was in the final stages of her life, her husband Lloyd would sit at her side and talk to her about things. Coleen told him stories about our Mother and her last days and how close Coleen felt to her then. Lloyd asked Coleen if she thought mom had been there when they were raising their children. Coleen said she was sure Mother had been there. Lloyd asked how Coleen knew. Coleen said, “Because Mother is sitting in the corner nodding her head yes!”

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[1] (Dahl 1988)

[2] (Smith 1970, 435-36)

Dahl, Larry E. ""I Have a Question" Is there any truth to the idea that we have guardian angels who watch over and protect us?" Ensign, March 1988.

Smith, Joseph F. Gospel Doctrine. Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1970.

Mother's Day Memories of Funny Things My Children Did

On this Mother’s Day, I am enjoying hearing about my newest one-year-old grandson in Chicago and all the fun things he does. It made me think of all the reasons I became a mother so many years ago. The one reason I NEVER THOUGHT about back then when I was trying to survive each day, was to gather the material to create a humorous booklet of all the funny things little children say and do. At the time my children’s antics may not have seemed very funny, but looking back now, they seem more hilarious.

My older children were approximately 18 months apart, so there were things they did that did not seem funny at the time. Most I have tried to block out, but unfortunately I have remembered some. My husband was in Vietnam when the third one was born, so for that year when I had one three-years-old, one 18-month–old and a new born, I was outnumbered and overwhelmed.

Marlowe, my oldest, was such a very curious child I am surprised he never became a scientist. He was always trying to find out what would happen to his siblings when he did things to him. Once he tried to put his sister into a dryer when he was three and she was 18-months-old, but he couldn’t get the dryer door shut, before I discovered them.

Marlowe was a good big brother, though. We lived in an upstairs apartment the year Ed was gone, and the washer and dryer were in the basement of the apartment next door. Marlowe had learned to open doors, so I had a flip lock on the outside door to the cement stairs going outside so the children couldn’t get out if I had to run downstairs for a minute. One day all of the children were asleep so I didn’t flip the lock as I ran down to the washer to change the wash. When I returned, Marlowe was dragging baby Marc by his feet down the cement stairs by his feet, hitting his head on every step.

“Mama, Marc woke up so I was bringing him to you,” he said. My heart stopped as I grabbed the baby, but he was okay.

One time when I had put three-year-old Marlowe in his room for doing something he shouldn't have, Marlowe was very mad! He knew I never wore shoes around the house so he slipped out of his room, found some tacks and spread them on the floor of his room. Then, hiding under his bed, he acted like he was hurt and screamed, “Help.” I came running of course, and stepped all over the tacks with my bare feet. It wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought it would be--for a long time afterwards!

Athena, my middle child, was hyperactive, and drove me crazy. She ran and somersaulted everywhere; I seldom saw her walk. She was very independent, and wouldn’t let anyone do anything for her, but insisted she alone could brush her hair, wash her face, pick out her clothes, get dressed, etc., etc. But she was so athletic that you never knew when she would somersault off the top of the couch in front of you like a clown, and “ta da” surprise you! It could be very funny. (It is no wonder she later became such a good gymnast.)

She loved to climb and get into everything—there wasn’t anything she couldn’t climb over. One day she wanted to get out of her crib and I didn't get her out as fast as she thought I should. So she decided to climb out herself--right over the rail. However, as she climbed over the top, she let go and fell straight backwards. She hit her head on the floor, and gave herself a concussion. But did that stop her? No, she was right back the very next day, trying to climb over the crib rails, or up onto the top bunk.

Eventually my husband returned from Vietnam, and we moved to El Paso, Texas where Ed helped me with my three little ones and I wasn’t quite as overwhelmed. But they were still a handful.

Athena was a very good mother to her younger brother, Marc, and took good care of him, even if she got bossy at times. When he was little and get upset when I left him with a babysitter or at the base nursery, Athena would put her arm around him and tell him I’d big right back and she’d take care of him until I would get back.

Marc was very adventurous. Because he thought he was as old as his siblings, he thought he could do everything they could do, and often would get stranded when he couldn’t. Even when he was under a year old, he’d follow them by climbing onto chairs, tables, beds, and couches and usually get off them by himself, too. But if he couldn’t get off them safely, he’d stand and scream until someone helped him off. He loved to explore how things worked and his favorite thing to make work at a year of age was twirling the knobs on the stereo and TV to turn it off and on and adjust the sound, channel, color, etc.

He was just as audacious in his culinary explorations. At eighteen months of age he was out helping Ed work on the car when he drank motor oil and was rushed to the hospital where they x-rayed him and rechecked and rechecked him. They could smell the oil on his breath even two hours later, but they couldn't find any evidence of it in his lungs. Finally they let him go home and I had to wake him every hour to make sure he was all right. No wonder Marc loves mechanics—he has motor oil in his veins.

Right before Marc’s second birthday, he got pneumonia and was so sick that the doctor planned to admit him. However, when we brought him back to the doctor that night to be admitted, he was better, so the doctor decided to let us take him home. Then, just as he was getting better, he drank the whole bottle of erythromycin (antibiotic) the doctor had given him. We rushed him back to the ER where they poured syrup of ipecac and five glasses of water in him, and even gagged him, but he refused to vomit. So they strapped him into a papoose and washed out his stomach; he fought and screamed and raised a ruckus, but they finally got it out—and put tubes in his infected ears at the same time.

When Marlowe was four-years-old, my widowed father remarried, and I took the three children to Utah for his wedding. Soon after we returned to Texas, my visiting teachers were at my house, when Marlowe came running in and pulled me aside to “whisper” (so loud that he could be heard in the street) that the neighbor kids, Tommy and Sue, (fourth graders), were doing “what people get married to do.”

Of course my visiting teachers were embarrassed and I tried to get Marlowe to wait until they left to tell me what the neighbor kids were doing, but he wouldn’t be put off, so I cautiously asked him what Tommy and Sue were doing.

He was very hesitant to tell me, but mumbled, “Oh, you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” I said trying to stay calm.

I tried to excuse myself for a minute to talk to Marlowe, and went in the other room to ask him but I knew the visiting teachers could hear every word.

“Now what were Sue and Tommy doing?” I asked, holding my breath.

“You know, what Grandpa and his new wife got married to do.” I wondered if Marlowe could have overheard something at the wedding, but I persevered.

“No, I don’t know. Tell me what they are doing.”

He hid behind me and whispered as he blushed. “They’re . . . you know . . . KISSING!” I nearly fell over with relief.