Eternal Perspective

I went to the Atlanta Temple that spring day seeking comfort and strength. My problems may have been small compared to others=Cbut that day they appeared huge and insurmountable. The skies were leaden; the rain had been coming down in sheets for almost a week. The air was heavy and oppressive as I yearned for the sun to pierce through the gloom and warm my soul. 

Sitting in the chapel in my rented temple clothing, my tears fell like the rain outside. One of the temple workers patted me on the back and whispered that it would be "all right." I looked at the name of the sister whose proxy I was that day, and wondered if all her days had been sunny; then the thought struck me with great force—of course not. Life on earth contains both joy and sorrowCtoo frequently we dwell on the sorrows and forget the joys. 

That thought struck me with the force of an electric shockCperhaps our existence on earth was similar to the view we focus on when looking through a camera=s narrow lens. We determine our individual focusCwhether we set a mental telephoto viewpoint which magnifies the large, immovable rocks, the encompassing weeds and the dreary mud. Or we decide whether to enlarge our focus to catch the rainbow on the edge of the sky, the gardenias blooming with breathless perfection, or the softness of the green velvet grass. The gardenia blooms whether we see it and appreciate it or not. Nothing limits our view except ourselves. If we move our imaginary lens too rapidly, the landscape around us becomes an incomprehensible blur of color and texture. But if we focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else, we may miss the significance of something else. When we try to broaden our focus to include everything in sight, the panorama becomes so wide that we can see nothing distinctly. We pick and choose the focus which we concentrate onCand that affects our whole vision of life.

As the temple session began, I still slumped wearily in my seat. Although my thoughts were whirling with new insights, my shoulders still bowed with the accumulated problems of a lifetime. However, as I concentrated on the endowment ceremony, I felt an unnatural need to sit up tall, to slough off the sorrow and hold my head and shoulders high. I consciously decided I would do so, reflecting that I needed to represent the sister whose work I was doing with dignity and respect, for she was not sorrowing this day, but rejoicing in the eternal significance of the blessings she was receiving. Throughout the session, whenever I would begin to slump, I would immediately catch myself, determined to represent the sister for whom I was proxy in a stately manner. As I concentrated on the words of the temple ceremony, and considered what they meant to her eternal progression, my mood began to change. It was as though I was adjusting the focus of my "mental" camera, and seeing things that had always been there, but which I had missed previously.

I reflected on the wonderful blessings I had been endowed with during my life, and gloried in my knowledge of the plan of salvation. I gave thanks that I had the blessings of the restored gospel during my lifetimeCthe Holy Ghost to guide my decisions, priesthood blessings to strengthen me, and covenants to give direction to my existence. I wondered about the sister for whom I was proxy, and if her mortal life had been difficult or easy, rich or poor, exalted or lowly. Most of all I wondered what her perspective on life had been. Did she mourn what she lacked, or did she see the joy and beauty which surrounded her? Whatever her life had been, I knew she was grateful for the service I was doing for her that day. For that I felt a special fellowship.

As the endowment session came to its conclusion, I looked down at my rented temple clothing, and another thought struck me. I don=t know which mode of clothing the sister whose work I had done may have worn during her lifetime. She may have worn simple, homespun clothing, or native dress. As unlikely as it might be, she may have even worn rich satins, embossed with jewels. However, nothing she had ever worn in her lifetime could compare in significance with the simple rented temple robes that I had worn for her that day. For the robes I had worn symbolized covenants and promises that would not disintegrate and decay in earth=s fragile atmosphere as their earthly counterparts would.

It was still raining as I left the temple that day, but I did not feel its sting, nor did I notice the puddles it left in its wake. It seemed that my focus had shifted imperceptively during the temple session from the mundane and dreary to a more exalted view. I looked out over the vista of Atlanta from the heights of the temple mound, and my heart took a snapshot. The scene had not changed since I entered the temple, but my focus had. The temple had helped me see with an eternal perspective.

My Monstrous Miller Hair

I love to do genealogy. I especially enjoy seeing photos of my ancestors to see how they looked when they were younger. 

However, I don’t have to look at photos of my ancestors to see them; all I have to do is look in my mirror—I can see my ancestors’ in my horrible hair. For I have the “Horrible Hansen Hair.”

My Mother and her naturally curly hair

As far back as I can remember, I was cursed with the “Horrible Hansen Hair!” 

