Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Fishes and Loaves
Years ago I signed up the have the missionaries over for dinner. Money was tight and I only had one pound of ground beef and decided to make enchiladas. As I made these enchiladas I think that I must have been crying inside, knowing that this was all the food we had until payday-which was about 3 days away. I wondered if I was doing the right thing...feeding these missionaries instead of my children. I continued making enchiladas. Rolling the meat into the tortillas and sprinkling with cheese. I made 1 pan...then 2 pans...then a third pan. I couldn't believe how many enchiladas I made with just one pound of ground beef. After the missionaries ate I think I had 3 pans of enchiladas still left. It was a miracle---not unlike the miracle that occured around 2000 years ago. God does live. He still is a maker of miracles.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Seventeen years ago today...
Making the decision
to have a child -
It's momentous.
It is to decide forever
to have your heart
walking around
outside your body.
-Elizabeth Stone
to have a child -
It's momentous.
It is to decide forever
to have your heart
walking around
outside your body.
-Elizabeth Stone
Monday, June 8, 2009
Heard in a testimony
"I know Heavenly Father answers my prayers because I ask Heavenly Father to help make the flowers more beautiful...and just look at them." - Morgan, age 5
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Daddy, Fix It
My husband's father passed away yesterday morning at the age of 87. He was a man who could fix anything.
"Fix it, Daddy," she lisps at two, showing the god in her life her scraped knee.
"Fix it, Daddy," she says at four, tearfully producing her broken balloon purchased from the vendor at the parade.
"Fix it, Daddy, " she says at six, struggling with her jacket zipper on her rush out the door to school.
"Fix it, Daddy," she says at eight, confidently wheeling her dented and lop-sided bike toward him as he gets out of hiw car after work.
"Fix it, Daddy," she intones righteously at ten after coming out a loser in a knock-down drag-out battle with her stupid, tyrannical, and absolutely impossible brother.
"Fix it, Daddy," she pleads at twelve in the first of many struggles with her mother over whether she is old enough to wear eye shadow.
"Fix it, Daddy," she sobs at fourteen, when her image hits rock bottom because she didn't make the cheerleading squad.
"Fix it, Daddy," she asks at sixteen, exposing her first broken heart over a lost love.
"Fix it, Dad," she says at eighteen when the college she wants doesn't want her.
"Fix it, Dad," she implores at twenty-two, sending along her mangled checkbook stubs and a 1040 form.
"Fix it, Dad," she begs at twenty-four, when she witnesses a rare conflict between him and her mother.
"Fix it, Dad," she writes at twenty-six, explaining that she wants a quiet wedding officiated by a priest and a rabbi.
"Fix it, Dad," she prays at thirty, when her baby is in the hospital and her husband is overseas.
"Fix it, Grandpa," she insists at 40 when she turns her contrary twelve year old over to him for the weekend.
"Fix it, Dad," she begs at forty-five when he tells her his heart is faltering and needs repair.
"Fix it Father," she prays at fifty-five as she kneels at her dad's funeral, praying that he will find peace and realizing that from now on he will be fixing things for her in a way he never could before. -Delores Curren
Thank you Pat for all you have done!
"Fix it, Daddy," she lisps at two, showing the god in her life her scraped knee.
"Fix it, Daddy," she says at four, tearfully producing her broken balloon purchased from the vendor at the parade.
"Fix it, Daddy, " she says at six, struggling with her jacket zipper on her rush out the door to school.
"Fix it, Daddy," she says at eight, confidently wheeling her dented and lop-sided bike toward him as he gets out of hiw car after work.
"Fix it, Daddy," she intones righteously at ten after coming out a loser in a knock-down drag-out battle with her stupid, tyrannical, and absolutely impossible brother.
"Fix it, Daddy," she pleads at twelve in the first of many struggles with her mother over whether she is old enough to wear eye shadow.
"Fix it, Daddy," she sobs at fourteen, when her image hits rock bottom because she didn't make the cheerleading squad.
"Fix it, Daddy," she asks at sixteen, exposing her first broken heart over a lost love.
