THREE 9-1-1 CALLS TO HEAVEN

Whew! What a week! I survived, but only due to some divine intervention. 

My first emergency call to Heavenly Father came the day after Halloween. Here’s the context that led up to that blessing:

I have been working hard to be healthy this year. I’ve already lost over 50 lbs. through diet and exercise. My biggest contribution to my health plan was that I only allow myself to partake of sugary foods once a month. I followed my plan faithfully January through September. Then I messed up big in October. It started with one tiny treat. Then another. Then another. Then another. The next thing I knew, I had gained back 3 lbs. and felt like a sluggish, slow, sick roly-poly. I knew I was going to need some heavenly help.

Since my entire family spent October 31st together, I asked my husband and sons to give me a priesthood blessing. It was perfect to be surrounded by my two amazing sons and my truly wonderful husband. The blessing I received promised that I would have angelic assistance in returning to a healthy lifestyle.

This past week it has been easy for me to refrain from eating sugary concoctions. I have felt Heavenly Father’s grace, as I tracked my calories again. It was even easy to eat smaller portions this week.

Eating healthy has been a struggle for me most of my life. Apparently, repentance and God’s grace can also apply to taking care of our bodies. I repented of my October abuse to my body and God’s grace has helped me to feel better and ready to continue in this healthy lifestyle.

That SOS response was truly a gift, but Heavenly Father wasn’t finished helping me yet.

Tuesday was a presidential election. I had volunteered to work at the polls. I had been informed that it would be a looooooong day, and that due to my exuberance, I would be working at the counting machines. I would get to meet EVERY SINGLE voter and make them feel special. I was up for the challenge, although I knew that I would be completely exhausted.

The night before the big day, I prayed that I would have the energy and the positive attitude that I would need to make everyone’s voting experience a good one. For good measure, I also prayed that my smile would stay intact.

Tuesday was insane. The lines were long and never let up. We were also shorthanded at our polling precinct, which meant no breaks at all. It would have been easy to grumble, but I didn’t have any desire to do so. The only complaint I had was that after 14 hours of socializing and smiling and cheering on new voters, my cheeks hurt, and my voice was beginning to show signs of wear. I recognized the Savior’s aid as the voters continued to thank me for my positive and infectious attitude.

Apparently, I wasn’t finished calling my heavenly hotline. 

I got the call Tuesday night that the seminary needed a substitute for the very next day. I got home at 11:00 P.M. Read through the seminary lesson and crawled into bed at midnight. I managed to beg Heavenly Father for another favor by helping me with my seminary lesson the next day, since my preparation was next to nil. 

Wednesday morning, I was inspired to have the students write notes to my grandson. I showed them his picture and described him to them in detail. I asked them to give him advice, warnings, and encouragement as he navigates this confusing world, he’s growing up in. The teenagers were thrilled to write to him. Their advice was spot on. 

One young man warned him that girls were a distraction (except for his grandma).

One young lady reminded him that Heavenly Father loved him and knew him.

Many of the students encouraged him to read his scriptures, make good friends, and attend the temple. “Don’t do drugs” and “Be Good” were also included in the notes.

After we had shared some of the advice and encouragement, I explained to the students how they were just like Moroni. Moroni had never met us. They had never met my red-headed grandchild. Moroni had “seen our day.” They saw Spencer. Moroni shared advice and encouragement. So did my students. 

The whole lesson was truly inspirational. The seminary kids seemed encouraged that they could also be a warning voice to Spencer just like Moroni.

The great thing about this lesson was that I was so exhausted that I know the inspiration came from God. Heavenly Father answered my third 9-1-1 call in the space of one week: 1. He forgave me for being unhealthy and helped me get back to where I want to be. 2. He gave me strength and a smile for over fourteen hours of crazy business. And 3. He gave me the inspiration I needed to help bring some of His teenage children to Christ.

Perhaps another name for God could be My First Responder!

At least that’s they way I remember it.

COMMANDED TO DEPART

It was the middle of the night when my father urgently woke me up. At least, it felt like the middle of the night, but since bedtime was a strict 8:00 PM, it may have only been 8:30 PM. He told me to grab the most important things to me and to meet him, my mother and siblings at the truck in five minutes.

I groggily reached around looking for my favorite doll, Starla. Mom had given her to me for my eighth birthday a few months before. I also grabbed my yellow blanket and stumbled to the truck along with my sleep walking brothers and sister. We were all confused and carrying our most important treasures.

Dad threw sleeping bags in the back of the truck, along with his backpack. Mom was dressed and comforting my little brother who was too young to understand what was going on.  We all piled into the vehicle and dad drove us to the wilderness, where we pulled over under a starry sky with few clouds. The wilderness wasn’t very far away in our small town of Grand Junction, Colorado, but it seemed far away from everything and everyone I knew.

Once we arrived at our destitute destination, we piled into the sleeping bags in the back of the truck around my mom. Confused, we watched as my dad opened his backpack and revealed a lantern and a Book of Mormon. He definitely had our attention. He turned to 1 Nephi chapter 2 and began to read: “… the Lord spake unto my father, yea, even in a dream, and… commanded my father… that he should take his family and depart into the wilderness. And it came to pass that he was obedient unto the word of the Lord….”

I knew the story well. I was raised hearing the story of Nephi and his family fleeing into the wilderness. But this was different. For the first time, I knew what it felt like to leave my home, and all the comforts it provided. When dad reached verse 4, he asked us if we had bought our favorite things? I hugged Starla tight, snuggled into my yellow blanket and felt I had chosen wisely. Then dad explained that the most important things we could have were our family, provisions and the word of God. Dad had remembered the Book of Mormon. Mom gathered us around her and spoke softly about how precious we all were.

