What Does it Look Like in Heaven? ~ And Writing Assignment #3

A decade has passed since I sat on the front row, near the coffin, at my Mother-in-law's funeral. For a moment my mind wandered from the words of the speaker to thoughts of my Dad who had died many years before.  Where was he?

"Where are you Dad?" My mind whispered "What does it look like in heaven, can you show me?"

I closed my eyes and I saw, as if I was standing in, a most brilliant garden. It was immensely lush and green like the foliage colors I remember seeing in Hawaii but 100 times more vibrant. My heart swelled with the beauty and wonder of it and I languished there for a full minute before I was distracted by the congregation quietly saying "Amen" as the speaker finished a loving tribute.  I felt joy, I felt amazingly rested.  I wanted to see it again so I closed my eyes but it was gone, only a memory now.

Driving home from a mundane trip to the market a few days ago, I thought how nice it is for me when my grandchildren call that I can visualize where they are while I am talking to them.  I not only hear their sweet voices but in my mind's eye I can see their lovely home, their well appointed play room with toys and books and a gymnastics mat, I can see the little red chairs and the table where they sit to play games or read books from the well stocked bookshelf.  It makes the conversation somehow 'whole' to be able to see in my mind where they are, I know the scene because I've been there.

But...where is Dale?  I know he's in heaven and I talk to him each and every day but I can't visualize what it looks like there beyond the momentary glimpse I had received from my Dad.  It would be so helpful if I could somehow get a picture of it in my mind's eye!

So as soon as I arrived home I started doing some research on what it looks like in heaven. I went to my computer and Googled that very question.

The first thing that came up was an incredible song by Dani & Lizzy called "Dancing in the Sky", Here's the youtube link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1JcPmsoNkE

It's asking exactly what I am asking and hoping. I love it. But I still need something to visualize when I imagine Dale there.  I found help. My Google search led me to hundreds of sources with hundreds of descriptions.  And then I found one book written by a man named Brent L. Top who has made "what is it like in heaven" a life-long study and his book organizes and quotes the best of what I found (and more). It's called "What's on the Other Side". I downloaded it to my iPad and began reading.

I felt very strongly that Dale wanted me to see a certain part of this book.  So without hesitancy (since I have had so many instances of his guidance this past year and 5 months and one day) I flipped through the pages on my screen until I felt to stop on these descriptions:

The vegetation and landscape was beautiful beyond description, like a rainbow, not all green, but gold with various shades of pink, orange and lavender...[There were] spacious stretches of flowers, grasses, and shrubbery, all of a golden hue. - Heber Q. Hale

I was in a garden.  All the colors were intense. The grass was a deep vibrant green, flowers were radiant reds, yellows and blues, and birds of all beauty fluttered in the bushes. Everything was lit by a shadowless brilliance that was all pervading.  The light did not cast a shadow, which I realized when I cupped by hands tightly together and the palm side was just as light as the back side.  There were no sounds of motors or discord or commotions. No sound but the songs of birds and the sounds (yes, the 'sounds') of flowers blooming. My ears were filled with a music so beautiful no composer could ever duplicate it...it was soothing, gentle,and warm and deep within me. - Mr. Dippong, quoted in Ring, Heading toward Omega

There was a tremendous sound, too. It was as if all the great orchestras in the world were playing at once; no special melody, and very loud, powerful but somehow soothing. It was a rushing, moving sound, unlike anything I could remember, but familiar, just on the edge of my memory. - Unnamed author, quoted in Ring, Amazing Grace.

He also spoke of the buildings he saw there, remarking that the Lord gave Solomon wisdom and poured gold and silver into his hands that he might display his skill and ability, and said that the temple erected by Solomon was much inferior to the most ordinary buildings he saw in the spirit world.  Heber C. Kimball  quoting Jedediah M. Grant.

Their dwellings are just like the dwellings on earth which we call homes, except that they are more beautiful.  They have rooms, suites, and bedrooms, all in abundance.  They have courtyards, and [are] surrounded by gardens, flowerbeds, and lawns.....I have seen palaces in heaven so noble as to defy description...Inside...the rooms were decorated with accessories such that words and arts fail to describe them.  Outside...there were parks where everything likewise glowed, with here and there leaves gleaming like silver and fruit like gold.  The flowers in their plots formed virtual rainbows. - Emanuel Swedenborg, Heaven and Hell (an 18th Century Swedish scientist, engineer and religious philisopher)

But O,...the order and government that was there! When in the spirit world, I saw the order of righteous men and women; beheld them organized in their several grades, and there appeared to be no obstruction of my vision; I could see every man and woman in their grade and order. I looked to see whether there was any disorder there, but there was none...The people I there saw were organized in family capacities; and when I looked after them I saw grade after grade, and all were organized and in perfect harmony. - Jedediah M. Grant.  (Note: in Sociology and Anthropology, the term "grade" is used as a stage in a process)

The people I met there I did not think of as spirits, but as men and women - self thinking, self-acting individuals, going about important business in a most orderly manner.  There was perfect order, and everyone had something to do and seemed to be about their business. - Heber Q. Hale

Clearly, the Lord's kingdom is a kingdom of useful activities - Swedenborg, Heaven and Hell

They aren't dead. They are alive, busy and waiting for me. - Unnamed author, quoted in Ring, Heading toward Omega

The spirit world will be a paradise, "a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow". Alma 40:12 Book of Mormon

Neal A. Maxwell said: On the other side of the veil, there are perhaps seventy billion people. They need the same gospel, and releases occur here to aid the Lord's work there.  Each release of a righteous individual from this life is also a call to new labors. Those who have true hope understand this.  Therefore, though we miss the departed righteous so much here, hundreds may feel their touch there.  One day, those hundreds will thank the bereaved for gracefully forgoing the extended association with choice individuals here, in order that they could help hundreds there. In God's ecology, talent and love are never wasted...A mortal life may need to be 'shortened' by twenty years as we may view - but if so, it may be done in order for special services to be rendered by that individual in the spirit world, services that will benefit thousands of new neighbors.

