Only a Table

When we had been married only a few years, I saw the most beautiful walnut dining room table that,

Our dining room table

with its extensions, served 12 people at ZCMI. I could see it surrounded by family—children, parents, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren, much as my parents’ round oak table had been. Since we had just purchased a new home with a dining room, I purchased the table and the matching china cabinet.

A number of months later, in January of 1966, my husband got notification to come in for an exam to see if he was healthy enough to be drafted. These was during the Vietnam War Era, and if you were going to school full time, you could get an education exemption. Since our marriage, Ed had been taking classes at the University of Utah, and working, so he was exempt. However, that semester he’d dropped a class and since he was then not a full-time student, he suddenly became eligible to be drafted into the war. Of course, he was healthy enough, and his draft board said he’d receive a draft notice within two weeks.

Ed was determined not to be in the infantry, so he looked at all of the programs available for those joining the Army. He found one that he could get flight training in helicopters, and become an officer, so that’s what he signed up for, and within a month he was gone.

We lost our house, and I moved back home with my Dad and younger siblings. We sold a lot of things, but Dad stored my precious table in his garage. Ed went through basic training and the first part of his flight training in Texas, while I continued to work to earn money. By Summer, Ed was advanced enough in his training, that we decided I would join him. My Dad drove my car, and my uncle drove Dad’s car down to Weatherford, Texas (West of Ft. Worth) and dropped me off before they went home in Dad’s car.

Ed's graduation from flight school

Ed orders stated, “no personal vehicles or dependents authorized during flight school,” but I found a furnished apartment close to the base and joined the brave wives who did not want to be left behind. The flight students had to live in the barracks, and we could visit them from 7:00 P.M.  to 9:00 P.M.   most evenings and they had from noon Saturday until Sunday night at home with us before returning to the barracks. It wasn’t ideal, but we were with them.

It was right before Ed was transferred to Enterprise, Alabama for his final part of his training, that I miscarried for the second time. I wondered if we’d ever have children to go around the table.

When Ed finished flight school and was awarded his wings, his officer rank, and his orders to Vietnam, we had a month in Utah before he left. I was blessed to get pregnant during that month and moved into a tiny apartment in Bountiful while Ed left for war. There wasn’t a lot of room for my table, but it fit into the apartment. In December my first son was born while Ed was flying near Saigon. My dreams were still alive.

While Ed was in Vietnam, he sent me a 12-piece set of china and silverware to go with the table. That table went all over the world with us, including back to Bountiful when I had two little ones and expecting my third and Ed went back to Vietnam to war again. Most of the time it was used as a kitchen table and I put oilcloth tablecloths on it to protect it from the little kids eating at it. I began to see my dream come to fruition. We ate on it; we played games on it; we did puzzles on it; we did crafts on it, we celebrated birthdays on it. It was truly a family

Athena's birthday party

table.

It went to the Big Island of Hawaii with us, where we had a dining room. It went to northern Italy with us, where again we had room for it to serve as a formal dining room table. It went to three stations in Texas, Alabama (twice), Nebraska, Chicago and Sacramento with us. I remember in Hawaii, when our stuff arrived in the dock, a forklift had smashed through the corner of the container. Luckily it destroyed a desk and lots of other stuff but missed our table.

It was used more as a kitchen table than a dining room table during most of those years, and since Ed was an officer, we entertained a lot on it. It looked beautiful, and I loved it. But it still hosted a lot of kids doing homework and games, and I even used it to sew on. We went through a lot of dining room chairs during those years, but the table kept going.

Family dinner

In February 1990, we moved to our house in Centerville, where the table served another purpose. It served extended family, my parents, siblings and their families, friends and my children’s friends. When we first moved in after Ed’s retirement, he refinished the tabletop and gave it new life. It was here in Centerville that it realized its purpose as our children married and had children, and it hosted many a family dinner, including Sunday dinners throughout the years. The dream I’d imagined those many years ago became fulfilled as we often added the extensions and we did games on it after dinner.

