Pioneer Day

I’ve always celebrated Pioneer Day—the day the Mormon Pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley. Of course I grew up in Utah, where it is a state holiday and EVERYONE celebrates it. Even when we joined the army and moved to Texas, I still celebrated it with the children because to me it was more than a state or civic holiday—it celebrated my pioneer heritage!

I remember dressing my children in pioneer outfits on July 24 and having them march around the block in Killeen, Texas, pretending they were crossing the plains, coming to the “promised land,” Utah.

I even remember in Hawaii on Pioneer Day, crossing the saddle between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa over to the Kona side of the mountain. There we went to a beach with picnic tables and we made pancakes. Eating our breakfast with sand blowing in our faces, I talked about pioneers and the hardships they’d faced crossing the plains.

There were many Pioneer Day celebrations in many places, but when we retired from the military and came back to Centerville, Utah, I again celebrated Pioneer Day in the traditional way—with parades, fireworks, picnics. There were also rodeos, but I never did those.

This past July 23, I celebrated Pioneer Day in the most authentic way ever—I hiked a “moderately strenuous” three-mile hike at Yellowstone Park with my daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. I really felt like a pioneer as I struggled up that mountain side.

First I felt prepared for the hike. I’d been walking approximately three miles a day in Los Angeles, so I felt fit. I was actually looking forward to the hike with my family. Whenever I think of mountain hikes I think of my mother and how much she loved the mountains, and how we used to hike in Mueller Park above Bountiful when I was growing up.

The first part of the hike went well, and I enjoyed it. We reached our scenic point—a beautiful waterfall that was worth the hike. There were even some wild raspberries there along the trail.

Then there was dissention; my 12-year-old granddaughter Jenni wanted to be in the lead of the group and her mother wanted her to stay with us. My 15-year-old grandson James had gone on ahead of us; Jenni became angry and went back alone. She broke the cardinal rule of hiking: everyone stay together.

We decided to continue on the more difficult part of the trail. Whereas the first part of the trail was easy, this part was the “strenuous” part; it was loopbacks straight up the mountain, across and down the other side. I discovered how really unfit I was. I really struggled to keep up with Athena and seven-year-old Emma. (I might try to claim that we were at 10,000 feet elevation and I had not become totally acclimatized to the altitude, but I don’t think it would wash; I just wasn’t as fit as I thought.)

Athena was patient and kept waiting for me as I stopped to rest, and I thought of the pioneers crossing the mountains; my hearts went out to them. But I knew I had to go on—there was no going back. Even when Emma got tired, she could still run rings around me!

Finally we reached the point where we could see the parking lot down below, and I realized I might make it. Athena was still worried about Jenni, and if she’d met up with James and Dirk at the meeting point. I felt bad that I was holding Athena back so much, but I knew at my old age and decrepit stage of fitness, there was nothing I could do.

But we weren’t through. There was one place on the trail where huge trees had fallen across the trail and we had to crawl across them. Finally we made it back to the trailhead where Jenni had indeed waited for James. We were all together again and we drove to Old Faithful where Ed was waiting patiently for us.

It was an interesting pioneer day exercise with a lot of interesting parallels. Mainly I was glad to make it through and go home. I was glad that I wasn’t the least bit sore the next day; at least I was that fit! I was especially grateful that I’d done it with my family, who were tolerant and understanding.

Plus Athena could say the next month when she took her young women on that hike as part of the young women camp, that if an old 66-year-old lady and a seven-year-old kid could make it, they could, too.

Moving--I Hate It!

One of my most dreaded chores is moving! Despite (or maybe because of) the many years of moving in our 23 years in the military, I dread the actual move!

I hate the preparation for the move, when I go through everything in the house and get rid of half of the stuff because we’ve outgrown it, we don’t need it anymore, it won’t fit in our new location, or just because we can’t take it with us. Moving means major downsizing because everything you move costs twice what it is worth to move, so you must be very sure it is worth it to move it!

--All grocery items automatically go—to neighbors, friends, whoever can use it. It doesn’t matter if you just bought it yesterday, it can’t go with you!

