My Rosebush

[I wrote this article in 1991 and it was published in the March 1993 Ensign and August 1994 Liahona magazine. The names were changed at that time and my name was not listed as author. Illustrations are by Dileen Marsh and from the Liahona edition. Link is to the Liahona online version. Copyright belongs to the church--© 2010 Intellectual Reserve, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Marc.

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Marc had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Marc arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the California sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Marc would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from California back to my Utah hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Marc stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Utah was to become our permanent home, I planted Marc’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Marc back in California and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Marc’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Marc never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.
One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Marc’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Marc had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.



So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Marc. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Marc continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Marc is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

I rest for a moment and watch the pink sky brighten. Early mornings are so special that I wonder why I hated them as a child. I spent my thirteenth summer at my grandmother’s house in Monroe, Utah. I wanted to eat raspberries, swim in the canal, and read books, but my stern grandmother insisted that I tend the roses, pick the strawberries, and learn to sew. I used to hide under the covers and pretend to be asleep as I heard my grandmother making breakfast. She called to me to come outside and work in her garden, but I ignored her when I could and let the clicking of her pruning shears and the rustling of the bushes lull me back to sleep.


When I had to work in the garden, I complained. Yet talking to my grandmother as the sun spun its way across the sky, I came to love her. In the garden, she didn’t seem so austere and forbidding as she usually did. She told me of her love for my grandfather and how she had never given up on him, though for years he was not active in the Church. Her eyes grew misty and she smiled as she told me that the happiest day of her life was the day Grandfather took their family to the temple to be sealed.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Marc’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Marc will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Marc’s car rev as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Marc gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Monroe’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not an active member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

A Priceless Gift of Life

Ed now has two birthdays to celebrate—his original one on April 4, and his new lung’s birthday on April 28. His new lung shares its birthday with our 12-year-old granddaughter, Jenni. We are not positive, but are almost sure, that his lung came from a 20-year-old college sophomore in San Jose, who was skate-boarding Sunday morning on the way home from a party when he crashed and ended up with fatal brain-injuries. He was an athlete, having played soccer and baseball, loved skateboarding, and was studying upper-level math and German.

I was touched by the faith of the (possible) donor's mother from reading her comments in an earlier Palo Alto newspaper article about a community tragedy. She talked about her faith as "‘two cores of the Catholic tradition,’ community and ritual . . . We clung to each other and cared for each other. . . No one was alone. We felt too vulnerable and found strength in one another." Now again her life was touched by tragedy and she could turn to her faith to get through a difficult time. The article mentioned that the donor family hoped to meet the recipients of their son’s organs so we hope to someday meet and thank them for their generous gift.

How wonderful that a family would put aside their grief long enough to share the organs of their deceased child so that others might live better, longer and fuller lives. What greater gift could they give in a time of tragedy and sorrow? Their gift is truly a priceless gift of life. It reminds me of the selfless gift that an unmarried mother provides when she gives up her child for adoption. She gives up the selfish opportunity to raise and love her child—knowing that her child and some childless couple will both have a much better life than she could give her child.

"Self-sacrifice is the real miracle out of which all the reported miracles grow." Ralph Waldo Emerson

We live in a day when miracles can occur—but only when others give of themselves, selflessly. Sometimes organ donors can only give after their death, but other times living donors (such as kidney donors) can give one of their organs so someone else can live a fuller life. One of the transplant coordinators said they have gotten the technology down now so the donor and recipient in kidney transplants don’t even need to match!

There are many good people out there, that although they don’t give a lung, or give up a baby, they give selflessly to others every day in many ways. They mow their neighbor’s lawns, take dinner into the sick, feed the homeless, watch a friend’s child, read to the elderly, volunteer for “meals on wheels,” work in the community. We live in a wonderful world, where despite all the evil and tragedies, good people everywhere are trying to make it a millennial society.