50 years after we purchased the table, Ed decided our table had outlived its life. We ordered a new solid-walnut dining room table (with extensions to hold 12 people) for Christmas in 2014. However, Ed passed away before the new table arrived.

Our treasured old dining room table went to my daughter, where it could continue to serve her family.

It is a silly thing to treasure a piece of furniture as I did for so many years. But it wasn’t the wooden reality of it that was so important to me, but the symbol that it stood for—loved ones of several generations gathered around it, eating, playing, talking, being family. It realized its purpose.

Bah Humbug to the Busy Christmas Season

         I know everyone loves the Christmas season; it is such a happy, time– “the most wonderful time of the year.” Most people have only good memories of this holiday.

Ed on our first Christmas 1963

         I guess I am a grinch. Many of my Christmases have been very hard and depressing. Not the Christmas day or even Christmas Eve, but the overwhelming Christmas season.

         Before I be stoned for denigrating the happiness of the Christmas season, let me explain why.

I have happy memories of my childhood Christmas memories, and even my early marriage years. But sometime after I had several children, and was so busy with daily activities, I realized that I was too swamped to enjoy all the added activities of the Christmas season. I had to decorate for Christmas, adorn a tree, and make new Christmas ornaments. I had to make endless Christmas cookies, candies, and treats. I had to take my children to all the Christmas programs, see the downtown  I was responsible to create Christmas letters, then address and send them with the Christmas cards.  I must get and deliver neighborhood gifts, then buy, and wrap all the Christmas gifts for the family.  School teachers, piano teachers, newspaper carriers, and my hairdresser must have a Christmas gift or tip. Even listing all of it makes me tired. I don’t even want to see Christmas movies or television shows—I just want to pretend it’s January.

lights and watch all the seasonal movies.

      Why not let your family help you do these endless chores? Some chores it worked with—making personal Christmas ornaments, decorating the tree and making the treats. But sometimes sharing the jobs made more work than doing it yourself.

      Why not cut back on all the “stuff”? That was my husband’s idea when I complained about everything I had to do. When I suggested he help, he said he didn’t think it needed to be done—why was I so compulsive about doing it? When asked if he would go shopping with the children to get their gifts, he said he didn’t have time—besides that was a woman’s job. (This was in the male chauvinist era of the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s). However, he would get my gift and sometimes get extra gifts for himself since he wasn’t sure I was in a jolly-enough mood to get all he wanted.

        The other big dispute at my house was the BIG CHRISTMAS DINNER.  My husband had grownup with a tradition of having a big family dinner every Christmas day, with family from all around attending. It was bigger than Thanksgiving. My family tradition was a Danish/American blend—we would open one gift on Christmas Eve to satisfy my 1^st generation Danish mother, and then just enjoy Christmas day snacking and eating all the stuff in our Christmas stockings (I made sure to put in lots of fruits and healthy stuff). This did not meet my husband’s specifications at all. 

        We were in the military during the time, so no one from out of town would be attending—it would just be like a fancy Sunday dinner. I am sure I broke down and made a big Christmas dinner many years, but the one year that sticks out was when we invited friends and had a real feast—

however, I had scarlet fever and was so sick with a high fever that I couldn’t eat—but I still prepared, decorated, cooked the dinner and cleaned up afterward as sick as I was. I eventually developed post-streptococcus glomerular nephritis from it that damaged my kidneys and took years to recover from. Never again did my husband insists on a big holiday feast with friends and relatives.

        What has changed my attitude, now? Well, I have cut back. I am in my mid-70s with no little children, so I cut out a big Christmas tree; I don’t mail out Christmas cards anymore—sorry, no one wants to hear about their friends’

grandchildren and great-grandchildren when they can’t even keep track of their children. I give money to all but the smallest family members—mostly great-grandchildren, who I buy gifts for in November. I listen to Christmas music and remember that Christmas is about Christ, who came to save us all. I try to do little things when I can to let my neighbors and friends know I care about them—but the competition to see who can give the best neighborhood gift, or cook the best treats passes me by. I try to give gifts of service or give to charities or people who really need the help, rather than try for busiest and most headache-filled Christmas of the year!