I have lost my yellow blanket. Starla now belongs to my daughter. But I have the most important things I need in this wilderness called life: my family, provisions, my scriptures, and a testimony of Jesus Christ. I really don’t need gold, silver, and precious things. I already have everything!

At least that’s the way I remember it.

A LOVE LIKE NO OTHER

Scott and I have always struggled with staying pregnant. We wanted a large family, but Heavenly Father thought that two, beautiful girls were our limit. 

For a long time, I kept hoping for more children, but I kept being disappointed. At one point, I lost a little boy and a little girl within a year. The grief and sorrow from the loss of two precious children of God overcame me. 

I have also struggled for all my adult life with a chemical imbalance. With the two miscarriages and my depression, I hit rock bottom. Even with two young girls to take care of, I struggled getting out of bed. I was constantly crying. And I was angry with God for not letting me keep my precious babies. I wondered why Heavenly Father didn’t trust me to be a mom. 

My brain was broken. My heart was torn. My spirit yearned for peace.

Scott and the girls also struggled. They watched me in anguish, not knowing how to help. I screamed. I yelled.  Sometimes I was angry at God. I took medication. I wasn’t OK. 

Scott prayed and pleaded with me to keep living. My sweet daughters gave me hugs and tried to make me smile. I received priesthood blessings. I kept going to Church even when I didn’t want to, and I attended the temple when I could manage it. 

On one hard morning, I knelt to pray and a powerful thought entered my mind: “You have been given only two biological daughters because I need you to be a mother to them AND help ‘mother’ other children.” 

The impossible weight I had carried for a year lifted.  A rush or relief swept over me. I knew that Heavenly Father was speaking to me and reassuring me that I was needed and wanted as a mother. 

That moment was the beginning of my ‘recovery’ from a year of grief and pain. Since, I have spent my life being a mom to whomever will let me mother them. I have loved my friend’s children as my own. I have cared for my piano and voice students as my own. I have cherished my ‘kids’ in every calling I’ve had. I find peace, joy, and fulfillment in being a mom, grandmother, church mom, camp grandma, co-mom, and Kentucky mom. I love my calling as a mother in Zion! And I’m grateful that God trusts me to be a mom to everyone!

That year was abominable, but God made something beautiful come from the ashes. I discovered my divine identity. Heavenly Father answers prayers.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

I AM AN ADDICT

Hi, I’m Sundy DeGooyer, and I am an addict. I am addicted to reading. 

You know you’re an addict when you say, “only one more chapter,” and then that one chapter, a five-minute read, turns into six hours and a completed book.

Did you know that according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the average American now reads only 19 minutes per day. I read A LOT more than that per day.

You know you’re an addict when money is tight, but purchasing a book is a necessity.

My husband and I are on a tight budget right now, but Brandon Sanderson’s secret books were announced to come out this year, and I HAD to pre-order them. He is our favorite author after all.

You know you’re an addict when you take a book with you everywhere you go, just in case.

Waiting in the doctor’s office takes an average of 19 minutes and 16 seconds according to Vital’s annual “Physician Wait Time Report.” In 19 minutes I can read approximately 3 chapters in any book. It just makes sense that I should always keep one with me.

You know you’re an addict when your suitcase is filled with 5-10 unread books that you hope to read on vacation.

Much to the chagrin of my husband, I always have to check a bag just for my reading material.

And you know you’re an addict when people depend on you for their book recommendations.

That is why I created a personal book canon.

You may ask, “What’s a book canon?”  Well, let me tell you! 

A literary canon is a group of books that are considered important for a particular time, period, or place. For example, there can be a canon composed of religious books or a canon of works from a particular country or region.

I first learned about book canons from my father. I remember my dad’s office in our basement had a whole wall covered with bookshelves and books. Whenever I finished reading a book, I would ask dad what I should read next. He would take me downstairs to the book wall. It was a magical wall full of stories and imagination. I was always excited to see what book he would recommend next.

Dad’s bookshelves were full of classics, sci-fi, fantasy, westerns, murder mysteries, biographies, and every other genre a girl could imagine. I never knew which book he would choose for me, but he always introduced me to great authors and important ideas. Later when I asked him about his book wall, he explained that all the publications were books he truly loved. They were essentially a list of works that were important to him.  He never had to worry about recommending any of the books from the wall.

As I grew older, I wanted to create my own personal collection of books. And many of the books in my personal canon came because my father recommended them. My canon is comprised of books that have changed my life in some way. 

The process of building my book list was both delightful and difficult. I spent hours pulling books from shelves, rearranging them, talking to my book buddies, re-reading many, and arguing with myself about their lasting values. In the end, I chose a wide range of genres and styles, like my dad, that helped me become the person I am.

The best part of having a book canon is getting to share it. Discussing and learning from others, who have read the same book, is an extremely rewarding activity. I wish more people would create their own book canons, so I could share in their knowledge and preferences too.

Yes, I am a book addict. And, they say, that the first step to overcoming an addiction is admitting you have an addiction. The question is, do I really want to be cured? My answer: ABSOLUTELY NOT!

At least that’s the way that I remember it.

 

Here’s my book cannon as of 2-10-24.  I’ve listed the books in alphabetical order.

Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
Better Than Before by Gretchen Rubin
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
The Chosen by Chaim Potok
The Chronicles of Narnia (series) by C.S. Lewis
Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
Dawn of Wonder by Jonathan Renshaw
Dragon Watch (series) by Brandon Mull
Elantris by Brandon Sanderson
The Emperor’s Soul by Brandon Sanderson
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card
Fablehaven (series) by Brandon Mull
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
The Giver by Lois Lowry
The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale
Hamlet by William Shakespeare
Harry Potter (series) by JK Rowling
The Help by Kathryn Stockett
The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom
Holes by Louis Sachar
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
The Hunger Games (series) by Suzanne Collins
Remembering Isaac (series) by Ben Behunin
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
The Kingdom and the Crown (series) by Gerald N. Lund
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Last Year of the War by Susan Meissner
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo
The Lincoln Hypothesis by Tim Ballard
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Live Not By Lies by Rod Dreher
The Lord of the Rings (series) by J.R.R. Tolkien
Macbeth by William Shakespeare
Major Decisions: Taking Charge of Your College Education by Henry J. Eyring
Make Time: How to Focus on What Matters Every Day by Jake Knapp and John Zeratsky
My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok
My Name is Malala by Malala
The Orphan Keeper by Cameron Wright
The Poet’s Corner by John Lithgow
The Rent Collector by Cameron Wright
The Riyria Chronicles (series) by Michael J. Sullivan
Saved Through His Grace by Brad Wilcox
The Screwtape Letters by CS Lewis
The Seamstress by Sara Tuvel Bernstein
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury
Stone Tables by Orson Scott Card
Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt
Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
The Walking Man by Gary McCallister
The Stormlight Archive (series) by Brandon Sanderson
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
Women of Genesis (series) by Orson Scott Card
The Work and the Glory (series) by Gerald N. Lund
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

PRISTIQ

I have been taking ‘happy pills’ since I was diagnosed with depression in 1993. Depression runs in my family and I was no exception to the diagnosis. As I grew up, my mom became an advocate for education and treatment of the disease. When I began to have symptoms, I was able to recognize it almost immediately and get help.

I was lucky. I got help early.  And ‘happy pills’ have been part of my existence for the past 30 years. I’ve learned a lot through my experience. I learned to turn to God and trust in Him. He loves us no matter what.  My depression required me to talk to a doctor and be open to taking medication. I’ve learned that not every medication works the same way for everyone. And I learned the importance of therapy/therapists.

God, doctors and therapists have truly been blessings in my life, but I need to add one more type of person to this list: friends who care.

Occasionally, throughout my ordeal, I have had to change medications. A few times, my body built up an immunity to the medication. And, at other times, medications aren’t the ‘right fit.’

A few years ago, I needed to change my medication. I had tried something that didn’t work, so my doctor and I decided to try a new medication called Pristiq. I was excited to try this pill because I thought the name was incredible. It made me feel like I was an X-Man – perhaps because it rhymed with Mistique. Things like that amuse me.

I began taking Pristiq. I didn’t notice a difference right away, but then I suffered a panic attack. I’ve heard about panic attacks, and I’d been stressed before, but it is not the same thing.

The Mayo Clinic describes a panic attack as “a sudden episode of intense fear that triggers sever physical reactions when there is no real danger or apparent cause. Often, a person in the midst of a panic attack feels as if they are losing control, or even dying.”

My panic attack was at church. My family always arrives at church 30 minutes early, just so I can have ‘my’ spot. This Sunday, another family was sitting in our location. Suddenly, without warning, I began crying uncontrollably. I began shaking and sweating. My heart was pounding. It was frightening and humiliating. I missed sacrament meeting that week, and hid in an empty classroom. 

My husband and daughters were completely bewildered at the irrational behavior of their wife and mother. They didn’t know how to handle the crazy situation.

My best friend Amy also recognized that for the past week I had been out of sorts. She noticed that I was easily irritated and withdrawn. So, she went to work. She did what she does best: research. She remembered that I had changed medication recently and looked up symptoms of Pristiq. Sure enough, one of the side effects was panic attacks.

Amy brought her concerns to Scott and together they confronted me. They kindly asked me to go back to the doctor. I did. And they gave me a new prescription. Within a month, I was back to ‘normal.’

How do you respond when mental challenges confront you or those you love? As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles explains, “Above all, never lose faith in your Father in Heaven. … Believe in miracles. … Hope is never lost, … Seek the advice of reputable people with certified training, professional skills, and good values. … [And remember] Our Father in Heaven expects us to use ALL of the marvelous gifts He has provided in this glorious dispensation.” 

ALL of our marvelous gifts include loving spouses, children and friends who come to our rescue.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

POLAR OPPOSITE

 

Sundy and G.J.

Pioneer Day

My sister, G.J., is my polar opposite, and that is a good thing.  Opposites cannot exist without each other.  We work as background for each other. And we are better because of it. Throughout my life, G.J. has had my back, even when we were asked to sing in church. 

I love singing. I love performing. I love being the center of attention. I love being indoors. G.J. does not love singing, she’s rather be gardening. G.J. does not love performing, she’d rather be behind the scenes. G.J. loves the outdoors.

As children, G.J. and I often were asked to sing in sacrament meeting. One year, in July, my sister and I were asked to sing for Pioneer Day. Grandma T. made us beautiful purple and white dresses with bonnets for the occasion. I gracefully climbed the stairs to the front of the chapel to sing. G.J. nearly ran to the podium. We sang “Pioneer Children Sang as They Walked, and Walked, and Walked, and Walked.” The congregation smiled up at us, and I knew we were the stars of the “show!”  After the last ‘walked,’ I elegantly began the retreat back to sit with my parents. G.J. took one look at the walk around the short wall dividing us from the congregation and leaped over the divider with all the agility of a gazelle. No one remembered our beautiful singing. No one remembered our precious outfits. Everyone laughed at G.J.’s audacity to high jump in the middle of sacrament meeting.