(to see who we think the donor is go to: http://www.paloaltoonline.com/news/show_story.php?id=16608 )

A Still Small Voice

“And it came to pass when they heard this voice, and beheld that it was not a voice of thunder, neither was it a voice of a great tumultuous noise, but behold, it was a still voice of perfect mildness, as if it had been a whisper, and it did pierce even to the very soul.” Helaman 5: 30

“And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.” 1 Kings 19: 12

Last Sunday, President Mark Bragg, the Los Angeles Stake President, told a story of World War II in the Pacific islands. A young marine had just arrived on one of the island under siege by the Japanese, and was terrified by his first experience with combat. He managed to get through the day, and when night fell, and the battle paused, an experienced marine made his way through the lines and into his foxhole. Quietly the experienced sergeant calmed the distraught marine. He patiently answered his questions, and assured him all soldiers were afraid in the face of fire. As they sat in the dark foxhole barely able to see each other, the young marine heard a voice say, “You will make it through this war alive.” The young marine tried to see who could have said this to him, then realized that no earthly voice had spoken to him—only the spirit. He realized that the encouragement and help of the older Marine had calmed and comforted him enough for him to feel the spirit. Throughout the horrors and terrors of the rest of the war, those words of the Holy Ghost spoken quietly that night would support and strengthen him.

President Bragg explained that it is important for each of us to cultivate the peace that cultivates personal revelation in our life. It is also important for us to reach out to others and help bring them the peace that will allow them to feel the spirit of the Lord and receive personal revelation.
Our lives are so full of noise, tumult, chaos—all those things that prevent us from feeling the peace that promotes revelation. All our technology toys—cell phones, ipods, mpeg player, television, laptops, video games—scream at us from any direction. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, children, neighbors add to the clamor. In such an uproar, can we hear the still small voice of inspiration?

Years ago when I was working in downtown Salt Lake City, I rode the bus to and from work. I had worked late one evening, and it was getting dark as I hurried for the last bus to Bountiful. I was frustrated, upset, discouraged, and tired. Only one other person, a stranger, was waiting for that bus and we talked as we waited. I don’t remember what we talked about; I only remember that as we talked on the bus, I felt a peace, a hope creep into my heart that calmed me. She got off before I did, and as I rode the last few miles alone, I knew that things would work out. I didn’t know her name, who she was, or anything else about her. However, our conversation brought peace to me that evening. The peace John spoke of in John 14: 27, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

Do we carry that peace with us? Do we live so as to have the spirit of revelation every day? Do we share that peace with others, whether they be friends, those we visit teach or those we meet by accident? Are we a conduit for the spirit? Is our personal internal radio channel tuned to a calming and spiritual station that influences everyone around us, or is it tuned to a raucous, loud, jarring hard-metal station?

I loved the words of Julie Beck, the Relief Society General President, in the April 2010 General Conference when she talked about the power of women to receive revelation. “When women nurture as Christ nurtured, a power and peace can descend to guide when help is needed. For instance, mothers can feel help from the Spirit even when tired, noisy children are clamoring for attention, but they can be distanced from the Spirit if they lose their temper with children.”

It isn’t easy to struggle each day to live righteously in a world where wickedness is worshipped more than God. Yet, Sister Beck tells us, “Personal revelation gives us the understanding of what to do every day to increase faith and personal righteousness, strengthen families and homes, and seek those who need our help. Because personal revelation is a constantly renewable source of strength, it is possible to feel bathed in help even during turbulent times.” (http://www.lds.org/conference/talk/display/0,5232,23-1-1207-3,00.html)

As we struggle through these Latter-day tempestuous storms, bombarded by earthquakes, destruction, volcanoes, chaos, thunder and great tumultuous noise, can we hear the still small voice?

Music, My Children and Me

Recently I had an epiphany about music. I have always felt very inadequate musically because I am not talented in that area. It has been difficult here in our new ward as some of our new friends have asked me repeatedly to sing in the choir and I have refused politely that I cannot sing well enough to be in the choir. I felt that I had let them down by not being able to sing well enough to contribute in the choir until I had my epiphany—because of me there are four of my children singing in ward choirs in other wards. I should not feel I had not contributed musically to choirs; I had contributed to not one--but four--choirs that day simply by developing the musical talents of my children.