        Christmas Eve is always the same as it has been—my favorite time of the season—to read the Christmas story from the Bible and talk about how Christ’s birth changed the world. I sometimes convince my family to don the New Testament Nativity costumes that I made years ago in my manic stage and reenact the first Christmas, but if we don’t, it’s okay.

       

I enjoy the Christmas season, now. I enjoy the time with family and friends, and I am most grateful for the best Christmas gift—the Savior.

"Love the Danes"

         Denmark is the land of my heritage. My mother was first generation American and she spoke the Danish language as a child, served us many Danish foods, and shared with us many of the Danish customs she had grown up with. My mother’s father, Peter P. Hendrickson, left America to join the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at 20 years of age; yet he loved his native land, his family and friends there very much. His wife, Kristen A. Mortensen, also a native Dane, also missed her beloved native land and both taught their children about the land of their birth. 

         My mother’s sister, Ruth Hadley, served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Denmark in the 1950s, and my brother Gary  served a mission there from 1961 to 1963. 

Denmark

       Denmark is a land associated with the sea; nowhere in the country are you more than 47 miles from the sea. Surrounding Jylland, the part of Denmark that is connected to Germany, is an archipelago of 483 islands that make up the Kingdom of Denmark. Denmark, like much of Northern Europe, is wealthy, erudite, and liberal. Fewer than 3 percent of its people attend church, and Richard Andersen, a LDS Church Stake President in 1993 stated, “The Church’s biggest challenge in Denmark today is that we are an ungodly country.” Andersen blames the permissive laws passed in the 1960s. “Suddenly our country was affluent and wanted to show the world that our wealth gave us sophistication and understanding. So we passed laws allowing pornography, nudity on beaches, abortion on demand, marriage of homosexuals. Moral barriers fell all around us.”[i]

Gary as a missionary

      Gary’s mission in Denmark during those turbulent years was very difficult. During his two years there he baptized only one individual. One experience in Esberg, a fishing village about the size of Provo, Utah on the West Coast of Denmark, changed Gary’s attitude about his mission, Denmark, and life. 

     Gary had been in Esberg three months and was very discouraged; the missionaries had not taught a lesson or had not been received into a home for months. Gary and his companion wondered if they prayed and fasted more earnestly that maybe someone would listen to their message. They called the mission president for permission to fast; he gave them permission, but only for three days. 

       The first day of fasting was like any other; they tracted without success. The second day of fasting they continued to go door to door futilely. At the beginning of the third day of fasting, they knew their fast would end that night, yet that day was no different. That night they prayed long and hard and received no remarkable inspiration.

My Grandfather Hendrickson

        During the night Gary’s grandfather Peter P. Hendrickson (his mother’s father) appeared to him. Peter, who had grown up in Denmark and given it up only to join the other members of the church in Utah, stood at the end of Gary’s bed. He looked at Gary very solemnly; Gary could hear the silent words his grandfather was saying--that the only way Gary would ever be successful as a missionary was to love the Danish people with all he had and to look beyond their harshness. 

      “Love the people,” Gary's grandfather repeated. “Love the Danes.”

      When Gary’s companion awakened the next day, the companion told of how he had seen the nameplate and bell of a certain home in a dream and felt that it meant something special.

      The two companions prayed, then broke their fast. As they went out, they looked at the different streets carefully. Gary’s companion recognized the street he’d seen in his dream and they walked along it. Then he recognized the bell and nameplate. They had tracted out that area three times previously, but never stopped at the house. They rang the doorbell and a young woman came to the door. She allowed them to come in and talk to them.

      Gary was transferred soon afterwards and he never knew what happened to the woman and her family, or whether they accepted the gospel or not. 