Technically it isn’t Hansen Hair—it is Miller Hair as it is from my father’s mother’s Miller side of the family. 

My mother on the other hand, had beautiful, thick, naturally curly hair; while mine was thin, fine and absolutely straight. I can recall my mother trying to do something with my hair, but it defied all her efforts to train it. So she would end up braiding it. Then she would look at my father and say, “She has your mother’s Miller hair.” 

For my father’s mother was a Miller from Southern Utah. They were very proud of their heritage as pioneers who had been the first teachers, school superintendents, and educated people in the area where my father grew up. And they let everyone know about it.   But they also had the finest, thinnest, wimpiest hair in the West. And it started to recede from a man’s hairline when he turned 21-years-old.

There was nothing that could be done with the “Miller Hair” as my mother discovered. She took me to her sister, who was a beautician, but it wouldn’t take a perm very well, and then it frizzed instead. If you managed to curl it by sleeping all night on curlers, they immediately drooped and fell out. My mother finally gave up and I lived with braids for years.

My Grandmother Hansen

My Grandmother Hansen (from whose Miller blood I inherited the monstrous hair from) had hair that was thin, but she worked hard to keep it looking good. She was a very elegant lady, who dressed to the nines, and she wouldn’t be caught dead with her hair not dressed perfectly. All I had to do was look at her sisters with their thinning, fly-away unkempt hair to know what mine would look like if I didn’t work as hard as my grandmother.

 I am pretty sure my grandmother went to a beautician regularly, just because of who she was—a proud Miller, the captain of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers chapter, and very involved in town life.

By the time I was a teenager, I had decided that perms and short hair were the only way for me to go (long straight hair was not popular then). I couldn’t afford to go to a beautician to get a perm so I’d buy a perm and have my sister, mother, friend, or anyone I could to give it to me. Even when I married and Ed had to go into the military and we were living on air and dreams, I told him that perms had to be budgeted in; I couldn’t live without them, even if I had to give them to myself. 

All my life I’ve fought with my hair—with perms and keeping it short, and cursing it. All I had to do was look at my dad with his balding thin hair, and it would remind me what my hair was like and I’d go get another perm. I tried various hairstyles, but I had a round face, so I needed height on top, so leaving it long and straight or pulling it back into a ponytail just didn’t seem an option.

My straight-haired daughter and granddaughters

 Out of my five children, only one of my children, (unfortunately a daughter) inherited my hair, but long straight hair is popular, so she just goes with it. It has more body than mine, and she can do more with it than I could, so she doesn’t stress about it. Both of her daughters inherited it, (de ja vu), but they keep in long and trimmed nicely. None of my sons inherited my father’s baldness (thank goodness).

My mother's mother--Grandmother Hendrickson

My mother’s mother, my Grandmother Hendrickson, had thick hair, but I don’t know if it was straight or curly, as she died when I was about six years old. But I do know that in every photo I have of her, her hair never turned gray. It stayed glossy and dark even to her death in her sixties. That gave me hope that maybe I wouldn’t go gray early, either. (My mother died at 48 years old, so I didn’t know if her hair would have turned gray or not.) 

But I began to hope. Maybe if I had one bad hair gene, I’d be compensated with one good hair gene. And it worked. Here I am almost 70 years old, and I have very few gray hairs. My hair isn’t dark so the gray doesn’t show up. 

Maybe there is some justice in life’s genetic hair lottery after all.

"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,

The Courage Not to Gossip

                 My mother had a very soft, gentle voice, similar to that of Marilyn Monroe or Jackie Kennedy. She never yelled or raised her voice, which I always admired because I have a loud voice that carries a long way. In addition, my mother never criticized or complained about others, and NEVER gossiped about others; in fact she often complimented people and said kind things to and about others.

I recall that she went out of her way to be kind to those that others looked down upon or those who others felt were not important. She did not go to every baby or wedding shower, but if it was for someone who wasn’t “popular” or well-known, she would always be there. Perhaps it was because she had grown up as part of a poor, “immigrant” family whom others looked down on, she was very aware of those who did not fit in or who were different, and always tried to make them feel welcome.