Apparently, our friends and family did not learn their lesson from that experience, because 10 years later, we were asked to sing for our best friend’s mission farewell. I chose a beautiful song called, “Oh, That I Were an Angel.” The message was perfect for a future missionary. G.J. trusted my judgement, because I was a musician. We practiced. We were ready. We smiled at Damon as we went to the podium to sing. The first part of the song was perfect. I felt that angels were singing with us, as we declared that we wanted to share the gospel. BUT then G.J. started laughing. Apparently, she freaked out over the high D in the song. (Which wasn’t really that high.) She continued to laugh, and her laugh was contagious. I began to laugh too. We tried to pull it together. We couldn’t. We didn’t finish. I slunk off the stage completely humiliated. G.J. continued to guffaw when we got to our seats. It was after the meeting that I learned how different we were. Everyone came up to G.J. sympathetically and expressed how proud they were of her bravery in singing. Then they would turn to me. “How could you not hold it together?” they would ask. “You’re a musician,” they accused. I was so embarrassed.

Yes, G.J. and I are opposites. And often that is a good thing. I still sing and love the spotlight. G.J. still plays sports and loves being an introvert. I believe that opposites are not contradictory, but complimentary… except when singing in public.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

TEACHER MODE: ON

 

TEACHER MODE: ON

“McCallister’s residence, Sundy speaking,” I recited, as I answered the phone for the first time. 

My mother had spent most of the day before, teaching my siblings and I how to answer a phone correctly.  Zane, G.J., and I sat in front of clunky borrowed phones while Mom pretended to call us.  She would pick up the phone in front of her and then point to one of us as she made a ringing sound.  In turns, we would answer with the correct phrase, “McCallister’s residence, ______ speaking.” 

Once we all answered correctly, we were able to graduate to the real land-line phone with an extra-long chord.

Mom was a natural teacher.  Before she had children of her own, she taught elementary school.  She considered her students her kids.  She was born to teach and was good at it. 

When I was born, she willingly left her chosen profession to stay home with me.  But she never stopped teaching.  Her new classroom was our dining room table and my siblings and I were her eager students.

Mom loved to read novels to her students.  She  believed in the benefits of reading aloud to kids.

Mom was a great storyteller.  She read aloud with amazing expression and always used different voices for the various characters.  My siblings and I would sit at her feet – hanging on every word.  When she read “Where the Red Fern Grows” by Wilson Rawls, Zane, G.J. and I cried.

“A Wrinkle in Time” by Madeleine L’Engle was my first foray into fantasy books.  I was intrigued by the supernatural beings who teleported Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin through the universe. 

Mom let us eat a few chocolate chips every time she sat down to read to us “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” by Roald Dahl.

I loved her reading to me so much that I begged her to read to my own daughters years later when we took a trip to Disneyland with her.  On that vacation, my mother read “Charlotte’s Web” aloud to my girls.  I felt nostalgic and sentimental as I listened to my mother read to my girls and use special voices for Charlotte and Templeton.  The book was one of my childhood favorites – my mother had read it to me.

Mom also started a small business with a friend called The Woodchuck.  She and Lynn Mortenson made wooden gifts to sell at craft fairs.  The Woodchuck quickly became a learning experience for her children as well.  Mom taught me how to stain, spray paint and dot paint.  I learned how to pick out #2 pine wood.  She taught me to pray before using the power tools, and she even allowed me to use the bandsaws and sander.  These skills have enriched my life.  Every time I use power tools, I think of my mom and her life lessons.

My mom went back to teaching fourth grade when I was in college.  Every year she allowed me to come to her classroom to teach, direct, and produce a performance with her students.  She taught me through example and experience how to be a patient, kind, and dedicated teacher.  It was because of mom that I knew I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up.

“Always be teachable” my mother reminded me.  I wish I could still be her students.  She loved learning.  She loved teaching. 

She taught me many valuable life lessons.  One of the most memorable: We are all students and teachers.  We should often ask ourselves, “What did I come here to learn?  What did I come here to teach?” 

At least that’s the way I remember it.

ABUSED MUSICALLY

Dad on his mandolin.

When I was a child, I remember he was most often on his guitar.

One of my favorite movie quotes is, “I was abused as a child. It was mostly musical in nature.”  

The moment I heard this quote I called my father to share that I too had been abused musically. He laughed and agreed.

 

It began as a child. GJ, Zane and I would lie on our parents’ bed waiting for our turn to be “rocked” by dad in the rocking chair.  We each were given the opportunity to choose two songs. If we were quiet, we got to listen to all six songs as we waited for our turn.

 

We each had our favorite songs. Dad always sang, “You Are My Sunshine” to me. GJ’s song was, “I Love You A Bushel and a Peck.” And Zane loved a really obscure song called, “Give Me That Thing.” The other songs were chosen based on our moods. Usually dad sang, “Come, Come Ye Saints” and “O My Father.”  

The memories of the rocking chair are my earliest memories of music and the wonderful feelings that come with it. But, my “abuse” did not end there. Singing on vacation in the car was another wonderful memory. Dad taught us all kinds of folk tunes. We sang, “There’s a Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road,” “The Wreck of the Old 49,” “The Hunter,” and “Jug Band Music.” Sometimes, Dad would even have the words typed up for us to follow along so we could learn it easier. That really helped when we learned “To Morrow” by Bob Gibson (the Kingston Trio performed it).

 

I love folk music, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Most of my generation like country music or 80s rock. I even have friends who love classic music and new age music. My daughter adores the 70s vibe of Queen, and my other daughter rocks out to One Republic.

