Vlog Vednesday: Testimony

Joe's on vacation this week, so while he's home with the littles, I seized the opportunity to visit one of my favorite places on earth, the temple.

I really love being in the temple, for so many reasons, if not that the crowd there (notoriously, little old ladies and little old men) makes me feel like a spring chicken. And these days...I'll take any chance I get to feel young again.

While I was there, I realized it was Wednesday, Vlog Vednesday to be exact. A little heart-to-heart on the lawn of the temple? Why not?

 

(If you have any questions about some of the terminology I'm using or about the LDS faith, visit Mormon.org.)

Of Bread and Baptism

Dee had his baptism interview with the bishop about a month ago. I was sick that day and had to miss it, but it was reported to me that the bishop had asked Dee to go home and "help his mom". He had scarfed all the bread I had made the day before so I told him he could help me make more. We chatted as we kneaded and I caught some of it on camera. Just when you think they aren't listening...

(Note: I do realize that Jesus was NOT the first to be baptized. In my head I was thinking, He was the "first" as in, He was setting the example for us to follow.)

(Other Note: I sure love this kid!)

Of Motes and Beams and Garbage

I love my house.

I love my house for many reasons, but one of the biggest reasons is the incredible view we have out our back door. The Wasatch Front is breathtaking.

If you can look past that stupid grocery sack that has been hanging in my backyard neighbor's tree for umpteenth months now.

Why doesn't he do something about that eye sore? It just looks so trashy. He takes care of the rest of his yard. How hard would it be to get a ladder and use a rake or something to pull that garbage out of his tree? Dumb.

Maybe I'll do it for him. Obviously it doesn't bother him, but it bothers me so maybe I should just take care of it myself. Now, how do I go about that? Maybe I'll knock on his door one day and tell him about it. Surely, he'll appreciate that I'm such a good neighbor and want to help him clean up his trashy place. Hmm.

Yeah. I'm going to talk to him. Now, let me see. I'll just walk outside and go down the stairs and...

Wait. What's that? In my own tree.

Uh oh.

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? --Matthew 7:3

Unfortunately, it's not just grocery sacks. Today I'm grateful for a little reminder to judge others less and work on the only person I truly can change. Me.

Of Grieving and Gratitude

I spoke with my Aunt Jane this morning.

She called me on the phone. She was laughing. She said she couldn't talk long, but wanted to know how I was doing. She also wanted to tell me that she was busy and happy.

And she giggled infectiously through out our entire conversation. That wonderful, irreverent giggle that simultaneously puts you at ease and convinces you of just how much she cares for you.

Then almost as soon as it had begun it was over. Still laughing, she said she had to go.

I tried to convince her to stay on the phone with me, but even as she told me she loved me and hung up I started to wake up.

I had been dreaming. I gazed at the room around me, blinking with the cold realization of it.

And then I began waking up again.

I had been dreaming that I had been dreaming that I talked to my Aunt Jane.

Yet, as I woke definitively, the sound of my Aunt Jane's laugh and love reverberated in my head. Before the memory of it could vanish as dreams so commonly do, I turned to my husband who was waking beside me.

No "Good morning, Honey". No "And how did you sleep?".

"I just talked to my Aunt Jane", I said.

He didn't miss a beat. "Oh yeah? How is she?"

"She's happy and busy and she loves me."

As the words left my mouth, the ache began to set in. I rolled on my back, staring at the ceiling. And then I started to cry. I grabbed my pillow, crammed it over my face creating a hasty sanctuary, and let the tears flow.

You see... My Aunt Jane passed away in February 2008. My beautiful, hilarious, talented, loving, red haired Auntie Jane has been "gone" for three and a half years.

Skin cancer. Malignant melanoma. Nasty stuff.

Long after my tears had stopped and dried, I laid in bed. Wondering. Pondering.

One could conjecture that I dreamed of Jane simply because the night before I had been shuffling things around in my storage room and had found the large wooden box I have that bears her name. My thoughts had most certainly lingered on her more than usual the night before as I hefted the box from storage, carried it upstairs, and placed it in my family room.

She had been in my conscious. In my subconscious. Is that why I dreamed that I dreamed that I spoke with her?

One could also speculate that those gone from this earth are not truly gone, that they speak to us in dreams. That they are very near and watching over us. That it was not a trick of the mind, but a true and sincere conversation with a beloved aunt who still lives just not in the same world as I. That she is indeed happy, busy, and that she loves me.