Oh the beauty and the peace and the joy in service and activity there! My head fell into my hands and tears fell, "Oh Dale, I sighed, "I want to see what you see and do what you are doing!  Why am I still here!!!! I want to be there - with you - now!"

And I felt his words, very strongly.  "No! Study, Learn, Serve.  Use your talents and the valuable time you have left on earth to learn about God's love and how to love and serve your fellowman.  When you die, you take with you only what you know and what you have experienced and the more you know on earth the better you will be able to serve in heaven."

So it all seems to be part of a vast eternal plan, and the puzzle pieces of my life are falling into place.

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Now...let's go on to the 3rd writing assignment for your Life Story!!

WRITING ASSIGNMENT #3

ASSIGNMENT 3 – EARLY CHURCH MEMORIES

Memories of Church

When did you first go to church?

What are your earliest memories of church?

Go ahead and include people here as well as details of the building itself. Was it comforting, frightening, inspiring? What was the temperature like and the benches...hard, soft?

Include any or all of the church buildings that you'd like to include from childhood through now.

Do you remember who you sat next to? Did you sing? Did you feel the spirit? Etc etc. etc.

Feel free to expand this to your adulthood feelings/experiences if you'd like. But on this one, only

include experiences that actually happened AT church. Well...the story about when my sister was about 3 years old she walked to church in her petticoat because she thought she would be late if she had to wait for Mother to help her get dressed would be also fit here (for her history) just fine! :o)

My Father's Day Letter to Dale ~ & Writing Assignment #2

I’m sorry I won’t be with you on Father’s Day this year Dale.  You were such a wonderful Dad to our boys. It occurs to me just now that you will be with my Dad and your Dad and all of our beloved Grandfathers up in heaven today.  Please tell them Happy Father’s Day and that I love them.  Are you able to do that?

Funny, my mind fluttered from "Dad's" to "Baseball" Seems kind of natural that they are linked together don't you think? Remember how I cried at the end of the movie “The Natural”; you know . . . the part where the father and son were playing catch in the golden wheat field?  The reason I cried was not because it had been a good story, which it had; and it wasn’t because of the way that you played catch with our boys, which you did; it was the memory of playing catch with my own Dad.  Just the two of us, back and forth and back and forth, hearing his stories and his laughter (his eyes actually twinkled when he laughed) and the feeling that we shared something very special.  Just the two of us.   I hated the mitt I used.  It was the only left handed mitt he could find in the whole town back then and it was a large red catcher’s mitt, much too big and much too stiff for my small hands but it was worth the price of a stinging palm from his fast ball to be able to share the time together.  Oh how Dad loved Baseball. During the clean up in Japan after the war, he and the other soldiers taught the Japanese boys how to play.

I was introduced to the inequality of women in sports in elementary school as my girlfriends and I would throw our stone marker onto the chalk drawn hopscotch squares and then hop and jump to the end and back and then we'd sit on the gray cement and play jacks; all the while I'd be looking longingly over my shoulder at the boys playing baseball on the grassy field by the giant oak trees.  Oh don’t get me wrong, we girls had fun playing double-dutch jump rope and cat’s cradle strings - but they just weren’t BASEBALL!

At home, Dad bought a ball for me to use on the garage door as a makeshift handball court. I practiced and practiced and soon the boys in the neighborhood wanted to play.  They kept coming back even though I could beat them soundly.  Dad installed a basketball hoop on the garage and more games ensued!  Then came a Tether-Ball installation in the driveway.  Life was good.  Dad complained (but with a proud sort of a chuckle) when he had to replace my worn out tennis shoes on a weekly basis.  That was long before brands like Nike appeared on the market.

Then it happened, one day the neighborhood boys asked, ”Do you want to play baseball at the Methodist church field down the street?”  Did I ever!  I grabbed my left handed mitt and down the street we went.  The church had long since been abandoned and the field was just dust and weeds but oh how I loved to play and I learned the finer points of the game from these guys.  I loved to bat and I could hit more home runs than any of them - in fact they finally made a rule that I couldn’t hit any more home runs because we kept losing the balls in the weeds.  Many times we would end up using tennis balls since we’d gone through the neighborhood supply of baseballs. It was VERY hard not to hit a home run with a tennis ball!  I can still hear their voices after the whack of the ball on my wooden bat moaning “Oh come on! Not again!” as the ball sailed over their heads and into the weeds.  This was the fall and winter of my 5^th grade year.  Come spring, the boys stopped asking me to play when they hopped on their bikes wearing striped uniforms and caps, new batting gloves in their back pockets and their mitts on their handlebars with a new baseball tucked inside. Down the street they went - laughing and talking until they disappeared around the corner. Gone.

But I could always count on Dad to play a game of catch after work. I could tell what kind of day he had at work by how hard he threw the ball.

Later in the season one of the boys invited me to come to a game.  I was excited until I realized that it wasn’t to play but to sit on the bleachers and cheer for him.  Girls were not allowed to play Baseball.

Sixth grade.  The boys played Pop Warner football and one of my girlfriends invited me to join the cheerleaders.  Wearing deep purple “Bears” cheerleading outfits and waving purple and white pompoms we strutted and yelled things like “Push em back, push em back, waaaaay back!”  It was disturbing as I realized early on that we weren’t actually cheering for the boys as much as we were showing off how cute we were! But still…there I was cheering for the boys.

Jr. High and finally…Girls could play baseball! Well not really, girls could play Soft Ball but on actual teams during Phys Ed class!  But the girls didn’t want to play ball.  They wanted to complain about the unstylish gym outfits and polish their nails and braid each other’s hair.  They played because they had to.  I loved those girl things too but couldn’t we just play sports for one hour???  We learned to play tag football and I loved it!  I broke my finger doing that one day.  Ouch.  Volley Ball was great fun, always played indoors during the rainy season or when the Santa Ana winds blew.