                 Another thing my mother never allowed is gossip. If we nit-picked or complained about others, or gossiped, she would kindly but gently stop us and remind us that we shouldn’t do that. She was a very non-confrontational person who did not like arguing or disagreements, but one of the few times I saw her stand up for herself and disagree with someone, it was about gossiping.

Her visiting teachers were at our house, and somehow they began to gossip about another member (or situation) in the ward. Mother tried to turn the conversation back to the lesson or to something else, but the one sister kept talking about the gossip.

                Finally my mother gently but firmly told the sisters that she did not want to hear the gossip, and asked a question about something else. I was so amazed that my mild mother could be so blunt, especially when she was not gossiping—just listening. But I realized she was just living what she had taught us—she did not want to be around people who were gossiping.

              I thought of what President Thomas S. Monson said in a general conference talk in April 2009, “May I speak first about the courage to refrain from judging others. Oh, you may ask, ‘Does this really take courage?’ And I would reply that I believe there are many times when refraining from judgment—or gossip or criticism, which are certainly akin to judgment—takes an act of courage.”

My Mother Made Life Fun

My mother made life fun. We didn’t have a lot of money, but wherever we lived it was a place of enchantment. My earliest memory is of a smooth shiny floor in a narrow room. I was a very young child and my siblings and I took turns sliding across it on socks. Sometimes we’d take a towel, lay on it and ride it like a sleigh. It was a typical cleaning day, and after Mother had waxed the long, narrow living room floor, we helped her polish it by sliding across it. It was characteristic of Mother that she made a chore fun for us to share in and made our simple life amusing.

Our home in Monroe, Utah

 Mother made chores entertaining and work engaging, even in my earliest memories. There are photos of us in the front yard of the house in Monroe, Utah where we lived when I was three years old—with a big garden next door, with friends and relatives nearby.  I remember helping in the house and in the garden, but I don’t remember it being work.

 I do remember the house—the big living room, with the kitchen in the other end of the house. Next to the kitchen were stairs leading down to a dark, earthen-floored cellar which terrified me. I remember the rectangular hanging fluorescent light in the stairwell leading down to the fruit cellar—it reeked of a butcher’s store, a laboratory, or some clinical, unsafe inhospitable utilitarian place—not a portion of someone’s house. I’m sure Mother must have told stories about the fruit cellar to keep me out of it and those stories made the cellar such a scary place, just as her games made the living room a fun place.

Our yard with garden, me 2nd from right in front

My parent’s room led off the back of the kitchen, but I have no idea where my older brothers’ room was. My room was a tiny alcove off the living room with sunlight waking me up and mother’s bedtime stories wrapping me up in comfort. I remember setting the table, cleaning up after dinner, taking out trash, making my bed, all the common childhood chores, but they were done with Mother, singing and laughing. She made life fun, telling stories of her working during the depression, racing her sisters to the end of the row of crops they were weeding or picking.

Another memory of the living room in that house is of it darkened, and quiet. My brothers and I had measles and we were kept all together in that room so Mother could nurse us together. The windows were draped to protect our eyes and noise was shut out so it wouldn’t hurt our ears. I can’t remember how long we were sick, but I remember being excited to be included with my brothers instead of being kept apart as a younger sister. I must have not have been too sick, because I recall Mother having a difficult time keeping me still. I didn’t want to lie in bed. I wanted to do things, to play with my toys, but Mother insisted I couldn’t; I must lie still like my brothers.

My oldest brother was especially sick; I know he lost his hearing in one ear. I don’t think my other brother being harmed as much by the measles, but I doubt he was such a trial to mother as I was as an active three-year-old. There was not much you could do for measles in 1947 except isolate them and encourage them to rest, although most were probably so sick they probably just wanted to sleep.

Finally I remember Mother came up with a plan to entertain me; she decided to paint a picture of me. So I tried to hold still while she painted my portrait and told me stories. She only had a piece of particle board to paint on, but she painted me as long as I could keep quiet. Finally we got well and got on with our lives.

Years later I found that old scrap of a painting. It had never been finished, but was just a face painted on part of an uneven board. But as I looked at the toddler in the painting, I realized Mother had not painted me with the measles that I had suffered with. She had refused to scar my face with them, but painted me as she wanted to see me— happy and free from illness. She captured me as an eternally happy child in a home where we shined floors by sliding on them, and listened to stories that took the pain away.