I am not exactly certain what happened in my dreams this morning.

But I am most certain of a few things.

She does live. And I will see her again. We will be reunited and when we are it will be as family. She will know me as her niece and I will love her as my Auntie Jane. Death cannot break the bonds we had on this earth.

Today, I am most grateful for that knowledge. Families are forever. Death is but a temporary separation. A painful and heartbreaking one, yes. But in the end, nothing but a fleeting moment. I am grateful for my Savior, Jesus Christ, and for the power of the Atonement that will make that sweet reunion possible.

Today, I can't help but be sorrowful as we enter another holiday season without Jane, but filled with hope and happiness that we will meet again.

And not just in dreams.

Size Does Matter

Every so often I come across a worn, yellowed sheet of paper.

It just seems to magically turn up as I am sorting and filing paperwork.

It's a receipt.

From a small town jewelry store.

For the engagement and wedding ring set that Joe purchased the day he asked me to marry him.

On April 15, 2003.

Eight years ago today.

That ring set cost all of 735 dollars.

Do you know what that price tag means to me?

It is a symbol of the humble and simple man my husband is. He doesn't need money or possessions or "bling" to illustrate how capable or manly or important he is. He didn't feel the need to go into thousands of dollars of debt just to prove something to me or the world. With that small ring he gave me his heart, his love, his loyalty, and his life.

I cannot claim to be so consistently pure of heart as he is.

Sometimes I look at this ring I wear on my left hand and get a little wistful, maybe even slightly jealous when I see my sisters and friends with their big fat bands and diamonds.

Sometimes I want something fat and ferocious on my finger too.

Maybe someday I will.

But can I tell you something?

I think there is a reason that yellowed piece of paper keeps "magically" reappearing in my pile of paperwork.

I need a reminder.

Of the good heart my husband has.

Of how simple and precious life and love and marriage can be.

Of what is truly important.

Funny how one little $735 gold wedding band set can be worth more than a whole pile of diamonds.

Happy "Will You Marry Me?" Day Joe! I love you!

The One Where She Loses a Few Followers

I read something this morning that I wanted to share with you, my friends in the blog world. Whether I have met you in person or not, I consider you my friends.

So here it is.

"Wherefore the things which are pleasing unto the world I do not write, but the things which are pleasing unto God and unto those who are not of the world." ***

I can see you clicking the exit button now. Maybe rolling your eyes and thinking, "Oh great! Here she goes getting all churchy on us"?

Possibly.

But I want to tell you something about myself. Something that I haven't exactly kept hidden but that I haven't been very forward about either here on Hanging by A Silver Lining.

I am a Mormon.

Gasp!

There I said it.

I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and this means many things to me.

First and foremost, being a Mormon means that I believe in Christ.

I believe that the Savior died, being crucified on the cross, but rose again to live. Before all that He suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane for the sins of mankind. And you can trust that there was a big old rotten portion of my sins in there. I believe because He did all this that I can be forgiven for all the many things I seem bound and determined to do wrong while I live here on earth. Dang that natural man thing I got going on.

Knowing how easily I screw up makes me forever grateful that someone, an eternal and perfect being no less, would do that for me. Forever grateful, humbled, and in debt.

Because I am a Mormon I choose not to drink alcohol, take drugs, consume tobacco in any form, drink coffee or tea, and as of late I am taking it an extra step and trying to be committed to not drinking Coke and Dr. Pepper either. {whimper}

Because I am a Mormon I made the decision to not have any premarital sex, even with my husband when we were engaged and "practically married". I continue to avoid sexual relations with anyone other than my husband, who I plan to be married to for many years. Like eternity.

Being a Mormon I believe that dancing, singing, listening to loud music, playing rowdy games, watching football, bowling, camping, blogging, swimming, drinking root beer floats, watching Shaytards videos on YouTube, reading novels, eating turkey at Thanksgiving and ham at Christmas are wholesome, fun activities. Ones I often enjoy.

Being a Mormon, I believe the family is eternal IF and only IF we work in this life to live in such a way that we will be worthy to live together in the life hereafter. I believe this, but I confess, this terrifies me. I feel not only a dire responsibility for myself, but for my husband and each of my four children.