High School - My weekends were spent on the bleachers watching boyfriends play football or baseball.  Women’s lib was on its way but not quite there yet.  So for now I was allowed to sit and cheer …boys like to see you in the stand cheering them on…so “Yay”.  I was invited to try out for cheerleaders but my Pop Warner experience whispered “Don’t do it!”  The summers were spent at the beach watching boyfriends surf; an unwritten rule required that I watch closely so that I could discuss the “great ride” on any given wave….”Yay”.   I couldn’t afford a surfboard and “no decent boyfriend would allow his girlfriend to be out in the waves with the other surfers with their bad language anyway” I was told.  Sigh.  I was sure I could “hang-ten” even though I would be goofy footed being left handed and have some gnarly rides but…no.

But back to Baseball. The years moved on.  My bouncing baby boys became ball players. I sat on the baseball bleachers and cheered but with real meaning this time! Oh how I loved that they were playing baseball and oh how I loved you for supporting them with all of your heart, mind and soul! Not to mention time and involvement.  From PeeWee through Jr High, both boys played and played really well! Our youngest played extremely well in High School and at the University and he played pro for a short season too!  I was in the bleachers for every game possible.  Happy, happy times!! Recently when I paid a visit to my all-grown-up baseball son and his family, I sat in the bleachers at our 4 year old grandson’s T-Ball baseball game. I was thrilled beyond words when he stopped on his way up to bat and waved to me saying “HI GRANDMA!”  Well…sitting on the bleachers, cheering on another little boy was just where I wanted to be!  I’m a pro at it by now! I felt like you were there too.

I received a photo email recently from our son.  He was at a Houston Astros game in the incredible stadium there, his young daughter takes up the main part of the picture with the green field and stadium seats behind her.  And he wrote, “Wish you were here!”  I got a tear in my eye.  Just like I did at the end of that movie!   And as I gazed into the “everything is possible twinkle” in our granddaughter’s eyes in that photo, I’m excited to know that she can play (at least at the elementary school level) baseball or any sport she desires.  Equality is getting closer.  It only took time and many generations of women finally saying HEY! That’s not fair! But it’s near and I’m so glad to be alive to see our granddaughter benefit.

So  Baseball!  I suppose I’ll always have a tear come to my eye when the ump yells “PLAY BALL” because  Baseball connects me to the people I love the most.  From Dad to you to our boys and now our grandchildren.  Tossing the ball back and forth and back and forth. 

I love you.  I still miss you every day. I wish I could make you your favorite meal and treat you to a well deserved Happy Father’s Day.  But this will have to do for now. Thank you for being up there cheering me on as I play out this last inning of my life.  I’m hoping for some high fives when we meet again….. Lots of Love, Me. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY WRITING ASSIGNMENT #2

CHILDHOOD HOME

Describe in detail your Childhood home(s),  if you had multiple homes you may choose one or as many as you would like. (Oftentimes, even if you lived in multiple houses in your youth there seems to be one that says "HOME" to you in your memory.)

Include where it was located and what you loved about it or didn’t like. What kind of car was in the garage? What were the furnishings like inside the house?

Don’t just describe photos of it that you have seen. Describe it from your perspective, as a child.  What was the view from your bedroom window, what did the house look like, smell like, feel like, was it cold and austere or warm and cozy?

Then...write about a few memories that happened IN that house or houses that include the actual house as part of the memory (it can be at any age) 

These are things that YOU did not someone else that lived there with you. And don't say..while I was living at this house, I went to the beach and... or I was a scout and went on a scout trip and....etc. The house is the main character here and your story in this assignment should revolve completely around it. 

Don't feel like you have to list every experience you ever had in that home. There will be other chances when talking about your youth later.

 Paint a picture with your words then print it out and put it in your binder and maybe even share it with a loved one! Have them start writing and share with you!

You're on your way to having an autobiography!

Congratulations.

Guided By Silent Love ~ & Writing Assignment #1

 Midmorning Wednesday and I'm feeling totally overwhelmed, I have too much to do, too much to be concerned about and I can't locate a file on my computer that I HAVE TO HAVE for the estate lawyer. Why do I have to do all of these things!!  I search and search and suddenly I come face to face with an old Email from Dale.  "Oh that's just perfect, let's add the fact that Dale is gone and I miss him beyond reason to my other woes this morning!" I mumbled.

He always knew what to do, he always had an answer.  Where was he now! I felt the tears start to stream down my face so I grabbed my purse and keys and headed to my car.  Where was I going? I didn't know but I was headed there fast.  Tears kept falling and I began praying for direction...not for where I was headed at the moment but in my life!  Where am I going? Why do I have to wade through all of this paperwork with all of its rules and regulations and Can't Dos?

My common sense took me to a few places that needed my attention. The bank, the post office and then my stomach growled making me even more aware of the humanness of my sorry situation. I spotted Panda Express so I flipped on my blinker and pulled into a parking spot with a least some partial shade to keep the car a bit cooler on this unusually hot June day.

I walked inside and after staring at the order board for a few minutes before I realized I wasn't concentrating, I just quickly ordered the first thing and then nodded when she asked if I wanted chopsticks.  She smiled with what could only be classified as a "sympathetic smile" and handed me the chopsticks and a fortune cookie.

Funny how you are forced to eat more slowly when you use chopsticks. "Hmmm....I don't ever remember not knowing how to eat with chopsticks." I muse.  My Dad, who had been a soldier in Japan in WWII taught us how to use them when I was too young to know that everyone else didn't also learn to eat two ways..the fork way or the chopsticks way.

Dad...Oh how I loved him.  I lost him too.  Many years ago.  I was only 28 the day he died.  He too, like Dale, always had answers for me.  So did my Grandfathers and Grandmothers and Mother and Aunts and oh dear they are all GONE!

Tears burned my eyes and I stuck my chopsticks back into the food that I couldn't eat now.  I spied the fortune cookie sitting there waiting patiently for me so I smirked and whispered "Oh sure, why not" it will probably tell me I have a "cheery nature and make people happy". Ha Ha.  I wrestled it out of it's plastic covering and cracked it open. It read simply and reassuringly.....