Okay, okay. That is a stretch—but I felt better thinking that, than feeling guilty because I can’t sing. I have consciously developed the musical talents of my children, and that is important. Last fall I received a link to a website where you could test your ear for music by listening and clicking whether the music played was on tune or not. I forwarded the test to all my children, and every one of them, including Marc, who is the least musically talented of my children, got 100% on the test. They had chosen which renditions were on tune and which were not correctly every time. I didn’t get 100% but that is not surprising because I have a difficult time telling whether something is on tune or not; this is something my children knew and took advantage of often. When I sat with them to make sure they practiced the piano or trumpet, I couldn’t tell if they hit the wrong note until I’d see them glance at me as if to say, “Did Mom notice that flat note?” Then I’d say, “Do it again until you get it right!” But I did sit with them and make sure they practiced their lessons until they got so good they did it on their own.

Nevertheless, music was always a big part of our lives. Ed and I have always loved musical theater and I remember attending the Capital Theater in Salt Lake City to see The Sound of Music in the early 1960s. I played musical theater sound tracks at home all the time. I played loud, fast songs while we cleaned the house to invigorate us, lilting music to wake us up and soft romantic songs to put them to sleep. It is no surprise that ALL of my children are performers, (and most of them do musical theater)—that is all they grew up with.

My favorite song was “Che sera, sera” ("Whatever will be, will be"), which I remember singing to children that I babysat as a teenager, and “High Hopes” about a happy ant, but those and many others I sang to my children. Even though I lived through Elvis’ heyday, I didn’t like his rock songs, although his slower songs were okay. I loved the Beatles, though, and the Smother’s Brothers. Ed and the family went through a country western stage when we lived in Texas and all of the kids knew every Johnny Cash song. We were very democratic and what one of us sang, we all sang--all of the time. I even remember in Hawaii we were hooked on a Hawaii radio station with a DJ called “Myna Bird!”

Even though I couldn’t play the piano, I insisted that every one of my children take piano or trumpet lessons. It began when Marlowe was about eight or nine and had very bad asthma. The doctor suggested playing a trumpet might help his breathing, so we got him a trumpet.

I remembered how my mother insisted that each of us children have the opportunity to take either piano lessons or dance lessons when we were growing up. There was no extra money to pay for them, so she painted landscapes to barter for lessons. I took ballet and tap lessons for years; then I had a problem with my foot as a teen and that was the end of my dancing. My sister Coleen took piano lessons and that blessed her life for years. After Mother became ill and died, I don’t know if the younger children were able to take lessons, but it was Mother’s insistence that we all had talents that we needed to develop, and she would do all possible to get us lessons that made me determined to see that my children receive music lessons themselves. (My daughters took dance and gymnastic lessons, too, but I felt piano and music lessons were far more important).

Marlowe was very talented and by the time he was in high school he was in the marching band and the jazz band. Both Athena and Diana both played the piano well. Marc took piano and trumpet lessons, but they never took with him (I think he is related to me). Bryan took piano, voice, trumpet lessons, and was in the band in Junior High.

When Diana was a baby, I realized that something happened whenever music played—she would calm down and “listen” to it. I even wrote a story about what a musical baby she was, and that “maybe” she had sung with the angelic choir at Christ’s birth. Then I forgot all about her interest in music. In Junior High School, she tried out for the elite madrigal singing group, and wanted to take voice lessons. We discovered she had a very special talent in singing. She developed that talent and won a scholarship to Berklee College of Music in Boston, and performed in many community and professional musical theater productions. Although she doesn't perform professionally now, she shares her talents in many other ways.

Marlowe also made a hobby/career of performing in community and musical theater productions in the Salt Lake Valley; Athena performed a lot at Rodgers Memorial Theater. Even though Bryan was nearly 20 years younger than his older siblings were, they taught him to perform with them and he, too, became a musical theater pro. All of the children, including Marc performed in Community Theater in Italy and in Utah.

Athena has shared her piano playing with her family, in the primary, and in many other ways. She has performed at Rodgers Memorial Theater and even met her husband there. She has always been so faithful in singing in the ward choir, and encouraging her children to develop their musical talents.

Bryan became especially talented in comedy and improvisation, and has been (and is) performing professionally at Desert Star Theater in Murray, Utah. He has a beautiful voice, and gift for mimicry. Suddenly I have my own musical theater troupe!