 

This past month, Scott and I have been “rocking out” to folk songs. I laugh to songs like, “John Henry,” sung by the Smother’s Brothers. He and I cry over songs like, “The Raven,” by Peter, Paul and Mary.  Buffy St. Marie brings back memories of Dad again with her song, “Cripple Creek.” I just love it all. Why? Well, folk music has a history to it. I can feel it in my bones. It’s timeless. It’s like a captured sunset or a firefly. I grew up singing these songs everywhere — in the car, around the campfire, and at home in our living room. And the concepts are timeless and teach wonderful life lessons. There are many songs about love or heartbreak, but there are an equal number that are fun, light, and happy.

 

I love so many types of music because of my “abusive” childhood. Music is truly incredible. Music touches us each differently, and I hope we are never ashamed of the music we love, no matter what our tastes are. There’s music out there for all of us to enjoy. But, I hope you’ll give folk songs a chance. You never know what you’ll love. 

 

At least that’s the way I remember it.

CAUGHT YA

“You’ve got this!” My mom encouraged as I struggled through another difficult contraction. I was in labor with my second child and my mom was my coach.

Two weeks earlier, my husband moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. He was to prepare a place for our little family to move to as soon as the baby was born. He was still in Vegas when Dr. King informed me that Scott needed to come right away for the birth of his second born. I called my husband, and he hit the road.

In the meantime, my mom was my pregnancy coach, and my mother-in-law was watching our 18-month-old while I gave birth.

Mom picked me up at noon to take me to the hospital. She looked beautiful. She always did. She never went anywhere without looking “put together.” She wore a bright yellow shirt, sunshine ear rings, and denim culottes. She smiled as she excitedly took me to the hospital.

My mom spent the next 6 hours giving me ice chips and holding my hand through the pain. She told me stories about her school students and their antics to take my mind off the labor.

I remember her smiling a lot in anticipation. My mom’s smile is legendary. She never showed her teeth when she smiled, but her eyes danced. Every time the doctor and nurses came to check on my progress her smile would reach almost to her ears.

At 6:00 p.m. on June 26, 2000, I told the doctor that it was time for me to push. He told me to wait for my husband, but Katia wasn’t patient. 

I began pushing. Mom continued to hold my hand and cheer me on. After two pushes, my husband walked into the delivery room. He came up to where my mother stood and took her place, taking hold of my hand. Mom moved down toward the foot of the bed to get a better view of her newest grandchild.

Earlier in the evening, Dr. King asked me if it would be alright if one of the interns delivered our baby. I assured him that would be OK. So, the intern was in position with my mom standing close by.

Katia was so excited to join the world that instead of coming out in the span of two pushes, she slid out in one. The intern was caught by surprise, and my baby girl slipped through his hands.

My mother jumped into action. She caught my precious child before she hit the floor. The yellow shirt she had adorned for my benefit was a mess, but my little girl was healthy and safe.  My mother literally saved my daughter’s life.

Since, she always reminded my daughter, “I caught ya’, Katia!”

Mothers are extraordinary! My mother has always been my role model. She’s been my cheer leader. She’s been my teacher. She’s a mentor, a confidant, a religious instructor, and a terrific grandmother. She’s been my best friend. 

Lance Conrad once wrote, “I can imagine no heroism greater than motherhood.” My mom really is my hero!

At least that’s the way I remember it.

THE SACRAMENT

 A little background: I was 17 years old, a senior in high school, and I constantly had a boyfriend. I struggled with self-worth — due to bullying — and I found a false sense of self-worth in always having a sweetheart.

I started off dating a lot of young men who belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Unfortunately, those relationships were unsuccessful. So, I began dating a lot of non-member boys. I argued that I could “change” them and share the gospel with them. I also determined that sometimes young men not of my faith could be kinder and more gentlemanly than some of the boys in the Church.

My senior year, I began dating a boy I met in show choir. Regrettably, he was only 14 years old, which gave my family something to tease me about. He also came from a broken home with a lot of inappropriate principles. Being older and more mature, I thought I could transform him into the perfect guy.

Despite my neediness, I still had a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I was a good girl. I got straight A’s in seminary. I went to church every week with my family and partook of the sacrament. I tried to keep the commandments.

One particular Sabbath morning, I went to church with my family. We sat in the middle of the congregation as the bishop stood up to begin the meeting. Somehow, my gaze wandered to the sacrament table, and I realized that nobody was there. At the same time, two of my good guy friends (Damon Sheneman and Mickey Matlo) noticed the same thing.  I watched them look at each other and communicate without words as they both headed to the front of the chapel to set up the bread and water.

My heart softened as I realized how extraordinary it was that they were worthy and had the appropriate priesthood to set up the sacrament. I loved how they took their priesthood duties and authority seriously. That day they blessed the lives of those in the congregation — we needed to partake of Christ’s Atonement. 

The sacrament was administered and although there was nothing different about the bread and water, it was a sanctifying experience. The ritual was different because I had realized the importance of the priesthood and I knew I wanted to have the power of God in my own life. In that moment I felt inspired to repent. I knew that I needed to marry someone who held the priesthood. I knew that I needed to date worthy young men who were strong in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I knew that I couldn’t “change” someone. 

The power of that sacrament meeting was never forgotten. 

Spencer W. Kimball explains that “Marriage is perhaps the most vital of all decisions and has the most far-reaching effects, for it has to do not only with immediate happiness, but also with eternal joys.” Eternal joys come from covenants made in the temple to a worthy priesthood holder.

If Damon and Mickey had not used their priesthood for good and served in such a simple, profound way, I may never have achieved my dream of a celestial marriage with a wonderful man! Thank you, Damon and Mickey, wherever you are.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

MUSHROOMS

 

My "original" mushrooms

MUSHROOMS

My daughter thinks mushrooms are gross.  Not only does she find them disgusting, she actually is a bit suspicious of their motives.  She believes mushrooms are little aliens that are waiting for the signal from their mushroom planet to take over Earth.  In the mean time, we eat some of them, and she’s worried that they will retaliate and hold a grudge for all of the mushrooms consumed by unsuspecting earthlings.