  "You are guided by silent love"

I felt a warmth pass over my body and my troubled mind that seemed to melt my fears and it gave strength to my human weakness.  I knew this was true. I have felt all of their love silently all these years since they have been gone, guiding me, walking beside me.  I have a whole army of loved ones guiding me on with unmistakable love and concern.  I can still remember the stories they told on earth, when I could actually hear them and I remember the love they expressed when they actually held me in a hug.

And suddenly a story that Dad used to tell jostled its way to the forefront of my mind. I gathered my things and dumped my leftover food into the trash and walked to the car, grateful for the shady parking decision I had made earlier, I slipped inside and sat.  Allowing the story he told so many years ago to play again in my mind.

His Army unit was marching, ever so quietly, single file in a low swampy area that snaked in and out of the secluded areas with thick foliage on a humid day under the scorching sun on the island of Okinawa. They were on the move to a safe location while trying to avoid enemy fire. The areas that could provide shade were infested with mosquitoes.  The going was rough and their nerves were frazzled.  But they followed their Sargent who was getting guidance on his walkie-talkie.

Two of the soldiers near Dad started mumbling and complaining. They could see that if they all just went up on the ridge they could get to where they needed to be in half the time.

"No!" my Dad and several of the other soldiers whispered. "Follow the command!"

 But still the two soldiers murmured about the heat and the mosquitoes and the stupidity of what they were being told to do when it was obvious there was a better way. "Sarge knows more than you do!" Dad heard a soldier caution them in a low voice.

And on they marched slopping through the mud and silence. Suddenly the two soldiers darted away from the ranks and up the hill and stood silhouetted on the ridge.

...Two shots from enemy fire.

...Two soldiers dropped lifelessly to the ground.

The remaining soldiers hurried their steps following their leader and they all made it to safety, exhausted but glad they had obeyed the command.

Then Dad would tell us that it is important to realize that there are times in life when to follow the commands and rules of those who have a better knowledge of what is best for us will get us safely through our trials.  Even the trial of life itself.

So I drove back home. I pulled out my lengthy "To-Do" list and tackled them one by one, crossing all of the t's and dotting all of  the i's. Turns out I knew where everything was and I was able to find all of the answers.  With the silent guidance of love from my angels on the other side of the veil I found the strength and clarity of thought to do it along with the reminder that I will benefit from following the rules, even those that seem a bit stupid from my limited point of view.


Awhile ago I began sculpting a WWII soldier in memory of my Dad and his dedicated service to a war that threatened the safety and freedom of his family.  I thought I'd share it with you here.






Now let's get started on writing your Autobiography!!

EVERYONE HAS A STORY - Writing Assignment #1

Last week I mentioned how I can assist you in writing your autobiography by giving you assignments in each Sunday's blog and within 52 weeks you'll have your history written...to date.  First of all, it's important to note that the ancestors that I love the most are the ones who left their stories in a form written by their own hand.  First hand accounts through the ages that have inspired me and tied me to them.

I have had several groups where Brothers and Sisters join and write their assignment each week and share it via Email with each other.  It has proven to be a fun experience seeing each other's take on life in the same household.  Remarkably different!  Cousins joining together to share their assignments has been another experience that has been sheer delight.  I even heard of a psychologist who used it for his patients who figured out why they are the way they are through doing the assignments.  That was kind of cool to hear!  And then there was the Quilting Group who watched for the assignments each week and a Book Club and oh yes that Purple Hat Ladies Club!  So whatever it takes...just do it and have fun doing it.

ASSIGNMENT #1 – GETTING TO KNOW YOU

I'm so glad you'll be joining us!  The first assignment is different from the ones to follow; it's more of a state-the-facts kind of thing.  But I have found in all my genealogy hunts that when I can finally read (in First person) someone saying their exact name, birth date and birthplace and parentage and children...well I could just kiss them!!  And then the stories that follow that information become even more interesting.

  

Also, what I suggested to our classes (but please do whatever is best for you) is that you get a 3 ring binder and give it a title...like My Personal History or the History of.....  And then each week print out a hard copy, punch it and put it right in the binder.  It's a great idea to save it to your computer too but when it comes right down to it....paper is the thing that lasts (the format never changes or becomes obsolete and upgrades don't happen!)

Decide how you want it to look right from the start and set up your document (i.e. font, spacing, margins etc.)  - so that each week you follow the same basic format and then each page will look the same when it is in your book.  Also, please note that the assignments DO NOT always go chronologically.  I found that mixing it up a bit kept it more interesting.  So don't number the pages.

So like I say...this one is different from the assignments to come but kind of fun too.  It gives important genealogical information and fascinating facts about you...the main character of your story!

Part 1

Your Full Given Name

Do you know the reason you were given this name? (Named after, etc.)

Your Date of Birth:

Your Place of Birth:

The Places You Have Lived: (Dates here are great if you can)

Your Mother's Full Name:

Her Birth Date and Place:

Her Death Date and Place of Burial:

Your Father's Full Name:

His Birth Date and Place:

His Death Date and Place of Burial:

The Names of Your Brothers and Sisters:

Continued next page -

The Date and Place of your Marriage:

The Full Given Name of Your Spouse:

His Birth Date and Place of Birth:

His Parent's Names:

The Full Given Names of Your Children:

Part 2

Complete this however you'd like.  In story form, a straight list, or wax poetic. You could also include photos and recipes if you'd like.

These are little facts that I would have loved to have known about our own Grandma but alas, we only really know that her favorite flower was the white rose, or do I just assume that since Grandpa planted the white rose bush for her so he could pick a bouquet for her each Anniversary.  Maybe she liked lilacs best but again that's an assumption because she had those big bushes by the house!  Oh, wouldn't it be nice to really know fun little things like that?  Here's your chance to make your own personal favorites be a part of your history.