Music is important to me. It is one of the means by which I find peace, and joy. It is something I share with my family, even if I can’t sing on tune, or play an instrument. I love the music my family is gifted with. I love to hear them sing, and to see them perform. So, even though I won’t be singing in the ward choir this Sunday, in four other wards, my children will be singing my song for me.

The Patience of a Saint?

The dictionary defines patience as:

1. the quality of being patient, as the bearing of provocation, annoyance, misfortune, or pain, without complaint, loss of temper, irritation, or the like.
2. an ability or willingness to suppress restlessness or annoyance when confronted with delay: to have patience with a slow learner.
3. quiet, steady perseverance; even-tempered care; diligence: to work with patience.

Everyone praises patience as a great and admirable quality, but few possess it. In fact it has been said to be the quality of a saint. One of the most difficult aspects of our time here in Los Angeles awaiting Ed’s lung transplant has been our lack of patience. We expected the wait for a new lung to be two weeks to a month and we have been here over three months.

Therefore after the priesthood session of general conference a few weeks ago, I laughed when Ed called me and said, “President Uchdorf spoke directly to me in his address on patience!(see talk at http://www.lds.org/conference/talk/display/0,5232,23-1-1207-20,00.html ) Everything he said I needed to hear.” However, when I read President Uchdorf’s talk about patience, it really hit home and I began to think about our stay here in Los Angeles and what we have gained from our wait.

When we arrived here the 4th of January, Ed had gained some of the weight he’d lost last fall but he was still 20 pounds underweight; the doctors told him he must gain weight. They said that people who undergo lung transplant surgery who are underweight have far more complications than anyone, even those who are overweight. He was given dietary guidelines and diaries to chart his food intake.

Ed started on a respiratory therapy program at the hospital gym three times a week and a yoga therapy two days a week. He had been doing respiratory therapy at the University of Utah in Utah, but this was a better program with other respiratory patients that he grew to know and to relate to. Some patients had had lung transplants, some had had lung reduction surgery, some like Ed were waiting for surgery, and some were not planning on surgery. So Ed had the chance to find out what to look forward to when he had surgery, and the other alternatives. They also discussed places to eat in Los Angeles and things to do, which Ed shared with me.

At the conclusion of the program, Ed and I were invited to join a respiratory patient support group of those with respiratory problems, including past transplant patients, and other respiratory surgical patients.

His improvement during this three-month waiting period was also evaluated: Ed has gained 17 pounds since we arrived here and his respiratory improvement has been 30%. He can now walk 45 minutes on the treadmill at 1.4 miles per hour. Physically, Ed is far more ready for surgery NOW, than he was when we arrived in January (when he wanted surgery IMMEDIATELY). He will recovery from surgery better now, than he would have in January. Meanwhile, he is enjoying life more now. He still needs the surgery, but he is compensating better without it at least temporarily.

We have made many friends here in the ward and the area—even the friends he has made at therapy are unique and have enriched his life. We have learned a lot about Los Angeles, its history and culture, and its wonderful food by eating at a different ethnic restaurant each week (strictly to help him gain weight, you know—for no other reason!).

Helen Keller said it better than I could, “Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”

Bring on the surgery—we are ready NOW!

Don’t ever leave your husband home alone!

You would think a 69-year-old man could take care of himself while his wife goes away for a few days to help her daughter wouldn’t you? Well don’t plan on it—you don’t know what will happen!

As you all know, Ed and I are living in Los Angeles waiting for Ed to get a lung transplant at Cedar Sinai Hospital. Ed is far from an invalid, although he is on oxygen. He goes to respiratory and yoga therapy five days a week and takes care of himself better than I could. So when our daughter, Diana was notified that there was a baby girl for them to adopt, I decided to fly out to help her. Diana and Jason had known for three weeks that the baby would be born on March 30, and had baby showers, bought everything for the baby, gotten the room ready, and were planning on meeting with the mother on the day I flew into Chicago.

I was changing planes in Dallas—the worst airport in the world—when I got a call from Diana. “Cancel the rest of your flight; go back to Los Angeles, Mom,” she told me. My heart dropped! Had Ed gotten a call from the hospital that they had a lung for him? We’d talked about what might happen if that occurred and planned that I would turn around and go right back to be with him.

“Okay, Diana,” I said, trying to hear over the noise of the airport, “what is going on?”

