Battle for the Homefront

Every day we have military helicopters and jets flying above our house--they're practicing. We live near a base, and we take their presence for granted, just like we take our freedom for granted. I remember spending time in Israel, where at the holy sights and even the ice-cream shops the young men were carrying their rifles, and not just for practice--they were active soldiers who at any moment might rush the crowd off the street into the nearest open door because someone left a bomb in a backpack on the curb, or fighting broke out at the corner.

I've been in several countries where armed soldiers were as common to see there as Starbucks, McDonalds, and starving veterans and artists are here. We live in a blessed nation, no question about it. We don't have to worry about rebel armies coming in and taking over our towns then taking our children to join their forces. We don't have to wonder where the next attack is going to happen or who is going to steal our next meal.

But there are other, more subtle wars going on. As I was reading scriptures this morning I was again astonished at the violence and evil going on with some of these ancient people. They were willing to destroy their entire civilizations in the name of revenge and power, arming their men and boys, and sacrificing their women and children. It struck me though, that although our communities aren't in the streets fighting for liberty, our sons often "delight in bloodshed" in the video games they play or movies they watch, and our women and children are sacrificed to pornography and filth available at the touch of a button.

Satan does get smarter and smarter--he's much more subtle where he needs to be, but still as destructive and dangerous. A community can be destroyed just as much by moral disintegration as by bombs and bullets. We have to be ever more vigilant in our defenses. We have to keep our homes safe havens, read scriptures, pray, serve, go to church and the temple, be seekers of the good and righteous to be filled with those things so there isn't enough room for the evil.

The battle is still raging, stronger than ever. It's just that the manner of warfare has changed. We know who the victor will be, and that's the side I want my family to be on.

4th of July Provo

Patriotism Paradise

I guess there is nothing I love in the summer like a good old-fashioned 4th of July parade. These pictures were at the Freedom Festival parade in Provo, Utah, and I think the photos speak for themselves. But if they don't, you can check out my latest attempt at patriotism at the "Moms for Mitt" blog where I give a little more description (momsformitt.blogspot.com).

Here it is:

Nothing says “America” like a good old-fashioned 4^th of July parade. Is there anything more patriotic, not to mention amazing, than being on a street with crowds of thousands of people who rise to their feet and actually stand in silence, hand over hearts, as our military representatives march by carrying our nation’s beautiful flag?

There are few things in summer I love like the Freedom Festival parade in Provo, Utah. We try to visit there every year to enjoy the festivities. From the first sound of the motorcycle police brigade doing their drill formations at the head of the parade, to the firing of the George Q. Cannon from the BYU ROTC at the end of the parade, I feel like I am in patriotic paradise.

Every high school marching band that shuffles by playing military marches and “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” every Star Wars costume-clad storm trooper each holding one of our 50 states’ flags, every convertible carrying Congressmen and Council members, and every glittery float with “scholarship contest” beauties from surrounding towns, all remind me of the many freedoms and joys we celebrate as a nation, especially this time of year.

But maybe the most surprisingly moving part of the whole parade is the crowd of what seems like hundreds of Mormon missionaries walking together down the parade route dressed in their white shirts and ties and their little black name tags. The hundreds of thousands of people gathered on the sidewalks give the greatest cheers to these young men and women out representing their church and serving their Lord. Children rush into the road to give high-five’s to every passing missionary they can possibly reach. Whistles, shouts, cheers, and wild clapping echo all the way up the street as they approach and follow them like waves as they pass.

Perhaps they’re the favorites of the crowd not only because of their Mormon heritage in a Mormon town, but because these young men and women represent everything this great nation was founded upon—hard work, sacrifice, freedom of religion, and faith in God. It’s no wonder children are screaming for them like they’re rock stars and mothers are watching them with tears in their eyes while fathers are swallowing the lumps in their throats. This is patriotism at its finest, and what blessings of liberty we have to celebrate in this great nation! May we all do our part to preserve them.

Only in America

Riding Uncle Josh's WWII tank with Veterans and cousins--who gets to do that?

A Friend, Indeed

I'm always astonished at how some people on Facebook have hundreds and hundreds of "friends." How do they keep up with that? It exhausts me to even think about. Then again, I understand the term "friend" is used rather loosely there, but it does make me think about the importance of friends, true friends, whether it's one or one thousand.

The scriptures have some wonderful lessons I love on what true friendship really means (one of my favorite stories was in a recent New Era and is now on the youth.lds.org website, but I'll tell it here).

We all need good friends and need to be a good friend. Some of my favorite examples from the scriptures of what this means include the account of the men lowering the bed into the house where Jesus was teaching, the various accounts of Gideon in the Book of Mormon, and the mothers of Heleman's stripling warriors.

In the New Testament when a man was sick with the palsy (not sure what exactly that is, but it doesn't sound like something I'd want to have) his friends carried him to the place where they knew Jesus would be. Clearly some of them at least had enough faith to know Christ could heal their friend. When the room was too packed for them to get the man inside, rather than give up, they got creative, maybe desperate, and they took him to the roof where they made a hole and lowered him down to the Savior. The man was healed both spiritually and physically. We need to have friends who will take us to Christ, no matter the effort. We need to be that friend.

In the Book of Mormon we can read various accounts of Gideon. He was a very brave and wise patriot. Not only was he willing to fight for the freedom of his people, and even give his life for truth (which he did), he also knew when to step back, slow down, and be patient. He could have killed King Noah, but stopped when he saw a more pressing matter. When King Limhi wanted to search out kidnappers among his own people and punish them, Gideon said to slow down and look at different possibilities--he avoided war. When they were captive he came up with a plan for their escape. Then finally, he gave his life in defense of the truth against Nehor. We need friends who will help temper us and look at the bigger picture, and who will be wise in their righteous endeavors. We need to be that friend.