What is Your Favorite: 

(Feel free to change the order)

Sport:

Flower:

Meal: (you can include recipes here)

Dessert: (you can include recipes here)

Vacation Spot:

Leisure Activity:

Restaurant:

Book(s):

Author(s):

Color:

Scripture Verse:

Scripture Hero:

Latter-Day Hero: 

Do you remember one "Birthday Wish" you made when blowing out the candles as a child?

Have Fun!  Check in next Sunday for Assignment # 2 - it's a more creative writing one!

She Lost All Hope ~ & An Introduction to Writing your Personal History - the easy way

So I am back to the dream of hope that I mentioned in a previous blog….

While meandering aimlessly down the aisles of Hobby Lobby the other day, I sighed and said “Am I really going to be able to do this "alone" thing!?!” (Did I say it merely in my thoughts or did I say it right out loud?)  I’m not sure but there in front of me I suddenly focused on a plaque that simply said in white letters as if scrawled on a blackboard:

HOPE

 I stopped, my hands squeezing the handle of the cart and stared at the word.  Hope.  It’s a tiny little word, isn’t it? But I realize more than ever that I need it, I CAN’T lose it because as you know, “She lost all hope” is what they say when someone quits.  Whether it’s a mental, emotional or physical challenge, or working on a goal or even life itself; to lose hope is to lose it all.

 So what is it?  Can we easily define it?  Do we cling to it; do we work on it; protect it or polish it every day like a treasured possession so as to never lose it? It seems there is a power to it that pushes or pulls us along this journey of life that we are all on.  So I determined I needed to take a deeper look into it.

So on this quiet Sunday morning I find that….

In the Old Testament, Job, who suffered and overcame more loss than most, instructs us: “For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.”

It appears that to have hope is to possess a guiding light and a power that motivates us to go on; propels us forward; encourages us to succeed even when it seems impossible.

I remember as a child the first inklings of hope being the possibility of unwrapping a wished for gift on my birthday. And now days as I try to get some exercise, it’s putting one foot in the front of the other again and again and again in the hope that I will reach a goal.  As a young mother my hope was that my sons would grow up healthy and strong and have beautiful lives. As a businesswoman I hoped that my hard work, by my husband’s side, would bring satisfaction and enough money to support our family.  As an artist, it’s the hope that my work will someday touch others in a positive way.

To the sick there is hope that an answer and maybe even a cure will be found.  To the weary there is hope that there will be rest.

Wow….Hope is the power that keeps possibilities and dreams alive. Hope is the energy that strengthens our hearts and our bodies and our souls and makes us get up and move. Hope is so strong that it can energize soldiers to be victorious in a ruthless battle and yet so fragile that it can instantaneously shatter at the moment of a mere whisper or an unsolicited thought. Hope is different from Faith.  Hope is different from Love.  Hope is different from a wish. The opposite of hope is despair.

So even though there are times when I feel just too miserable and can’t believe that I could possibly feel better…I must never relinquish my grasp on that beacon of hope that draws me forward so as not to slip under the waves of despair.  It tells me that life is good and I can work my way through this tunnel, step by step, into a future with possibilities and the ability to do all of the things that I have yet to do.

But, and this is the critical question I did say right out loud:  "How do I grasp it, hold onto it and use it?" I randomly flip open a little “thought for the day book” that is by my keyboard and my eyes rest on this quote by Jane Howard:

“Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music – the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people.  Forget yourself!!

Or in other words as that great commandment instructs:  “Love your neighbor as yourself”

Is that the answer? And an idea floods my mind and heart, actually an idea I had many years ago when asked to teach a class in “Writing your personal history for posterity”.  It turned into a class that I taught over and over again over the years and for which I developed a weekly assignment that encouraged my students to write their story because as Helen Keller said:

“Every human being‘s life is a story.  A unique story that nobody ever lived before and no one will ever live again.”

Hundreds of people have successfully used these assignments and it occurs to me that if I share the assignments with you each week for the next 52 weeks, you will have your life story (to date) written!  No charge of course…it’s just a way for me to help you, my neighbor, unlock your unique story that no one else can tell! (Don’t let someone else tell your story; it won’t be the same story)  You don’t need to know how to write, just answer my questions and express your thoughts.  And by doing it, you are not only creating something of great worth but you are actually nourishing my hope!  (Sorry, it circled back to me LOL, like that old saying “That’s enough about me, let’s talk about you…so what do you think about me?” Ha Ha)

Are you game, you beautiful souls and interesting people that are reading this blog?  I’ll start with the very first assignment next Sunday!  You don’t have to share it but keep it, print it out and put it in a notebook, treasure it and someday your grandchildren and great grandchildren will read it and it will give them the power they’ll need to hold onto the hope that will pull them through their own trials.  It’s a kind gift of yourself to them and as I’ve found in writing this blog, cathartic for yourself as well during times when you think you might have lost all hope.

I think it was Oscar Wilde who said: “Be yourself because everyone else is taken”. 

We’ll start there….next Sunday.

I didn’t buy that plaque at Hobby Lobby but I just now put a little post-it on the edge of my computer screen with those four little letters:  H-O-P-E.

Hope – It's both a noun and a verb isn't it! And with your help, I hope to never, ever lose it.

Alone But Not Lonely

Algebra has never been my strong point but I woke up this morning with this equation playing over and over in my head:

We minus One still equals We

  (W-1)=W

It made me smile, not only to think of my high school Algebra teacher’s claim that we will in fact use algebra at some point in our lives after graduation but I smile at this new concept that I am not merely an “I” but still a “we”. 

The “alone” part of being a widow is the biggest hurdle to peace. The over powering feeling that even in a crowd of people “I am ALONE” or “I’m Single” or “I’m a widow” and having to ask for “A table for one please” are identifying lables that are foreign and uncomfortable and I am lonely.  But with this new equation in my mind, perhaps I can reach the milestone on this journey through widowhood where memories and reminders of Dale bring me joy.  Am I slowly shifting away from the intense pain of loss?

But then as I think about it….this “being alone” thing…Dale has been with me (both seen and unseen) for most of my life, well since I was about 3 years old….