I have never given the matter much thought, until my husband and I recently went chasing waterfalls.  We hiked all over Tennessee and Kentucky looking for the majestic floods of cascading water.  Some of the falls were mere trickles, but all of them were simply gorgeous!

On our excursion, Scott found tons of beauty in the leaves that had changed color on the ground.  We took pictures of lots of red and yellow leaves.  Some of the leaves were speckled and also contained shades of brown and green.  I found his color study intriguing.

As we walked, I discovered a small mushroom – I was captivated.  I bent down and studied the specimen.  The shroom was shaped like an umbrella with a white stem.  The bowl of the plant was white with intricate, small, raised bumps all over it.  It was beautiful in its simplicity.  I took a page from my husband’s book and took a picture of the fungi.

At the next waterfall, I found two more specimens.  One was the classic red mushroom with white polka-dots.  The stalk was much bulkier and looked like it could be a lawn ornament.  There was also a tiny yellow mushrooms cluster.  I took photos of these also.

I had found a fascination that I didn’t know I had.  It turned out that I really liked mushrooms.  Of course, I sent the pictures to my youngest daughter.  She expressed her revulsion, but I was not swayed in my newfound admiration of the plants.

Fast forward to a few weeks later, I continued to find mushrooms everywhere.  There were two unique mushrooms in our yard. One had “gills” underneath the cap: The gills looked like gathered ribbon to me.  The second fungus was shaped like a wooden flower.

Last year, my oldest daughter (the one without mycophobia) and I were driving home from grocery shopping.  As we drove, I saw gigantic mushrooms on the side of the road in the shape of a ring.  I quickly turned the car around, jumped out of the car and began snapping pictures.  Each mushroom in the display was the size of a salad plate.

There is really nothing remarkable about mushrooms, but I have learned that there is real beauty in simple things that some people find disturbing.  I think if we take time to really look at things, we can find beauty in almost everything, including alien fungi.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

I used my wedding ring for reference to how big this mushroom was.

MY PHANTOM OF MUSIC

I don’t know when the music theater bug hit me first. 

Perhaps it was when my father brought home “Brigadoon” for movie night.  None of us wanted to watch a movie with such a weird title.  What was “Brigadoon?” 

Once we turned on the movie, I instantly fell in love with the songs, dancing and storytelling this film brought into my life.  I sang “Go Home With [Gaydra Jean]” to my sister for weeks after watching the movie.

Or perhaps it was when my dad introduced me to the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber and gave me a book to read about the elusive Opera Ghost.  I dreamed of being Christine Daae, as she clearly and beautifully sang an E6 as the Phantom guided her.  The magic and the mystery of the opera made my young mind dream of possibilities.

I may have begun loving Broadway theater when my parents made sure we watched “The Sound of Music” when it aired on public television (before videos, DVDs, and instant downloads).  The whole family was armed with dad’s popcorn and Velveta cheese for a snack, as we watched the Nazis try to destroy the von Trap family.  Julie Andrews quickly became my hero as she confidently sang her way to becoming a nanny.

Somehow a love for Broadway found its way inside me and did not let go.  I began auditioning for roles in high school.  I took music lessons.  I even took a few dance classes. (Which could be another story in and of itself about following through despite embarrassment and awkward moments.)

I landed a couple of minor roles in the chorus for the first part of my high school career.  I loved every moment of it.  I continued to sing and dance my way through my teenage years.  And I dreamed of becoming a big star on the stage before I left Grand Junction High School.

Imagine my elation when I learned that our school would be presenting “Oklahoma” my junior year –   Dad had made sure that I had a healthy dose of Rogers and Hammerstein while growing up.  “Oklahoma” was my favorite.  And my favorite character?  Ado Annie, of course.  I loved her solo, “I Cain’t Say No.”  And she made me laugh as she kissed all the boys; I could definitely relate to the boy crazy attitude.  I really wanted the role, but my competition was fierce.

Our director, Mr. Jones, had a daughter that went to school with me and she also loved theater.  I knew Janin wanted the same role and I was sure I would be playing second fiddle to her again.  I tried not to get my hopes up as I auditioned.  Janin was a good actress, but my singing voice was a bit better. 

It was a tight race.  The morning the results were posted, I cried tears of joy and excitement as I realized I was going to be Ado Annie.  (Janin was my understudy.  I later learned that my choir teacher and music director, Mrs. Schafer, really fought for me to get the role of Ado Annie.)

For two months I practiced after school every day.  I sang.  I learned choreography.  I got fitted for costumes – my favorite dress was yellow.  And eventually we choreographed the kissing scenes: the Persian Goodbye and the Oklahoma Hello.  I was on cloud nine throughout the whole experience.

I would be lying if on opening night I said I was confident and not nervous at all.  I was a wreck.  This was my first big role, and I was anxious about everything.  Would I remember my lines?  Would my voice hold out during the song?  What if I forgot the dance moves?  And what if I missed a cue? 

As I tried to calm my anxiety, a friend came in the green room with a rose and a white mask in a vase tied with a black ribbon.  The card read, “Don’t be afraid.  The Angel of Music is with you.”  My stress melted away as I realized that I had had my own Opera Ghost for many years.  I knew at that moment who my Phantom was and that my dad was rooting for me and would always be one of my biggest supporters.  With that knowledge, I was empowered and had the courage to be Ado Annie for our production of “Oklahoma.”