--All kitchen utensils go to a thrift shop too. This move, because we came with only what fit in our car, we had to buy a lot of essentials, toasters, mixers, cake pans, etc. Since I already have duplicates at home, I didn’t need to bring any of that home, so away they went to the nearby thrift store along with the sheets, comforter, plates, glasses, silverware, etc. that we had needed to live with for eight months.

I have to organize everything so when I arrive at the next location, everything is organized, instead of all mixed up like it is in the junk drawer before the move. This is helpful on the other end of the move, but it takes forever, on the “pre-move” end. It takes weeks, and I pack each box, carefully, resenting doing it every minute. Even when the movers packed, I’d go through everything in the house and had it all organized, so they could pack it all exactly like I wanted it—organized. This move, though I packed everything. I am a lot older and slower, so it took a lot longer.

It is painful to say “goodbye” to all the friends we’ve made during our eight-month stay in Los Angeles. We have made some close friends in a short time, but then just like in the military, it isn’t the length of time you are at a place, but the people, that make the difference, and we met some wonderful people—at church, at the hospital, at our apartment, at the lung clinic. As we left friends behind, even knowing we’ll be back in six weeks to see them, the same “leaving forever—nothing will ever be the same” thoughts of our previous moves hit me hard. This part of our life is over; as enjoyable as the next phase of our life will be, it won’t be our time in L. A.

It is hard to leave Los Angeles because we have truly enjoyed the area and our time there; Ed would love to find a condo where we could spend the winter there each year. Many people in Utah have asked us how we liked living in Los Angeles, as though they expected us to relate the perils of living in the big wicked city, fighting gangs, being attacked by movie smut as we walked the streets, inhaling the depraved, smoggy air of Sin City. But our time in the Westwood Area of Los Angeles (one mile south of the Los Angeles Temple) was a memorable one and we enjoyed visiting the local sights—the Getty Villa, La Brea Tar Pits, the Queen Mary at Long Beach, Santa Monica Beach, the Natural History Museum at USC, and much more.

The first part of our move is over, and we’re back home—waiting for our stuff to arrive, so I guess the worst part is over. But I hope I never have to go through that again! But despite everything, the trip was worth it; Ed has a new lung and is a new man, so I can go through a lot more than a move to achieve that!

A Tale of Two Men

This is a tale of two men named Ed. Both were slim, attractive, and white-haired.

The one Ed was a world-famous, wealthy Hollywood agent, who controlled the lives of many famous movie stars. He cared personally for each of his clients; he inspired loyalty as he worked for them personally through good times and bad; he made their careers soar. He taught many young Hollywood professionals to be good agents, and left a heritage of excellence as well as integrity behind as well as wealth and fame.

The other Ed is an average person of no particular renown. A retired military officer who served two tours in Vietnam, he was a military aviator. He has been married for 47 years, and is a father of five children. After he retired from the military, he was a school technology specialist, teaching teachers how to use technology. He is a loving father, a witty man, a caring friend, a charming person who truly enjoyed others. He has kindly led and taught many people over the years.

In January 2010, both men were doing respiratory therapy together at Cedar-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. During the months they worked together they shared a little of their lives and histories. They were approximately the same age, with advanced lung disease, emphysema.

Recently one Ed--the famous one’s--obituary was in the Los Angeles Times; the same day the ordinary Ed was on a day-and-a half deep-sea fishing trip off the coast of San Diego, California.

No one knows why one person dies and the other lives; that is in God’s hands. For a while last year, the ordinary Ed was so sick with pneumonia and his lung function so restricted that many truly thought his destiny would be limited and his life short-lived. He was on oxygen all the time, but his face was gray, his lips were tinged blue, and he couldn’t say a complete sentence without taking multiple breaths.

The doctors’ options seemed non-existent, and the second time Ed got pneumonia after flying in a commercial plane, he insisted he would never fly in an airplane again—not even to visit family. Going to the store became a major undertaking. When his two granddaughters came over to visit, they began to run into the bedroom and lay on the bed with him and watch “Cash Cab” or “How it is Made” on TV to be with him. The doctors still had no solutions except to keep trying the pulmonary therapy. In three months of therapy, Ed was where they had tried to start him when he began. He had lost 30 pounds.