We lived in a home that had been built by my great-grandfather.  A stately edifice surrounded by acres and acres of fertile farmland.  And this wonderful, grand old place had a turret way up on the second floor that in the eyes of two little girls standing way below, it looked to be the locked tower of a castle. We would clasp our hands to our chests and call out beseechingly, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel!  Let down your long hair!”  But she never did.

One day there (and as I say, I was about 3) I was swinging swinging swinging on the squeaky swing set in the yard.  It seemed I could fly so high…way back and then sweeping up seeing the ground; then the long lawn; the house; the top of the house; the top of the trees and then the clouds and then the blue blue sky and then back again.  Over and over again until all of a sudden I put my feet down and ground to a halt as in my mind I saw a young man, he looked to be a handsome prince, I liked him and I knew right then that he was going to be my husband and best friend.

So I have been a “we” since that day!  Just because I can’t see Dale now doesn’t mean that he won't be a big presence during my remaining earth life.  And, like I waited all those years for him to take my hand and lead me into a new life, I will wait for him to come back and take my hand and lead me into a new life again.  And just like I had things to do in the years before we met the first time, I have many things I need to do in the years before I meet him again.  It gives me such strength to know that he will be just a thought away during any given moment of these remaining years.

As I type, my mind wanders to others who have been unseen but by my side all of these years…

It was also at this tender age of 3 in that big old farmhouse that two books took a prominent role in my development and psyche when they entered my life. They are also the first two books I remember.  The first book was easily accessible to me at all times; it was called “The Little Red Hen”.  Her adage had become my motto but never so importantly as now: ”Then I’ll do it myself!” said the Little Red Hen…and she did! 

The next book was an oversized volume the color and texture of rich creamy linen inscribed in golden letters announcing what awaited as I carefully opened the cover and entered into – “The Great Paintings of the World” - The color illustrations were printed on clay-coated paper and glued onto the pages at the top border.  This book was high on a shelf in the living room and I had to ask Mother or Dad for it which I did, often.  I would retreat to a cozy corner, sit down and lean against the built-in bookshelf where I nestled the book (nearly half my size) onto my knees and explored the world of wonders within.  The 10 year old Christ child holding a candle so luminous as to show the redness as it radiated through his fingers; the Mona Lisa who smiled at me; the old man with the oversized warty nose holding his granddaughter on his lap whose loving eyes spoke of unconditional love.  How was it possible that someone could draw this way?  I was fascinated, I was moved, and I was educated. 

Throughout my life I felt these paintings whisper to me from beyond the doors of the great museums of the world; The Metropolitan in New York City, The National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., the  Galleria degli Uffizi and the Bargello in Florence, The Louvre in Paris, the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, The Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel in Rome, the British Museum and the Tate Gallery in London, The Art Institute Museum of Chicago, The de Young and Legion of Honor Museums in San Francisco, the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum and The Museum of Fine Arts of Boston, the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto Canada, Thorvaldsens Museum and Frederiksborg Castle in Copenhagen and the Honolulu Museum of Art on the island of Oahu, to name a few.…..I have visited each Museum - actually I should say more appropriately that I have explored each Museum, every nook and cranny for days on end and each time as I turned a corner and encountered one of my “Great Paintings of the World” in the original form, in the original size, in the original vibrant and rich brushstrokes, mounted in ornate golden frames the same color as the inscription on my big book; I felt undeniably at ease, and took pleasure in a visit with an old friend.  

I studied Art History in college and learned of the lives and works of these great artists.  This ultimately led Dale to send me to La Academia delle Belle Arti in Florence Italy and subsequently the Loire Valley in France, Scottsdale, AZ and Seattle, WA for my education in sculpting. I visited the Uffizi so often to study the incredible sculptures on display there that one day a couple approached me.  “Do you speak English?” they asked frantically. “Almost exclusively” I replied.  They had come to Florence with a tour from their cruise ship. The majority had chosen to see The David at the Academia but they wanted to see Boticelli’s Birth of Venus at the museum. It was time to rejoin their tour group to take the bus back to the ship and they were hopelessly lost in the museum.  “Could I help them!!”  It delighted me that not only could I lead them through the maze of greatness to the distant exit doors (labled Uscita which meant nothing to them) but also quickly point out some highlights as we scurried along - like the only painting from the Renaissance by a woman artist (Artemisia Gentileschi) considered worthy enough to hang in the gallery.

Following the discovery of “The Little Red Hen “in my childhood, I came to love the magical writings of Hans Christian Andersen, Denmark’s favorite son. The Little Match Girl was my favorite, followed by the Little Tin Soldier, The Ugly Duckling and on down the list.  Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen is one of the world’s oldest and most respected theme parks.  I remember reading in my grandfather’s missionary journal that he and his companion visited there one day nearly 100 years before me.  And since I found myself with 2 months in Denmark one summer (Another gift from Dale) and since Tivoli Gardens was located just down the street and across the Rådhuspladsen (Town Hall Square) from my hotel, I decided to check it out one summer evening.  Since it doesn’t get dark until after 11 pm, I entered the gates at 9.  I strolled through the lovely gardens and shopped in the unique boutiques; I ate salmon served on Danish blue china and sipped fresh lemonade from a crystal goblet at a small round table in an outdoor café, naturally the table was spread with a white linen cloth and had a large, fully opened pink rose in a cobalt blue vase. I read that the electrical parade would begin after dark so after dinner I followed the crowd to what appeared to be a good spot and waited.  Suddenly fireworks popped and music filled the air and the parade began meandering down the walkways and through the crowd.  Giant puppet-like figures lit from within weaved and bobbed and I suddenly realized that they were all characters out of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. All of my childhood friends in an incredible production.  I couldn’t hold back the tears from the joy of youthful memories. In the jostling of the crowd I was bumped and looked down at the little lady standing next to me, about my age (50 something) she was Asian and her cheeks were also covered in happy tears. She looked at me and said something in Japanese, I looked at her and said something in American and she took my hand and squeezed it and for a moment we were just two little girls in our own corners of the world - wide eyed and entranced by the words of a Danish author.  We were jostled again by the filtering crowd and she was gone but I was in awe of the power and far reaching effects of the written word.