       But the experience with his grandfather changed Gary’s life forever. He grew to love  the Danish people whether or not they invited him in, or accepted his message. He learned to love them unconditionally and appreciate their unique spirit.

       Even after he left his mission, his love for the Danes grew; he promoted everything Danish and Scandinavian he could. He began to celebrate an annual “Lief Ericksen” party on Columbus Day--to celebrate that the Vikings reached America before Columbus. He served as president of the “Sons of Norway” (a fraternal organization representing people of Norwegian heritage–there isn’t a “Sons of Denmark” organization).  He had a Danish foreign exchange student live with his family for a year.

    His daughter went on a mission to Norway and married a man whose family are as staunch in their celebration of their Norwegian heritage as Gary is of his Danish heritage, and Gary and his family have gone to Denmark several times. This fall Gary and his wife will return to Denmark as couple missionaries, and Gary's wife will be the mission nurse.

       Unconditional love is the key in all relationships; true charity that is concerned with the individual and develops a closer association is important. It accepts a person as they are, and loves them anyway. It doesn’t complain that they are not Italians, or Mexicans (or whoever would be easier to convert). Unconditional love doesn't give up if people don't accept the gospel right away, but loves them and accepts them despite it.

        Elder Russell M. Ballard said in October 1988 General Conference address (and probably more recently as well), “I encourage you to build personal, meaningful relationships with your nonmember friends and acquaintances. If they are not interested in the gospel, we should show unconditional love through acts of service and kindness, and never imply that we see an acquaintance only as a potential convert."[ii] Or as my grandfather, Peter P. Hendrickson said, “Love the People.”

---

[i] Florence, Giles: “Sea, Soil, and Souls in Denmark,” Liahona, June 1993, page 36

[ii] Ballard, Russell M.:“The Hand of Fellowship,” Ensign, November 1988,

I Recognized Death's Shadow

My life changed when I was nine years old. I learned about death and suddenly my life was no longer secure, but frightening and uneasy. I realized how easily death could change the rhythms of my life; forever afterwards I waited for death’s scythe to strike. 

Mom & Will 1953

In February of that year—1953—my mother gave birth to my youngest brother, Bill. During her pregnancy she had had strange unsettling, prophetic dreams that the baby would not be able to speak, but quack like a duck. This bothered her and she prayed continually that the baby would be all right. She felt that something was wrong with his mouth and that he wouldn’t be able to speak correctly. One night after she had prayed for weeks that he’d be all right, she suddenly had a feeling of peace come over her and she knew he would be okay. When he was born, he was “tongue-tied” and the doctor had to cut the tissue that constricted his tongue. Afterwards he was fine. My mother felt that her dreams had warned her of difficulties in his development that her prayers had prevented, and that his “tongue-tied” problems were all that were left of these developmental abnormalities. [i]

Beth & Darl in Monticello 1949

Afterwards, my mother started having prophetic “warnings” that something was going to happen to people. She would be doing something and suddenly look down and she would see a coffin; soon after she would hear of someone’s death. Mother had always had a special sense of ESP, but previously it was always to help others. When I was five years old we were living on a dry farm 12 miles out of Monticello, Utah. One day I was playing out in the fields with my older brothers when I cut my foot deeply on a metal corner of a farm cart. Even though Mother was at the house somehow she knew I was hurt, where I was and reached us almost immediately after it happened. She was able to stop the bleeding, and carried me back to the house. She quickly drove us to Monticello to the doctor for stitches, but he was in Colorado for the day, so the nurse wrapped up the deep cut so it looked like I had a club foot; I still have a scar.

Ingeborg & sons

Another time in Monticello my mother’s older sister Ingeborg was dying of breast cancer in Brigham City. Because there was no telephone out on the farm where we lived, Mother was worried we wouldn’t get word of Ingeborg’s death in time to drive to Brigham City. But right after Ingeborg died, she appeared to Mother and told mother that she had died; Mother got up and had everything ready so they could leave immediately when they received the telegram from Monticello later that day.[ii]

However, these “warnings” of death that mother foresaw after Bill’s birth were disturbing. She told me about them, and said that because they served no purpose, but only upset her, she prayed and prayed they would go away.