Being a Mormon, I knew I wanted to have several children that would not be separated from me even by death. Having LOTS of children is not a commandment, but something I chose to do. Just because I chose to have lots of kids doesn't instantly make me the perfect mom. It's something I have to work at not just daily, but minutely sometimes. Being a Mormon helps me to do that thanks to prayer, repentance, religious instruction and guidance, and support of church community.

Being a Mormon, I believe in the truthfulness and power of a certain book: The Book of Mormon. Although I struggle to find the time and dedication to read and study it daily, I know I should. And I know that when I do, my day just seems to go better; I am happier, I am more patient, kind, and sensitive to spiritual promptings. All good things that help me to be a better mom, wife, friend, and person.

I am a Mormon because I CHOOSE to be a Mormon. I am not a sheep. No one makes me believe in all this. I have had my moments when I have considered scrapping it all and doing whatever the he!! I want. But deep down inside, I KNOW that I have a testimony of this religion. I feel, believe, KNOW it is truth and light and happiness. And that it is right for me.

Being a Mormon doesn't make me perfect. It doesn't put me above anyone else. It doesn't mean I am "saved". It doesn't mean I am not going to screw everything up most days. It doesn't mean I won't say or do or write dumb things. It doesn't save me from cancer or debt or taxes. It doesn't mean I only listen to church music (I actually detest most church music) or don't go to the theater to see the latest movie or avoid chocolate (because I certainly don't).

But being a Mormon does mean something to me. And I wanted you to know that.

***1 Nephi 6:5 (a scripture from The Book of Mormon)

Merry Christmas Mary

This will be the second Christmas I will spend 8 and 1/2 months pregnant. (You would think I would have learned by now.)

Needless to say, my thoughts turn to one particular person who is vital to the Christmas Story.

I can't even picture getting my leg over a donkey's back in my current swollen and sore state, much less riding one for days on end.

I am worried about the small-town hospital here being "good enough" for my encroaching labor and delivery. A stable??? A stable. Complete with hay, animals, cold, and poop.

I get anxious thinking about the pain of labor. I will have nurses and doctors attending my birth with medications and interventions on hand, "just in case". I wonder if Mary even felt the irritating scratch of the hay beneath her as she labored and delivered alone.

My husband will calmly and lovingly stand by as the professionals take care of everything. All he has to do is cut the cord. Do you think Joseph delivered the baby all by himself that night?


Thinking about capably raising four children causes me to lose sleep. I'm not even anticipating being the one to raise the Son of God.

How did she do it? What were her thoughts? Was she afraid of the task that lay before her or was she chosen because of how gracefully she would accept her heavenly responsibility?


Merry Christmas to you all. In the midst of all the packages, goodies, fun, and chaos may we all remember the true reason for the season.

On a more serious note...

I keep finding myself wandering back to this site. Maybe I'm hoping a miracle has happened and that little Preslee did not actually pass away. It is just too sad.

Last Friday when I discovered she had passed away, I grabbed my girls, held them tightly, and sobbed and sobbed. They were very confused by their weeping mama, but I tried to explain why I was so sad and how important they are to me.

Throughout the week I have found myself just watching them playing and thinking about the Sullengers who returned to an empty and silent house full of toys with no one to play with them. Even when my children have shown less than desirable behavior I have thought about those who would take the sound of screaming or whining over the silence that fills the air. When I have started to get frustrated with their mid-night wakings or milk spills or sibling arguments, I can't help but feel grateful to take the bad along with all the good.

It has been a somber and pensive week.

I am incredibly saddened for the Sullenger family as well as other families who deal with sickness, loss, death, or whatever trials may come. Sometimes this world is such a heavy, tragic place.

But I am so grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who is master of it all. Who knows far more than we ever will in this lifetime. Who gives us hope of life after death. I know that families can be together forever. I know that death does not destroy. It's just that wait to be reunited that is so painful.

I want to remember how I felt this week. Maybe tying blankets around little super hero shoulders is more important than neatly-made beds. Maybe that blog post can wait until we've read stories together. Maybe a family walk is more necessary than keeping up with my favorite TV show. Maybe having little helpers in the kitchen is more of a priority than a sparkling clean kitchen floor. Maybe it would be better for me to listen while snuggling rather than yell while sending them to their room.

Not "maybe". Definitely.