A few weeks later on the Island of Fyn, in the city of Odense, the birthplace of H.C. Andersen, I lingered in the garden at the museum built in his honor.  Actors put on a theatrical production with song and dance on the outdoor stage and then filtered through the crowd made up mostly of families with their little blonde children eager to meet their favorite characters.  The Little Match Girl walked up to me and said “Hej”(pronounced Hi!).  I took her photo as if she were a long lost friend.  Throughout the city of Odense, you come upon statues of H.C.’s heroes and heroines. The river that ambles gently through the town has boats shaped like lovely white swans for families to spend lazy Sunday afternoons laughing and splashing as they drift along. What a brilliant writer he was to touch so many people.

I shook my head when I thought of me sitting in my 7^th grade English classroom in California pondering the assignment of writing our life story. I penciled a genealogical fact-based essay of my life so far and feeling satisfied, dropped it on the teacher’s desk as I walked out the classroom door. The next day, my paper was passed back to me with “D” BORING” written in large red letters across the top half of the manuscript.  And in that very moment I determined I would learn from my author heroes who never, ever bored me with their words.

In Paris, several years ago, Dale and I walked from our pied-à-terre to the Place des Vosges to a corner building known as the Hôtel de Rohan Guéménée, the apartment of Victor Hugo. Just to be in the home of the man who penned The Hunchback of Notre Dame and our favorite novel of all time, Les Miserable was an experience of great significance.  As was the day we were allowed to stroll through the Paris Opera House conjuring up each detail of Gaston Leroux's book The Phantom of the Opera.

I realize now that these writers and artists have accompanied me; inspired me and upheld me throughout my life even though I haven’t been able to actually see them, as long as I think of them, I’m never really alone and that helps me to understand that with Dale: We minus one still = We and I’m not lonesome. As long as I take joy in our memories and prepare to be with him again one day the warm comfort of him is just a thought away.  And as long as I keep those memories alive, I'm never really alone.

So from now on when I go to a restaurant and the hostess asks “How many?” and I say “One” well, it’s ok, it's not a sad label.    Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely.

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To be continued...

To Dream a Dream of Hope

I watch her from across the room.  I’m nearly hypnotized by the movement of her hand. She works from her comfortable arm chair with her feet propped up on an overstuffed footstool, a quilt in the softest hues of baby blue and cream covers her legs as she works on it within the large wooden hoop.  Her needle gathers tiny little stiches, a dozen or more of them before she pulls it, tailing its long thread, up and away.  I can just barely make out the sound of the quiet whoosh as her nimble fingers guide the needle through the layers of fabric and is pulled with a long length of thread, up and away; and then her needle dips down again to gather up more stitches like long drinks of healing water before pulling up again with that nearly silent whoosh.  Again and again and again. It makes me calm, it makes me feel peaceful, it makes me feel protected and loved, like the baby who will soon be wrapped in this exquisite work of art -One more of nearly 500 babies who have been swaddled in the comfort of her loving gifts.  I say gifts, because she never sells her quilts but quietly and without ceremony gives them to family, to friends, and to hospitals.  She delivers many of these precious comforters, which she tenderly folds with thoughts of love and a heartfelt prayer, to women’s shelters and clinics where many of the babies enter into a cold, uncertain world and leave the clinic surrounded in the love and warmth of one of her quilts rather than wrapped in a newspaper.  It seems my sister is unaware of the sense of dignity that envelopes these new mothers who give birth under such trying circumstances; just a frightened young woman on her own until that first cry, and then...she becomes a mother with a helpless and very dependent child. But with just this touch of dignity which very gently sparks a warm glow in her soul, she cradles her baby in the luxury of this unexpected gift of unconditional love and allows herself to dream dreams of hope that she may not have thought possible before.

 My thoughts float to my son who used to live and work in Hawaii. His job at a Department store required daily deliveries of a hand truck full of neatly stacked boxes containing chocolate covered macadamia nuts to local office buildings.  Each day he’d pass through the loading dock and catch sight of a pair of smudged and worn hiking boots attached to the weary feet of the disheveled transient who slept off his addiction behind the store’s dumpster.  Day after day he would see him and worry about him and say a silent prayer for him.  One day, near the dumpster he spotted a can of spray paint.  He felt compelled to stop and pick it up.  He shook it and heard the familiar thump-klink-thump of the beebees inside. And with a quick test-spray on the dumpster he saw the can was filled with shiny, Olympic gold paint.  Without hesitation he pointed the tip towards those hiking boots and he didn’t stop spraying until both boots were shiny and golden.  Then he tossed the can into the dumpster and walked down the street with a smile on his face as he imagined the surprise the man would find when he finally awoke from his stupor. What he didn’t expect to see though later that night as he glanced out the window from his table at the restaurant was this transient walking down the sidewalk, his matted hair had been combed, his ragged clothes had been buttoned and straightened up and he walked with his head held high, a man with dignity, a man wearing golden boots.

These are gifts, quietly given, that touch people’s lives for good and make them feel unique and cared for like the important person that he or she is.

My musing is interrupted as my sister who has just taken the final stitch, removes the wooden hoop and inspects this completed masterpiece.  No two are ever the same, just like each baby that will become heir to their very own keepsake is a person that is a unique masterpiece.  This steadfast, reassuring quilt that will be loved and cherished throughout the ups and down of childhood days until it is finally folded and tucked away in a treasure box waiting to swaddle their own new baby years down the road.

One day, several years ago, my sister sat down with a new quilt and took the first stitch. A perfect way to spend her birthday she felt. But the doorbell rang and she sighed, reluctant to break away from the peace that comes with each new creation.  But she carefully pulled the fabric from her lap, laid it on the footstool and with the intricate pattern still in her mind she padded to the front door and turned the knob and pulled it open.  In the brilliant morning light she was astounded to see her large deck and front yard covered with women holding babies wrapped in her quilts and many children of all ages holding the quilts that they had treasured for years and they were all singing “Happy Birthday to You!  Happy Birthday to You”!