“Mom,” her voice broke and she began to cry, “The birth mother decided to keep the baby. We don’t have a baby for you to help with. You can turn around and go back to L. A. to be with Dad.”

“Diana,” I said, taking a deep breath. “It will be okay. I’m going to come anyway. I will be there at 4:05. Can you pick me up? Or do I need to make other arrangements?”

She explained that now they weren’t going to the hospital or getting a baby, they had plenty of time to get me at the airport. My visit to help with a new baby became a visit to help my daughter deal with her loss.

Ed called me several times a day teasing how I had abandoned him, and he wasn’t eating enough. Once he texted me, “This is to notify you that we have admitted your husband to the hospital for lack of nourishment. He was found lying in the street begging for food.” HA! I had left him a freezer full of frozen dinners (not homemade but still he had picked them out), a fridge full of food, and a city with more restaurants than there are cockroaches. This is a man who had survived two tours of Vietnam and 46 ½ years of my cooking. We I both knew he could take care of himself for a few days. He was just trying to make me feel guilty for being with Diana. I refused to take his joking seriously, and did what I could to help Diana and Jason.

Sunday was Easter and Ed’s birthday, so I expected everyone to call him. It was also our church’s General Conference, with two sessions, broadcast on TV at 11:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. (Chicago time). Ed had driven to the church to see the priesthood conference the night before and seen and talked to many of his friends. He had talked to me afterwards, so I wondered if some of the church members would invite him to Easter dinner and to listen to conference with them, so I didn’t call him Sunday morning before conference.

Our children started calling between conference sessions to ask if I knew why they couldn’t get in touch with Ed. I told them no, I’d talked to him the night before and he’d been fine. They said they had tried all morning to call to wish him “Happy Birthday,” and his phone went right into voice mail.

Now, we are always checking our cell phones to make sure they are charged and on because we are always awaiting THE CALL FROM THE HOSPITAL! So I tried to reach Ed. Just as the children said; it went right into voice mail. I wasn’t worried; maybe he’d left his phone in the car, and forgotten it. He’d remember, and get it before long and call me.

All day Ed’s siblings and our children called me when they couldn’t reach Ed. Ed’s siblings weren’t aware I had abandoned him and was halfway across the country, while “who knew what was going on in Los Angeles while he was weak and alone.” Our children were less understanding, and they kept calling me, even though I promised them I would call as soon as I knew anything.

“Maybe he is at friends’ home, enjoying Easter dinner and conference with them. If so and he left his phone at home, we won’t hear from him until after conference,” I told them.

“It is possible they called him to come in and get his transplant and he knows I’ll be home tomorrow morning and he just decided to wait until it is all over before he has them notify me since I can’t get home earlier anyway,” was another of my rationales.

Finally, it was 6:30 p.m. Pacific time and 8:30 p.m. Chicago time and I still hadn’t heard from Ed all day—the longest all week I’d gone without talking to him. I decided I needed to know what was going on in Los Angeles. I looked up the phone number of our apartment manager, with the phone in my hand ready to call her and ask her to look in on Ed to see if he was alive or not, when Ed called. He didn’t have a clue why we were all upset not to have heard from him all day, and on his birthday no less. .

“I had a very restful day. I just stayed home and watched conference and rested.”

“What about your phone?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. It ran down, so I recharged it this morning when I realized it was dead. I didn’t know that it had turned itself off and had been turned off all day until I decided to call you just now.”

“Didn’t you wonder if anyone would call you on your birthday? Or on Easter?”

“Not really! Was anyone worried?”

“Yes, just everyone in the family. Diana is texting them all right now letting them know you are fine—that your phone was just off all day.”

“Oh, yeah, it looks like I have a dozen text messages and phone messages. Well, you’ll be home to take care of me tomorrow anyway.”

“Yes, dear. Tomorrow I’ll be home to take care of you and make sure you keep your phone on IN CASE THERE IS A LUNG AVAILABLE TO TRANSPLANT.”

Yes, you shouldn’t ever leave your husband home alone. He might decide he enjoys being alone so much he may turn the phone off and get away from it all—PERMANENTLY.

