The Open House

I took my youngest daughter and son on a short road trip to Eastern Idaho, so we could tour the Idaho Falls Temple during the public Open House in May. Gavan was amazed at its sacred beauty and charm! His favorite part was the intricate baptismal font; mine was the vibrant Celestial Room.

Along our journey, we stopped to see the literal falls of Twin Falls and walked the Twin Falls Temple grounds. What a perfect day for a glorious sight! 

Before settling into the Marriott Residence Inn for a warm swim and cozy sleep that night, we drove through Yellowstone Bear World. I never imagined how well it would be received. Gavan had an absolute blast there! He wanted to stay past closing time and return the next day. Unfortunately, we could not fit that desire into our schedule. 

Overall, the trip was an uplifting and successful get-away!

50, 50, 50

Right this moment, I am turning 50 years, 50 days, and 50 minutes old, while my world is simultaneously rising up and crashing down on top of me.

Ahhh, life.

They Are Everyday Heroes

"Heroes (we could be)" by Alesso is the song which came on when the absence of Bradan finally hit me in November. He and Kristin used to sing it together constantly. They would just belt it out, Bradan contrasting his slightly off-pitch tone against Kristin with her power-house voice. And I loved it!

Now that Bradan is away (dedicating his time to serving the people of Puerto Rico as a missionary of the Lord) and Kristin is home battling a rare ovarian cancer, the lyrical memories hold deeper meaning for me.

Hearing Kristin boldly sing it solo as we track along the dark miles between Salt Lake City and Boise, I realize Bradan to be a spiritual hero; Kristin a physical hero. They are everyday heroes, a rank above super hero, in my eyes.

Let my heart swell and the tears flow...

One Lump Sum

On Monday, the family attended my Uncle Harold's service. It was a wonderful life tribute filled with stories of near- death adventures, wild motor cycle rides, and military attacks in the jungles of Guam. Later that evening we were dining at Fiesta Guadalajara. My young son, Gavan, looked up at the big screen TV to see the car races showing, and asked, "Is that how your brother died? From the cars?"

It took me a split second to understand his question. Then I realized: viewing Harold's lifeless 90-year-old body, hearing all the motorcycle stories at the funeral, and having visited my brother's gravesite on several other occasions, Gavan jumbled all the information into one lump sum, trying to process it.

I giggled a little and said, "No, sweetheart."

I went on to explain that my Uncle Harold loved fast dirt bikes (not cars) and passed away just last week. My brother was a musician, but was really ill at the time he died, many years ago.

After my brief discussion, Gavan simply held out his tiny hand and asked for another dollar to go capture a rubber animal in the claw machine. Ahhh. The random mind of a kindergartener...

Kikin' Cancer

The piercing words a mother refuses to hear were spoken during a follow-up appointment with the surgeon at St. Luke's Medical Center this afternoon: Kristin (aka Kikin') must face an unpredictable battle with a rare form of ovarian cancer. The Stanford pathology experts concurred with the initial local pathology report. There is little research on her type of cancer. Standard treatments like chemotherapy and radiation do not offer much response. Staging will be necessary, but challenging to her specific case.

Time will tell her story, but if I know my daughter, she will be kickin' cancer to the curb.

In the midst of all the findings, she looked at me through heartfelt tears, as we walked out the revolving door of the MSTI clinic, and compassionately stated, "I'm so sorry I can't give you grandbabies."

Sweetheart, on this memorable Valentine's Day, that is the least of my concerns.💞

I Never Appreciated Cereal

Year after year, night after night, gallon of milk after gallon of milk, I watched my son eat a heaping bowl of soggy cereal, right before dozing to sleep. The dishes would pile on his bedside desk for days. Occasionally, a straggler bowl never made it to the dishwasher for cleansing, but found its demise in the trash can, crusted (or molded, in some cases) beyond sanitizing. Keeping bowls stocked on the shelves was quite the feat. It was not uncommon for him to resort to using salad spinners, Tupperware, or mixing bowls in desperate times.