But a foreshadowing—an unease that something was wrong—never left her. During her pregnancy she had noticed a lump in her breast, but she ignored it. She did not want to consider the implication that it might be cancer because her older sister Ingeborg had died of breast cancer, and her younger sister Ruth had also lost a breast to cancer. Just the thought that she, too, might have the disease was too frightening.

However, as much as she wanted to deny it, in the beginning of the summer she finally gave in to my father’s plea to go to the doctor to see about the lump in her breast. At that time the standard procedure was to do a biopsy and if the biopsy showed cancer, they would do a mastectomy immediately, without bringing the patient out of anesthesia. I hadn’t even known my mother was going in for a biopsy that morning, but that afternoon my father told me she had breast cancer and they were afraid she was going to die.

At first I thought Dad was just exaggerating as he usually did. Aunt Ruth, who was closest to Mother in age and who had lived with us a few times, had had breast cancer, but she was still alive—in fact she was presently serving a mission in Denmark. Yet I also remembered Aunt Ingeborg, who had died of breast cancer a few years earlier. My grandmother Hendrickson, mother’s mother, had just died, but they had said she had heart problems as well as cancer. I couldn’t see why mother had to die right away like Dad was saying.

But late that evening our neighbor Mrs. Mann came by after Dad had gone back to the hospital. She hugged me tightly as she told us how she had been sitting with mother in the hospital after the surgery. She said Mother had suddenly stopped breathing and turned gray. She said Mother had died! Mrs. Mann had panicked, screamed and called for the nurses. Just then one of the general authorities walked in the room. He said he felt that someone in that room needed a blessing and he immediately administered to Mother. Mother gasped and began to breathe just as the nurse came rushing in.

The nurse yelled for help as she said mother was having a problem with the after-effects of the anesthesia because of her asthma. Mrs. Mann said a bunch of nurses and doctors surrounded mom and worked on her and she recovered consciousness. During that time the general authority quietly left. I don’t know who the general authority was who administered to mom was, but Mrs. Mann and others told me later of the veracity of the miracle that brought mother back to life. Mrs. Mann also said the general authority promised Mother that she would have one more child, (and she did, Ann, born three and a half years later, a year before she had a second recurrence of the breast cancer—in the other breast.)[iii]

Mother was in the hospital for several weeks, and we couldn’t visit her. I worried, imagining what had happened to her—what she looked like. What did a person look like who had died? Was her skin still white and ghostly? Why wouldn’t they let us see her? Was she deformed and sick? Would she ever be well again? Would she always be in bed?

When Mom finally came home, Dad was always telling us not to bother her—to stay away from her because she was too weak, too sick. He was always reminding me to work extra hard to help mother, or she would get sicker and die. I would look at Mom as she lay sleeping and wonder if my real mother had died and this frail ghost had taken her place.

Mother never really recovered from that first radical mastectomy. Because the cancer was so large, they had removed a lot of muscle and breast tissue and her chest was concave. For a long time she was so weak and her “spirit” was gone. She laughed and smiled, but she was different. She was very self-conscious of her body and felt she was deformed.

More than that, I think she accepted the realization of her eventual death. She didn’t say it; she didn’t need to. I saw it in her face and in the quiet acceptance of her sorrow and pain.

Mother didn’t die for 11 more years after much more suffering and pain. But at nine years of age, I recognized the spirit of death that had entered my life that summer. I always remembered that time as when I recognized death’s shadow

---

[i] “History of Mary Jennie Hendrickson,” by Coleen Hansen Baird, July 1994, page 58

[ii] “History of Mary Jennie Hendrickson,” by Coleen Hansen Baird, July 1994, page 53

[iii] “History of Mary Jennie Hendrickson,” by Coleen Hansen Baird, July 1994, page 55