Close Every Door to Me

“Close every door to me,
“Keep those I love from me,
“Children of Israel
“Are never alone.
“For I know I shall find
“My own peace of mind,
“For I have been promised
“A land of my own.” 1

This song from Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat2 has always been a favorite of mine. It was brought to my mind last Sunday when our adult Sunday School class which is discussing the Old Testament this year talked about Joseph of Egypt being in prison. The teacher reviewed how Joseph as a young man had visions of being a great leader and ruler over his father and brothers, but instead had been threatened with death by those brothers, then sold into slavery into Egypt where he worked as a slave until he displeased his master and was thrown into prison.

There Joseph had hopes of being released when he correctly interpreted the dreams of a baker and a butler; the baker was executed, but the butler was restored to his butlership as Joseph had foretold. However, even though the Butler had promised to remember Joseph and help get him out of prison, “Yet did not the chief butler remember Joseph, but forgat him.2”

The song I quoted at the top of the page is Joseph’s lament. It is here in prison, where he acknowledges the blows of fortune, the whips of fate, the trials of his life, yet his triumphant praise rings out that despite these, “I know I shall find my own peace of mind, for I have been promised a land of my own.”

Regardless of all the challenges we face in our life, even with our setbacks, the deaths of our hopes we, like Joseph of old, have been promised the same promises he was: 1. A land of our own 2. A way to find peace of mind.

The “land of our own” may not be on earth; it may be in heaven. For many years Ed & I lived an army career and lived in army quarters (almost always duplexes), and I wondered if I’d ever have a house of my own. Of course I did, for which I am very grateful. But sometimes our expectations are not accomplished on earth, but in heaven.

Remember that this earthly life is only one part of our life—a very small part of our life. Our earthly experience is like act II of a three-part play. Act II is always the most difficult, where the most trials and conflict occur. It is only at the end of Act III that all is resolved and happiness is achieved. It is always in Act II that everything is hopeless! Many of our promises will be accomplished here on earth, but always remember that there is more than this life for them to be accomplished. Death is not final or the end.

But even in Act II, even in the midst of the most difficulties, we have a way to find peace of mind. It isn’t new, or miraculous, it is always available, yet it isn’t a button you can push to turn on when you need it!

The peace of mind I am talking about it the peace the savior gives us that he promised the apostles in John 14:27, right before he left them “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you.”

The peace is far more beneficial than all the tranquilizers every made, better than all pastors or mental health counselors combined.

This past week has been extremely difficult for my family. My daughter Diana and her husband have been trying to adopt a child for several years. Last year they came quite close with a beautiful four-month-old boy whose grandparents felt they couldn’t raise their daughter’s child and who were willing to place him for adoption. For a month they worked with the adoption agency, the court and the grandparents to work out all the details, exchanging photos and growing closer to the boy. Then it went to court and when the judge asked the grandparents what they wanted to do, they suddenly and unexpectedly decided they couldn’t give him up! Diana and Jason were not allowed to adopt this little boy they had grown close to.

Three weeks ago the adoption case worker came to Diana and Jason with another adoption possibility—a woman who had gotten pregnant while she was separated from her husband and wanted to make her marriage work so she was determined to give up the baby. Diana and Jason were chosen to be the parents of this little girl who was to be born by C-section last Tuesday. Everything went well and the mother remained adamant that she would not keep the baby. Diana and Jason prepared the baby’s room, had baby showers, and arranged everything. I made reservations to fly to Chicago to help Diana with the baby. The baby was born a day early and the mother wanted to see Diana and Jason before she signed over the final papers to give up the baby on Wednesday. I left Los Angeles Wednesday morning, with a layover in Dallas, planning to arrive in Chicago at 3:15 p.m.

My incoming flight to Dallas was delayed so I missed my flight to Chicago and had to get one 40 minutes later; I got a phone call while I was trying to catch it. Diana was crying and said, “Mom, you have to turn around and go back to Los Angeles.” I immediately thought of my husband in Los Angeles who was awaiting a lung transplant. Had he gotten THE CALL? WAS THERE A LUNG AVAILABLE AND I NEEDED TO GO RIGHT BACK TO BE BY HIS SIDE?

I asked Diana to explain what had happened. “The birth mother decided to keep the baby; you don’t have a baby to come and help with.” I told her I was still coming, and boarded the flight to Chicago.