One small thing changed the situation—a priesthood blessing given Ed by his oldest son, Marlowe in April 2009. In the blessing, Ed was told he had “many more things to do in this life.” He was told that he was to actively seek out treatments that would improve his health. He was told he must “persevere, and keep after the doctors to find a solution to his medical problems.” He was reminded it wouldn’t be easy, but that he must keep looking for treatments that would allow him to recover his health and do the things that he had still had left to do in his life.

The “solution” that changed Ed’s life was a lung transplant, which wasn’t easy or immediate. It couldn’t be done in Utah because of his age—the nearby University of Utah Medical Center did not do transplants on patients over 65 years, and Ed was 68 years-old. However, Ed’s pulmonary specialist did his training at Cedar-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, and recommended Ed to Cedar-Sinai where they evaluated him for a lung transplant (they transplant lung patients until the age of 70 years).

Ed finally passed all the hurdles, rented an apartment in Los Angeles, and moved to California to be eligible to get a transplant. Finally at the end of April, Ed received the lung of a 20-year-old and began his long journey to recovery. It has had its difficulties, including two bronchoscopies, and one time when they had to drain his lung, but in July, he was able to go deep-sea fishing and wrestle the 30 pound albacore tuna into the ship. It was something that he could not have dreamed of doing a year earlier.

What are some of the “many more things” Ed has to do in this life? Who knows? Maybe they are no more than enjoying his children and grandchildren and making memories with them. Maybe it is visiting them wherever they live, watching their activities, and sharing their dreams. However, what a valuable use of the years he now has left to him? Maybe his legacy and obituary won’t be as memorable as that of the famous Ed, but to his family, they are far more precious, more valuable, and of far greater worth than the items listed in famous Ed’s obituary.

Ordinary Ed's monetary wealth will never compare to famous Ed's monetary wealth. But to ordinary Ed's family, his worth in memories is priceless. The one Ed’s memorial will be telecast around the world; The ordinary Ed's memorial will live only in the hearts and in the lives of his friends and family.

"Every individual matters. Every individual has a role to play.

Every individual makes a difference."

Jane Goodall

A 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 then 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 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 gave 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 not long 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 faith 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.

What Is In Your Children's Spiritual Storehouse?

Recently my brother wrote a blog on what he called “inherited faith”—people sharing the faith of their parents because that is what they were taught. They follow the faith of their family as a tradition, not as a conviction, or because they are truly converted to that faith. He wrote: “To me that is almost as deeply felt faith as saying ‘I drink 7-UP because my parents drank it and I see no reason to try anything else I might like better.’”

It made me think about how you influence your children to gain a testimony of your church or your faith. They cannot rely on your testimony for long after they become adults and question everything, so what do you do during their growing years to help them (1. Want to worship the same religion as you do? and (2. Know how to recognize and gain a testimony of the religion?

The first question presupposes that you are happy with your faith and want your children to follow in your faith, which I feel in most cases is true. If you are not happy with your faith, you wouldn’t care if they followed your faith, but would want them to be good Christian, God-fearing, ethical people, regardless of which religion they chose.

But if you were devout, you probably would want your children to know God, to trust in Him, to follow His precepts, and make worship an integral part of their lives as you have made it part of yours. What would you do during your child rearing to encourage your children to live such a life?

Of course, you would go to church regularly, pray daily, study scriptures frequently, keep the commandments, spend quality family time together, love each other and show that love by how they interact with each other. I am sure most Christian families do these things automatically. I would like to suggest one other thing that might make the most difference—something that is a part of much of what these families routinely do, and take for granted—encourage the activities that help family members feel the spirit of God.

In an article published in the Deseret News on July 24, 2009, National Public Radio's religion correspondent Barbara Bradley Hagerty, author of the book, Fingerprints of God, stated that, "51 percent of people in this country report having had a ‘transformative spiritual experience that they can't ignore.’"

That would only make sense as we read in the Book of Mormon, in Moroni 7: 16, “the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil; . . . for every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.”

I feel it is the spiritual feelings that we have in our church experiences (and in other sacred experiences) that are the foundations of our testimonies of both the existence of a God, and the truth of our own sect or faith. We cannot manufacture these feelings for others, but we can create an atmosphere in the home where this feeling can be felt, and the family members can know what it feels like and recognize it when they feel it again.