Dads are remarkable!  My dad helped me to see the situation clearly – I needed a boost of confidence, and I knew my Phantom of Music was the confidence I needed.  He helped me to be independent while encouraging me to be the best Ado Annie I could be.  I’m so grateful for my Angel of Music.  Thanks, dad, for believing in me.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

 

PURPLE CELLO

 

LEARNING THE CELLO

Life was predictable.  I woke up.  I brushed my teeth.  I got dressed.  I read my scriptures.  I did a lot of housework – laundry was on Thursdays.  I taught piano lessons.  I read books and cross stitched.  I made dinner for my family, watched the news with my husband, and went to bed. 

Every day was the same. 

I was in a rut and the monotony began to wear on me.  I tried to obliviate the boredom by practicing the piano more and reading different kinds of books, but I knew I needed an unfamiliar challenge.

Enter, my husband. 

Scott is a fixer and he decided that the fix I needed was to fulfill my childhood dream of playing the cello.

A brand new bright purple cello soon arrived at my door.  Scott knows my personality requires something a bit showy.

I was elated, but I’ll admit that I was also completely scared.  I began playing the piano when I was five years old.  I have a music education degree, and I taught music in the public schools for over 10 years.  But the thought of tuning, learning, and playing a stringed instrument terrified me.  Part of the fear was that I would be a failure. I wasn’t sure I could learn a new skill at age 48.

Scott had my back again. 

He encouraged me to find a teacher and to just start.  I did.  And I fell in love! 

Learning a new skill as an adult definitely isn’t easy.  Here are three life lessons I’ve discovered as a 48-year-old beginner.

-          Identify what’s holding you back.

Does learning a new skill, make you excited? Eager? Curious? Anxious? Nervous? Stressed? Or all of the above?! 

I really liked the idea of picking up a cello and playing just like Stephen Sharp Nelson. But I knew what that would take.  I was afraid of sounding bad.  I was afraid of failing.  And I was afraid of making mistakes.

I’d forgotten that mistakes help us learn. 

According to Dr. Lisabeth Saunders Medlock, “Our mistakes and failures are gifts, gems, guideposts in our learning and growth as people.”  She says to simply “embrace failures, mistakes, screwups and shortcomings because they make us uniquely who we are.”

My fear was failure.  But, as I began, I realized that failure would be the lack of effort – not trying.

-          Allow time for yourself.

How often do you take time for yourself? 

Family, friends and responsibilities always take priority, pushing our own needs, wants and desires to the bottom of our to-do lists.  Maybe we need to change that?

With Scott’s encouragement, I’ve realized that my new creative outlet has helped me grow, become and was a vital part of my own self-care.

Author Brene Brown discovered in her research that loving ourselves more than we love others is the first and most critical step to seeking happiness and fulfillment.  When our needs are met and we feel good about ourselves, it’s easier to elevate the needs of other people in front of our own.  It’s easy to be givers when our cups are full.

Amazingly, when I spend 30 minutes practicing my purple cello I definitely have more energy for making dinner or cleaning my house because of the moments I’ve spent being creative.

-          Ditch the “perfectionist mentality.”

According to one study, 31% of us rank “the fear of not being perfect” as one of our biggest fears.  

Fearing perfectionism holds back many people from learning new things and achieving new goals.  The same study explains that our need to be perfect is becoming a more common hinderance – it is not a good thing.  Setting healthy goals is much more important than aiming for perfection.

A year after picking up my purple cello, I can now tune it by myself.  I still struggle hearing the pitches perfectly, but I feel a sense of accomplishment as I get a little closer each time. 

I’ll continue to focus on increasing my skills and letting go of the pressure that comes from the need to be perfect.

My husband knows me.

He knew I needed a big, purple, stringed instrument in my life.  And I’ve learned a lot in the process of working with my cello.  Playing the cello has helped me to overcome the fear of failure, take time for myself, and even ditch my perfectionist mentality.  I’ve loved every minute of it!  I am more passionate about music, instruments, and the excitement of playing and practicing every day.  Not everyone would choose the company of a big purple cello, but I encourage everyone to learn something new.  Life is thrilling! 

At least that’s the way I remember it.

SPIRITUAL ROLLER COASTER

 

It was the perfect day to go to Kings Island, despite the fact that I’ve always been terrified of roller coasters.  My partner in crime, Mary Bettenhausen, my best friend’s 11-year-old daughter stood beside me in line to ride the Banshee. 

We were determined to have fun; we were determined to fall in love with the rush of the wind; and we were determined to enjoy the turbulence of the ride. 

Screams echoed around the rides’ sharp turns; the loops, spirals, and zero-gravity rolls at speeds of up to 68 mph made our stomachs turn.  As the teenage ride operator locked us in, Mary and I grabbed each other’s hands. and held on, scared to death.   

Two minutes later, exhilarated and happy, our feet touched the ground.  Mary and I had done something terrifying and somehow lived to tell the tale.  We also decided that we really enjoyed the experience.

I’ve heard the metaphor that life is like a roller coaster MANY times throughout my life.  But I didn’t really understand the analogy until that day, 5 years ago, when we faced our fear of the unknown and rode the Banshee. 

Although I haven’t been on a roller coaster since that day, the memories of riding the roller coaster, at times, seem pretty similar to my Spiritual walk with Heavenly Father. 

Let’s be honest, there are many ups and downs.  There are many twists and turns on the road of faith.  There are days when I’m on fire.  And there are days when I’m a down in the dumps.  Despite my feelings, the roller coaster keeps moving forward.  President Nelson, president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,  calls this spiritual momentum.

President Nelson explains that there are things we can do to keep our momentum, even when our roller coasters seem broken.

First, we can stay on the covenant path.  We can stand in line to get on the roller coaster – despite the heat or frustrating wait.  The covenant path is worth it. 

Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles asked all to consider what their next essential ordinance is.

He received a couple answers to his question: His 7-year-old grandson said baptism.  Another child announced that sealing is an essential ordinance in the future.

Elder Bednar reminded them (and us) that the next essential ordinance for us as we stay on the covenant path is the sacrament – a weekly tradition of bread and water instituted by the Saior when He was on the earth.

Do we truly worship during this sacred opportunity every Sunday?  Do we focus on the Savior as we partake of the symbolic bread and water?

Another way to keep moving forward on our journey is to joyfully repent.  Scott and I recently read the book “Falling to Heaven” on a long drive to Idaho.  One truth seemed to jump off the page; I have been pondering it a lot the past month:  Repentance is an even greater gift than forgiveness. 

A Book of Mormon prophet, Alma, makes this point when he said, “May the Lord grant unto you repentance.”  Notice he does not say, “May the Lord grant unto you forgiveness.”  Repentance allows us to be supported by our Heavenly Father.

Learning about God and our Savior is one of my favorite parts of spiritual momentum.  The Savior is the motivating power behind all that we do.  He is not a dip in the roller coaster – he  is the strength that propels us upward.  He is not a scenic byway or even a major landmark on the ride.  He is “the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by Him.”

When Mary and I took the trip to Kings Island, we were both frightened, but we decided that together we could do hard things.  We aren’t alone.  Heavenly Father is always with us, even when we’re riding a rollercoaster. 

At one point, during our Kings Island excursion, Mary’s glasses flew off during a ride.  We prayed, and Heavenly Father provided a miracle.  Her glasses were found. 

During that same trip, Jacob Bettenhausen, who was also along for the adventure, became sick.  We didn’t know what to do.  The group decided to say a prayer and another miracle occurred.  My best friend, Amy, saw a man who “looked” like a member of the Church.  He was.  He gave Jacob a blessing and Jacob was able to continue enjoying the day.  We can expect miracles when we are on the covenant path and living with spiritual momentum.

Yes, roller coasters can be fun.  And sometimes they can be scary.  But it’s our choice whether or not to enjoy the ride.  It’s our choice to stay on the covenant path, even when it’s hard.  We have the opportunity to repent and continue on learning of Heavenly Father and His Son.  We aren’t alone.  We can expect miracles. 

At least that’s the way I remember it.

HAPPY OR SAD

I was on the verge of tears as I stared down at the pile of untouched green beans on my dinner plate.  I had already eaten the meatloaf and the canned pears which were my favorite.  But I hated green beans and knowing that I was expected to eat them made my six-year-old self brim with anger, frustration and disgust. 

My father tried to encourage me to take a bite with a phrase that was extremely familiar to me:  “Sundy, you have to eat your green beans.  But you have a choice.  You can eat them the happy way or the sad way.” 

I knew what the sad way implied.  The sad way included tears.  The sad way including sitting at the table for hours, while everyone else in the family ate ice cream.  The sad way meant that if my green beans weren’t consumed by bedtime, I would be served my leftover green beans for breakfast.  I had chosen the sad way a few times in my young life and I really didn’t like the sad way.

The happy way meant that I could finish my green beans quickly and join my family for dessert and board games before bed.  I knew the happy way was better, but I hated green beans.

Stubbornly, I chose the sad way. 

For 30 minutes I sat and stared at the pile of green beans on my otherwise empty plate.  After another 30 minutes I tried to move the vegetables around on the plate in order to look like I had eaten some.  In the meantime, I tried to ignore the happy sounds coming from the front room – Zane and GJ were enjoying vanilla ice cream topped with Hershey syrup.  In that moment, I realized how much I didn’t like the sad way.  An hour and a half after my family had left me alone with my unfished dinner, I swallowed my beans whole while holding my breath and simultaneously gulping down water. 

The happy way wasn’t as difficult as I had made it out to be for over an hour.

***

It was bedtime, and I was dressed in my favorite silky blue nightgown.  GJ, my sister, was in cotton pajamas.  We had already brushed our teeth, visited the bathroom, and used up all of our excuses to stay up later.  It was bedtime, and it was time for GJ and I to go to sleep.

It was still twilight outside and even though it was 8 at night, our non-negotiable bedtime, my sister and I were wide awake.  The light and our childish energy made it near impossible to fall asleep. 

We giggled.  Mom and Dad told us to go to sleep.

We talked.  Mom and Dad told us to go to sleep.

GJ stole my pillow.  I stole it back.  We began fighting over the pillows.  This time, my mom came into the room and angrily asked, “What is going on?” 

“GJ started it.” I offered.

Mom’s eyes turned firm, glinting in that way that only moms can manage,  “Girls!  There is a happy way and a sad way to go to bed.  You can choose.”

GJ looked at me in horror.  I nodded and agreed that it was time for us to choose the happy way.

Mom closed the door and being the obedient and obliging daughters that we were, we quickly went to sleep.

***

Reflecting on  my parents’ favorite phrase, “you can choose the happy way or the sad way,” helped me realize that my parents were teaching me a great truth:  Attitude is everything!  We can choose to be happy.

Abraham Lincoln said, “Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”

Hard things happen.  Sometimes we have to eat our green beans.  Sometimes we have to go to bed at 8 PM.  As a child those were big things that I didn’t believe I had a choice in.  As an adult, I’ve had to remember the happy way when my husband exercised faith by quitting his job in Las Vegas.  I also struggled with finding the happy way as I came to terms with not being able to carry a child to term after the birth of my two daughters. 

Remembering that I always have a choice (the happy way or the sad way) has helped me to remember that the happy way is always better!

At least that’s the way I remember it.