"Fix it, Dad," she says at eighteen when the college she wants doesn't want her.
"Fix it, Dad," she implores at twenty-two, sending along her mangled checkbook stubs and a 1040 form.
"Fix it, Dad," she begs at twenty-four, when she witnesses a rare conflict between him and her mother.
"Fix it, Dad," she writes at twenty-six, explaining that she wants a quiet wedding officiated by a priest and a rabbi.
"Fix it, Dad," she prays at thirty, when her baby is in the hospital and her husband is overseas.
"Fix it, Grandpa," she insists at 40 when she turns her contrary twelve year old over to him for the weekend.
"Fix it, Dad," she begs at forty-five when he tells her his heart is faltering and needs repair.
"Fix it Father," she prays at fifty-five as she kneels at her dad's funeral, praying that he will find peace and realizing that from now on he will be fixing things for her in a way he never could before. -Delores Curren
Thank you Pat for all you have done!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Thanks
The following comes from my local paper dated May 22, 2009
I am a disabled veteran and a member of Disabled American Veterans Chapter 55.
Serving 21 years in the United States Navy with two, very long tours in the Gulf War, I was injured badly twice.
Last Monday I was in Simi Valley shopping at Trader Joe's. I walk with a very bad limp and must use a cane due to my service-connected injuries. A very nice woman approached me, and we started talking. Eventually she asked if I served in the military, and which conflict I was in. She became very emotional and began to cry and asked if she could purchase my groceries. I told her that would not be necessary.
The fact that she thanked me for serving my country was quite sufficient. She really insisted, and finally, I accepted.
She would not give me her name but said God had asked her to "bless somebody today," and I was that person. I then began to cry.
Ma'am. I do not know who you are, but you were my angel and you touched my heart. You made it feel like it was certainly all worth it. God bless you and I thank you so much.
Jerry Alan Foster
I am a disabled veteran and a member of Disabled American Veterans Chapter 55.
Serving 21 years in the United States Navy with two, very long tours in the Gulf War, I was injured badly twice.
Last Monday I was in Simi Valley shopping at Trader Joe's. I walk with a very bad limp and must use a cane due to my service-connected injuries. A very nice woman approached me, and we started talking. Eventually she asked if I served in the military, and which conflict I was in. She became very emotional and began to cry and asked if she could purchase my groceries. I told her that would not be necessary.
The fact that she thanked me for serving my country was quite sufficient. She really insisted, and finally, I accepted.
She would not give me her name but said God had asked her to "bless somebody today," and I was that person. I then began to cry.
Ma'am. I do not know who you are, but you were my angel and you touched my heart. You made it feel like it was certainly all worth it. God bless you and I thank you so much.
Jerry Alan Foster
Friday, May 15, 2009
One More Tomorrow
I found this in a newspaper years ago.
Tomorrow is about to arrive. My first child preparing
to leave for college, and the family unit will change.
forever.
This is not a surprise to me, and yet I am deeply
surprised by how quickly this day is speeding toward
us.
I'm not quite finished with her. I feel betrayed by
time.
This is a happy and healthy step in the expected, and
hoped for, chain of milestones. She is eager and ready
to leave, but I am not nearly ready to let go.
I need to make a few more cupcakes with her, read and
recite from "Good Night Moon" and maybe create one
more fruit basket from Play-doh.
I want to tell her,"Wait a minute!" and have her stand
still. And in that time I would hurry to fill her head
with the things about life that I am afraid I forgot
to tell her. But standing still, she would reply
impatiently, "Yes, Mom, I know. You've told me."
And she would be right; but I can't help feeling that
I forgot something.
Seventeen years ago, as I stood over her crib watching
her breathe, I wrote a letter to my 4-day old infant.
It said, "These are the days when the doorknobs are
unreachable, the summer is long and tomorrow takes
forever to arrive."
In this letter I told her of the plans and dreams I
had for the two of us. I promised her tea parties in
the winter and tents in the spring. We would do art
projects and make surprises for her daddy. And I
promised her experience. We would examine sand and
flowers and rocks and snowflakes. We would smell the
grass, the ocean and burning wood.