Someone wrote that losing a baby that you’d planned to adopt is like a miscarriage; losing a baby that you’d planned to adopt on the day you are to bring it home is like a still-born birth. Diana had texted immediate family to tell them what had happened, but very few others knew that the looked for baby had not and would not be coming home. The sun was shining brightly outside, but it was dark and gloomy everywhere we were.

How does one deal with a situation like this? How did we deal with the death of our two premature twin grandchildren in Seattle in January and February, one stillborn, and other who lived 20 minutes? How did the pioneers bury their children in the frozen plains and turn westward, leaving them behind on the barren plains? How did the sister President Monson talked about a year ago in April 2009 General Conference3 deal with the death of her husband and all four of her children as she was forced to walk over a thousand miles across Germany in the winter at the end of World War II?

How do we do anything in this world? With faith! Faith in the Lord’s promises; faith in Christ and his redeeming love; faith in priesthood power and priesthood blessings. It isn’t instant and it isn’t easy—but it comes. Prayers have helped us deal with the sadness and the pain. Diana said on the second day that she felt better. I crashed on the third day, but then I, too, recovered and I felt the prayers of those who cared about us, and I know that helped me a lot!!!!

I know priesthood blessings help! I know prayers—ours and those of others in our behalf help. I’ve felt them, when before I could feel nothing but pain and sorrow. I’ve felt them comfort me and drive out the sorrow.

In the June 2009 Ensign magazine, President Uchdorf had a wonderful article titled, Prayer and the Blue Horizon. Comparing gospel principals, and prayer specifically to aerodynamics that enable flight he wrote:

“Lift happens when air passes over the wings of an airplane in such a way that the pressure underneath the wing is greater than the pressure above the wing. When the upward lift exceeds the downward pull of gravity, the plane rises from the ground and achieves flight.”

President Uchdorf then explains that we can do the same when “the force that is pushing us heavenward is greater than the temptations and distress that drag us downward, we can ascend and soar into the realm of the Spirit.”

He then says “Prayer is one of the principles of the gospel that provides lift. Prayer has the power to elevate us from our worldly cares, to lift us up through clouds of despair and darkness into a bright and clear horizon.4”

This comfort through prayer is real, but it is elusive. You must continually strive to maintain it. I remember once when I was struggling with clinical depression, every day was a struggle. Despite medicine, therapy and everything I could do, sometimes it became too much. Those were the times I would ask for a priesthood blessing. When I received a blessing, I could feel the Lord’s love, and the love of my family break through the chains of depression that chained me. It would surround me and wrap me in a robe of warmth and comfort. The next day I would go forth with only the memory of that love to strengthen me and warm me, but the lingering remains, along with the my prayers, and those of my loved ones, would fortify me against the storms of the day.

Another tool I used during that time, and one I still use, is music. When I would need to feel the love of the Lord, when the pressures of the world would begin to be too much, I would get my lawn mower and mow the lawn, singing at the top of my voice the Young Women song “I Am of Worth.” The words of this song, especially the chorus, “I am of worth, of infinite worth, my Savior, Redeemer loves.” Then I could remember, even if I couldn’t feel the love of the Savior at that moment, and know that He did love me and that I was of worth to Him.

This song, and others, like the song from Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, remind me that “I know the answers lie Far from this world.5”

The answers are as real as the trials we face on the earth, but we are not left alone, “swinging in the wind.” We have resources, and prayer and music are just some that help us get through the storms of life. Even so, even if life throws everything at me, I can be like Joseph of old in prison, singing:

“For I know I shall find
“My own peace of mind,
“For I have been promised
“A land of my own.6”
__________________________

1. Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat is a musical theatre show written by the team of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice. First produced on Broadway in January 1982, then produced on video/DVD in 1999 with Donny Osmond as Joseph. It is a family/friendly show frequently produced by high schools and community theaters.

2. Genesis 40:23.

3. Thomas S. Monson, “Be of Good Cheer,” Ensign, May 2009, 89–92 (From personal conversations and from Frederick W. Babbel, On Wings of Faith (1972), 40–42).

4. Dieter F. Uchtdorf, “Prayer and the Blue Horizon,” Ensign, Jun 2009, 4–7

5. Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

6. Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,