Bryan & I

I thought I was too old to have any other children, and then one night Bryan appeared to me. With my eyes closed, I sensed a tall spirit with light brown hair standing beside me who told me that he was coming to earth to be our son. He seemed very excited and I knew he belonged to us. I was thrilled to have such a special spirit join our family, and knew he would add a lot to our lives. However, I was surprised that he was announcing his arrival. I didn’t realize that he was warning me!

Bryan has always been a tease. He loves to joke about everything, and his wit is priceless. He is especially talented in Improv—Improvisation, which requires creative thinking, clarity in communication, confidence, and humor. He has always used that wit with razor-sharp effect.

Even as a child, Bryan knew how to find my weaknesses and pull my leg. I remember how we’d be sitting in church and he’d walk his fingers up my arm; I’d cringe and whisper to him to stop before I went out of my mind. He’d look at me with pity and do it again. One Sunday after church I told him how sensitive my skin on my arms were and how that action of just tinkling the skin really made my skin crawl. I explained how when I was a child my younger sister had sat beside me in church and done exactly the same thing as he did—just walk her fingers up and done my skin, and I’d about go crazy. I’d start to squirm and wiggle until my parents would get after me. I’d try to tell them it was my sister’s fault for annoying me, but she’d sit there with an innocent smile on her face, glowing like an angel, and I’d end up sent to my room without dinner after church for misbehaving. BIG MISTAKE TO TELL BRYAN. Now he always tries to make my skin crawl by running his fingers up my arms!

Bryan always likes to tease me. Usually when I say something to him, he pretends he has mis-heard me; I say, “Are you on your way to school?” and he’ll say, “No, I’m not a fool.” And it goes on and on until I don’t know what I’ve said. Then he’ll laugh, wink at me and disappear before I can hit him.

Another problem is that I have OCB Obsession Compulsive Behavior—especially about always doing everything early, and to the best of my ability. Whether it is a simple school assignment or a favor for a friend—as soon as I’m asked to do something, I do it. Ask me to notify all the neighbors of an Emergency Preparedness Drill, and I type up a reminder, list all the information, decorate it with graphics, and even put some audio file on it that plays music. Then I’ll deliver it to everyone in the neighborhood by that afternoon with cookies.

Bryan has Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. This means he can’t complete an assignment if his life depended on it; if I sat on him until he did finish it, he would never turn it in—EVER! This means we had 12 years of cooperative frustration! I drove him senseless; he drove me insane. Everything I did to help him irritated him, and everything he did exasperated me. It is a miracle he survived high school and I lived through it. Maybe it was despite each other.    

But now, even while Bryan is attending college, he continues to exasperate me. He is very intelligent, but he does things in his own unique way. For the past three years Bryan has been performing at the Desert Star Theater, which does parody musical theater, and been performing with several improv troupes, as well as attending school full time. Last Christmas he went to Chicago to attend an Improv workshop at Second City, the quintessential improv comedy enterprise. Afterwards, he was tempted to quit college and move out to Chicago and try to make it big in theater there, EXCEPT for the fact that as Ed’s dependent he has a grant that pays for his college tuition. He told me he was sorry that he had that grant as it MADE him HAVE to go to college and get his education. If he didn’t have the grant, he could quit school, go to Chicago and make it big in the theater! I just shook my head! Poor Bryan, what a shame that he HAD to get his education! How sad that we had deprived him of his opportunity to struggle and wait tables while he waited for his big break!

This semester he completes his Associates Degree and is trying to decide where he will go to college to complete his bachelor’s degree. He also had to decide what he will get his bachelor’s degree in. He has maintained that all he wants to do is get a performing arts degree, no matter how difficult it is in that field.  We had suggested getting a bachelor’s degree in education and teaching in high school as a backup while he tried to make it big in the theater, but he ignored us. So as he was looking at and applying for colleges with performing art programs, we didn’t say a word. After the deadline for admissions passed, he came home one night all excited.

“Mom, in our English class tonight we wrote a memory of someone who made a difference in our life and I remembered Mr. Johansen. He was my Jr. High School teacher and the one that introduced me to Improv! I realized, after I wrote that paper, I would really like to be a high school teacher, teaching Creative Writing and Drama.”

I looked at Bryan, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head; I thought I would pass out. Then I stopped and quickly looked at Bryan as he started to walk out the room. He looked back at me and winked!