Also, Moroni’s promise in Moroni 10:5, “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” is so reassuring—knowing that you can pray to know the truth of something and encouraging family members to pray for that truth, is empowering. It refers not only to spiritual things, but to all things! However, when it comes to your faith, you are not relying on your parents’ word—you are receiving your own spiritual revelation or testimony of the truth. How important it is then that you are accustomed to praying to know the truth of important things? How important is it to know how to recognize the spirit that testifies of that truth!

I remember when I received my testimony of the Book of Mormon. I had read it and had prayed, trusting in Moroni’s specific promise about the Book of Mormon in Moroni 10: 3-5 “Behold, I would exhort you that when ye shall read these things . . . and ponder it in your hearts . . . I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”

I remember the wonderful feeling of assurance, of knowledge, of faith, of spiritual power that flowed through me that this Book of Mormon was not just another book, but true revelation. The thought, a testimony of either Brigham Young or Parley Pratt that I had once read came forcefully to my mind by the spirit: “God or the devil has written this book, for man never wrote it.” As I remembered those words, I knew they were true; the Book of Mormon had been revealed to Joseph Smith and translated by the power of the Holy Ghost. I recognized the spirit that testified to me from the times as a child I had felt the spirit when I had been given a blessing of healing, or been present at a time when someone was given a blessing and the spirit was very strong.

I remember a young man telling me that he had prayed to know if the church was true—if President Hinckley (who was then the president of the church) was a prophet. He hadn’t received an answer to his prayer until he was watching General Conference. While President Hinckley was talking, this young man said he was filled with the most overpowering feeling that President Hinckley was indeed a prophet a God, and the church was true! He recognized the spirit that testified to him and knew it was from God.

These spiritual feelings are what we remember that make up our “testimony” and strengthen us during our dark days when it seems there is no hope in the world. I remember another young man who had not been active in his church for a number of years when he attended his aunt’s funeral.

His aunt and uncle had been prominent in the church on the east coast and Elder Zwick, a general authority who had worked with them spoke at the funeral. Elder Zwick talked about the aunt and told some personal experiences he’d shared with her. At the end of the funeral, this young man mentioned to me how impressed he was with Elder Zwick’s comments. He said he felt a power in his talk that he hadn’t felt before. The closing song at the funeral was “How Great Thou Art,” and afterwards this young man asked his sister about it. She mentioned it was a common song, which she’d sung many times before. He then asked her if she heard the extra people singing. She said no, she had not, but that she was crying hard at the time! This young man (who no one would call very spiritual) said that he felt very strongly during the closing song, that he could hear others, besides the audience, singing and he knew they were family who’d passed away that were there—singing and praising the Lord.

These are the kind of spiritual experiences, which testify of God, and bring us to church each Sunday to renew our faith and regain that feeling. It is what prompts us to pray, and read the scriptures and keep the commandments so we can be receptive to the spirit. It is what prompts us to be worthy and to go to the temple. It is what helps us recognize when others are speaking by the spirit. “For when a man speaketh by the power of the Holy Ghost the power of the Holy Ghost carrieth it unto the hearts of the children of men.” (2 Nephi 33:1.)

What can we give our children while they are young to help them find their spiritual path to God? To help them gain a testimony that will sustain them through their life? To help them trust and love God? Is it the traditions of our church? The happiness of our home and family? The habits of attending church? All of these are wonderful, necessary and provide them with a pattern for happiness, but I feel that one of the most important “gifts” you can give your children is spiritual experiences.

When “the young experience the gospel and its fruits and know it is true. Then nobody has to tell them; they experience it,” Elder Neal A. Maxwell explained in a February 1978 Liahona article “These experiences will give each of your young people a storehouse of spiritual experiences on which he can draw, much as our people can draw upon the supplies of food and clothing have laid away.”

Are we providing the opportunities for our young children to gain a storehouse of spiritual experiences on which they can draw when they become older and need to develop a testimony? Or are we only providing them with a supply of food and clothing that they will outgrow?

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 )