I would have the gift of learning about our world once
again, as she absorbed it for the first time.
We experienced so much more that I promised on that
night long ago. We endured many of life's painful
interruptions. When the continuity of our plans had to
pause to accommodate sorrow, we grew from the shared
hurt and the coping.
I never promised her that all of our experiences would
be happy, just that her father and I would be there
with unquestioning support.
When this tomorrow is actually here, I will keep the
final promise I made to my baby daughter. In the
letter I told her, "I will guide you as safely as I
can to the threshold of adulthood; and there, I will
let you go...for the days quickly pass when doorknobs
are unreachable, summers are long and tomorrow takes
forever to arrive."
As I prepare to let her go, I reflect upon her first
day of kindergarten, when I, like countless mothers
before me, said good-bye to a tearful child and went
back to look in the school window a few minutes later.
I needed to know if she was still crying. I believe in
September, when I leave this child at her college
dorm, she will slip down to the parking lot and find
me there, crying.
Seventeen years ago I watched her breathe. Tomorrow, I
will watch her fly.
Tomorrow is about to arrive. My first child preparing
to leave for college, and the family unit will change.
forever.
This is not a surprise to me, and yet I am deeply
surprised by how quickly this day is speeding toward
us.
I'm not quite finished with her. I feel betrayed by
time.
This is a happy and healthy step in the expected, and
hoped for, chain of milestones. She is eager and ready
to leave, but I am not nearly ready to let go.
I need to make a few more cupcakes with her, read and
recite from "Good Night Moon" and maybe create one
more fruit basket from Play-doh.
I want to tell her,"Wait a minute!" and have her stand
still. And in that time I would hurry to fill her head
with the things about life that I am afraid I forgot
to tell her. But standing still, she would reply
impatiently, "Yes, Mom, I know. You've told me."
And she would be right; but I can't help feeling that
I forgot something.
Seventeen years ago, as I stood over her crib watching
her breathe, I wrote a letter to my 4-day old infant.
It said, "These are the days when the doorknobs are
unreachable, the summer is long and tomorrow takes
forever to arrive."
In this letter I told her of the plans and dreams I
had for the two of us. I promised her tea parties in
the winter and tents in the spring. We would do art
projects and make surprises for her daddy. And I
promised her experience. We would examine sand and
flowers and rocks and snowflakes. We would smell the
grass, the ocean and burning wood.
I would have the gift of learning about our world once
again, as she absorbed it for the first time.
We experienced so much more that I promised on that
night long ago. We endured many of life's painful
interruptions. When the continuity of our plans had to
pause to accommodate sorrow, we grew from the shared
hurt and the coping.
I never promised her that all of our experiences would
be happy, just that her father and I would be there
with unquestioning support.
When this tomorrow is actually here, I will keep the
final promise I made to my baby daughter. In the
letter I told her, "I will guide you as safely as I
can to the threshold of adulthood; and there, I will
let you go...for the days quickly pass when doorknobs
are unreachable, summers are long and tomorrow takes
forever to arrive."
As I prepare to let her go, I reflect upon her first
day of kindergarten, when I, like countless mothers
before me, said good-bye to a tearful child and went
back to look in the school window a few minutes later.
I needed to know if she was still crying. I believe in
September, when I leave this child at her college
dorm, she will slip down to the parking lot and find
me there, crying.
Seventeen years ago I watched her breathe. Tomorrow, I
will watch her fly.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A sprinkle here...
"I can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or I can rejoice because thorn bushes have roses."
"All sunshine makes a desert."-Arabian Proverb
"Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterward."-Vernon Law
"The more I prepare, the less fear I have."
"Being a parent means that you have the power to provide security and comfort in a most insecure and uncomfortable world."
"All sunshine makes a desert."-Arabian Proverb
"Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterward."-Vernon Law
"The more I prepare, the less fear I have."
"Being a parent means that you have the power to provide security and comfort in a most insecure and uncomfortable world."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)