Admittedly, I do not see the draw in a General Mills night cap. Milk is a slimy liquid that tends to produce an influx of goobers. Cereal is too sweet for settling my night-time stomach, and the grainy texture leaves my inner cheek layers shredded. Although I never esteemed cereal, I did keep a lofty supply in the pantry, which gave my son a variety of options.

I never before appreciated cereal as much as I did while eating that big bowl of Honey Smacks at 11:30 the night he departed for the Caribbean. It was an unforgettable midnight snack; one with a reel of pleasant memories stuck on replay; perhaps a tradition which will evolve into my own mini-ritual over the next two years.

The Needed Call

Eighteen years ago, my first son was born. I remembered hearing earlier from an ultrasound tech that I was going to be having a baby boy. I refused to believe such nonsensical talk because I only had girls to that point. But the second Bradan entered this world, I knew he had a special place in my heart and in this world. He belonged.

Bradan stood as the backbone of priesthood in my home; he remained the sole entertainer and quiet peacemaker the many years I wore the single mother label. His vigorous spirit, coupled with the joy he illuminates, surpassed anything I could have wished for in having a son. His decision to serve a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has been a solid one the past several years. He has prepared as needed, according to the will of our Heavenly Father.

Waiting at length for the white envelope from Church Headquarters to finally arrive often left me in cold sweats. For many weeks, I wondered, I prayed, I worried where Bradan would be requested to serve. There were many justifiable guesses, and even more random speculation. Yet, as Bradan opened the envelope to read the assignment with nervous excitement, every fear and all worry disappeared. A joyful peace flooded my heart, giving me an assurance that Puerto Rico San Juan is exactly where Bradan belongs. When I consider the responsibilities required and the blessings promised in his patriarchal blessing, combined with his personality, his heritage and lineage, serving there purely made sense.

Bradan's call was clear confirmation that our Heavenly Father knows us individually; he knows our abilities and what we have to offer others; he loves us eternally and has a special place for us. At any given moment and under any specific circumstance, we are needed...where we belong.

Bradan blessed my home beyond measure the past 18 years. Today, as he embarks upon his journey through the Caribbean, he will soon discover how immensely the people of Puerto Rico will bless his life while he faithfully serves them for the next two years.

A Silent Moment

Election Day 2016

It was a monumental experience today, election bonding with my son. His first opportunity to participate was a vital one: tackling the presidential ballot. Americans are divided against God like never before, and the structure of our government quickly crumbles while our Constitution dangles in the balance. The final outcome will determine the fate of our liberty.

It reminds me of Captain Moroni. He
hoisted the Title of Liberty, then rallied all the people to unite and defend God, religion, freedom, peace, and family (Alma 46:12-13). We seem to have gotten away from those core values and desperately need to head back in their direction.

Grateful for my own freedom, I utilized it to fully support the candidate I believe is most fit to run our country.

May God watch over and bless the USA!

Chained at University Hospital

My recent lumbar puncture procedure sparked a distant memory:

I remember years ago being admitted to University Hospital (at University of Utah) in Salt Lake City for neurological testing. The room adjacent to mine housed two male convicts who were chained to their hospital beds. The officer guarding the door outside their room could be seen in the view from my own bed. He occasionally peeked in with a smile, and made sure I recognized my own safety in the circumstance. I trusted that I was in good care.

Occasionally, I would be guided by the nurse to walk the halls so the injections from spinal scans could dissipate through my tissues. On one round of walking, I recall taking a glance into the temporary prison cell. My eyes briefly made contact with both criminals lying in their beds. An overwhelming desire came over me. I should have been afraid, but I wasn't...initially.

At that moment I yearned to sit down next to them and assure each how much their Heavenly Father loves them. I wanted to hear their stories; I wanted to understand what led to their current states of existence, and to ultimately teach them a better way.

But as with most conflict, I waited too long and thought too logically until the opportunity to approach them passed. Instead of acting on my prompting and asking permission to visit the two criminals, I ignored the feeling and turned my gaze away from them. Later, I was discharged and gone.

For many years, I regretted not acting in that moment. Every one of us is a criminal, a sinner in mortality.  Imagine if Christ had turned his gaze from me and, in essence, left me chained to my bed. The thought is unbearable...