These quilts didn’t begin with the thousand tiny hand stitches. First the carefully chosen fabric (several kinds for each quilt) chosen for their hue, their designs and their fabric type all skillfully matched with her masterful eye, are cut into many pieces and then arranged into a pattern, new to each and every quilt; taken to her sewing machine and stitched together, building from the center out. Batting is laid upon a solid piece of coordinated fabric and then topped with the pieced piece; then out comes the ruler and pencil and hundreds of lines are drawn in painstaking order before the hoop is attached and she sits down with her needle and thread to hand quilt.

Likewise, it has been with great effort that I have had to pull the pieces of my life together that were shattered that cold January day that I called 911 when Dale was unresponsive.  When the firetruck and ambulance arrived moments later and the 4 EMTs surrounded his chair and told me he wasn’t breathing, all I could do was to stand back and watch as they pulled him to the floor, cut open his shirt and started resuscitation procedures; over and over they pushed on his chest and called out to him to breathe. Was I breathing? I don’t think I was! Eventually one looked up at the clock and announced the time.  “No!” I whispered. And out of their bag one pulled paddles attached to a unit that they quickly adjusted, placed the paddles to Dale’s chest and yelled “Clear!”  Every ounce of my body shook uncontrollably, tears flowed and I prayed like I’ve never prayed before.  This could not be happening. And suddenly, there was life.  He wasn’t gone.  The dear sweet wonderful men, who did not give up, strapped him to a gurney and rolled him out the door and into the blue and white ambulance, climbed in, shut the door and down the long driveway they all sped - past the fire truck, down the tree lined lane and through the gate.

I stood at the door of the house.  The silence was unbearable and I was unable to move until a fireman came up behind me, he’d stayed to clean up and put away the supplies.  He gently told me that he would close up and I was to get in my car and follow the ambulance to the hospital, if I was ok to drive.  I nodded and turned to go back into the house to get my keys and purse and cell phone.  The fireman had the living room back in order.  The leather arm chair Dale had been sitting in was back where it belonged.  The only thing that my eye focused on were the black streaks and marks on the white maple wood floor left from the rubber soles of the men’s shoes as they frantically moved about the floor to save this man they didn’t even know but who was the heart and soul of my life.  In my altered and helpless state of mind I found myself wondering how I would be able to remove those black marks from the floor.

I climbed into the car and backed out of the garage.  I held onto the steering wheel with all of my might to control my shaking hands and replayed in my mind the directions to the hospital that the fireman had given me.  I took a deep breath and headed out.  The traffic was bad, I hit every light red and I was glad to know that the ambulance would have zipped through the red lights with its siren blaring and lights flashing. I passed a billboard I’d passed many times before that announced in large digital letters the current waiting time at the Emergency Room. 7 minutes it’s flashed.  Oh good, please Heavenly Father, watch over him, watch over them, watch over me.  And then I realized I needed to call my sons. They lived in different states, a plane ride away.  Their voices were calming to me, these boys of mine who are now men.

The word spread and within hours family and friends from all over the country were boarding flights and cars to be with Dale.  For three days they came and for three days he lay in the hospital bed surrounded by doctors and nurses and machines and needles and fluids and loved ones.  A tear would roll down his eye and I knew he was in pain and also saddened that he couldn’t communicate.  I discovered that he could raise his shoulder to mean yes.  I knew - we all knew the time was near.  I wanted each dear person who had journeyed so far to be with him, to have some one-on-one time.  They all knew that he could hear what they were saying and they all had time to talk about their good times together and to say goodbye.  I called our grandson, the two of them; he called Dale “Pa”, were the best of friends.  I held the phone to Dale’s ear and tears ran down Dale’s eyes as he listened to the beautiful words of this young man. I called my dear sister and held the phone up to his ear.  She told him in no uncertain terms that he must promise her that he would watch over me!! He raised his shoulder several times, “Yes, yes, yes”. There were times over that 3 day period when he seemed to be “away”.  I asked him where he went?  Was he with family on the other side?  His shoulder went up, YES!  I asked if he was with Pops, his Grandfather and hero and his shoulder went way up. YES!!!!  I asked him if he was ready to go and he slowly raised his shoulder.

I kissed him and whispered, “We’ll always have Paris”-  his whole body relaxed and he smiled and I knew it was time to call everyone back in.  We prayed and I sat at his side with both of my hands on his arm while his dear family and friends stood around his bed.  Several minutes later I felt a surge of energy pass through my hands and he was gone.  The machines stopped, and it was clear that he wasn’t there anymore.  The pieces of my life lay shattered. How on earth would I go on?

It’s been a year and four months now.  And I find that my life, which I thought was falling apart, is starting to fall into place.  Like the scraps of fabric in my sister’s quilts - a pattern is developing, a purpose is emerging.  It has been a lot of work, a lot of tears and loneliness, a lot of faith and I know that will continue. Sometimes it is only with the hands of the Savior that I am able to have enough strength to make it through a day, sometimes it’s only with Dale’s sweet messages and obvious things that happen that only he would be able to mastermind from where he now stands, sometimes it is only with my dear son who challenges me and encourages me and sees me through so many trials, sometimes it is because of my grandchildren who inspire me and love me and want to hear my stories and encourage me to write and to draw and see life through their eyes and sometimes it is only through the love of my dear sister and brother-in-law who have sacrificed more than anyone can comprehend to be here for me.  It is with them that I have a place to be right now.  A place of respite, a place of faith and prayer, a place where laughter is once again possible and the idea of dreams are once again conceivable.  A place where meals are served, holidays are still celebrated, where “Miracles happen to those who believe” and where when I take a break from all of my work and efforts I can sit on the sofa by the tv and watch the steady up and down motion of her quilting hand which gives me comfort and peace and calm.

And with a spark of dignity, like the new mothers and the man with the golden boots I dare to dream a dream of hope.

Story to be continued……