Last, I love the story of Helaman's stripling warriors. What a faithful, brave, and strong group of young men. They must have had some amazing mutual activities! Certainly they were friends who had the same ideals and values, who always supported each other in doing what was right. But so must have been their mothers. These mothers were all willing to send their children off to battle, yet they had the faith that if their boys would obey they would be saved (they must have all been living very righteously up to that point in order to merit such a promise). But those mothers also must have supported each other and encouraged each other. I'm sure they didn't get together and gossip or fritter away their time. They must have served and taught and done all things that would build faith and testimony in order for them to have such courage and knowledge. We need friends who will build our faith and support us in doing what's right. We need to be that friend.

I love that Christ called His disciples friends. I'm sure He needed friends to support Him, whether in times of teaching a sermon on the mount, or times of suffering and anguish as in the Garden of Gethsemane. He needed friends even in death as He asked His friend to care for His mother. He was a friend to all, faithful and sinners alike. We need Him for a friend. We need to be that friend to others.

I'm so blessed to have those kind of friends, both in my family and out, for whom I am eternally grateful. I hope they know how much I love and appreciate them. I pray every day my children will blessed to have and to be that kind of friend, too.

Happiest Place on Earth

The Happiest Place on Earth, besides our back yard...

We went to Disneyland yesterday. It was really fun! Except for the parts that weren't--

I should have known we were in for an interesting day when my five-year-old daughter said, "I want to go to Pharisee Land first!" From the mouth of babes...Of course, she meant Fantasy Land. And the first thing she wanted to do was ride the carousel. Should I have been concerned when her grip on my hand tightened more and more the closer we got to those scary painted horses impaled with a golden rod? She had picked out the pink and purple saddled horse, so we ran to it when the gate opened for our turn. I lifted her onto the pony's back and buckled her up. As soon as that merry-go-round started to move, things were no longer so merry. That horse began to rise up. "Hold my hand!" my daughter shouted. I held one hand while she gripped that golden rod of security as if it were the Iron rod itself and we were on a tour through the "mists of darkness" with Laban at the lead!

Well, the scary ride ended, and we were still in one piece. Then my husband suggested she go on the Indiana Jones ride. She has this strange passion for Indiana Jones movies, so he figured she'd love the ride. Twenty minutes of sobbing and three skeens of cotton candy later, she calmed down just enough to head to the haunted mansion. Even as I write this I question my own judgment and competance as a parent and guardian to this little angel. But it wasn't as bad as I feared (might be due to my hands over her eyes the whole time--she claims she is "all about scary," but I think she's thinking more along the line of Scooby Doo).

I'd finally learned my lesson and sent her off with her aunt to Toon Town while everyone else dragged me to Space mountain. Now, I can lecture for an entire Sunday school lesson on the dangers of peer pressure, but there I went, giving in to the pleadings of my sons, husband, and nieces. Another lesson to be learned after the fact. Well, we waited forEVER in line, and oh, how I wished we had had a fast pass. With a pass like that you just get a scheduled time to return and jump in at the head of the line. Each time I watched someone else fast pass in front of me it was like standing on the edge of the Red Carpet, watching the celebrities of Hollywood entering the secret place with the secret delicous food and the secret fabulous goody bag with an i-pad, Belgian chocolates, and a Fast Pass, while I stood on the sidewalk watching from behind velvet ropes dreaming of what the secret life is all about. But the schedule didn't work out, so we waited and waited with "sound effects" all around us like laser beams scratching against a chalk board (and why does everyone think aliens would sound like that? wouldn't horrible sounds in space still sound like horrible sounds?).

Well, I think all the waiting and anticipating made the ride that much more rewarding. Wait, did I just say rewarding? Well, I guess, because there is a sense of peace that comes from releasing all your pressures by serious primal screaming as you fly through darkness at a bajillion miles an hour. I suppose had I not had to wait, had I fast passed up to the front of the line I wouldn't have had the same satisfaction, the same relief , because the expectation wouldn't have built up so high.

I guess life is sort of like that--you can't just fast pass to the end, skipping all the hard and sticky stuff and just say "ok, I'm here where's the ice cream and eternal bubble bath?"

Sister Julie Beck said, “Heavenly Father loves His daughters. And because the reward at the end [of this life] is so glorious, we do not get a pass from the responsibilities we were given. We cannot give them away. They are our sacred duties, and we fulfill them under covenant.”

So instead of wondering how long the line is going to take, maybe I should just be making sure I'm in the right line. Sister Beck also said we should ask ourselves, “Am I aligned with the Lord’s vision of me and what He needs me to become?” Because I certainly don't want to go through my line only to find out at the end I was waiting for "It's a Small World" instead of "Space Mountian." Although the photo shot at the end certainly would look a little different!

The Higher Power of Oprah?

So, the “Rapture” didn’t happen, and I’m pretty sure I know why…Oprah wouldn’t have allowed it.

I can just picture her in her planning room with the beautiful lake view, the beautiful Collin Firth portraits, the down-filled floor pillows and all-you-can-eat chocolate covered deep-fried Snickers (now you know my dream-house plans), discussing the whole thing with her crew:

“You know, the Rapture is just going to have to be post-poned,” she says. "My show isn't over yet." She takes a sip of her acai-berry- green-tea-pomegranate-grass clippings soy milk shake. “The way I see it, I’ll be the first to go, so I’ll need to say good-bye and leave my legacy to comfort all those left behind. I couldn’t leave them without direction and some sort of closure.”

“You’ve got some spinach in your teeth,” says one of her camera men. He subtly puts his finger to his own mouth.

Oprah stares at him in silence. Everyone freezes.

“Off with his head!” she demands. “Of course, what will it matter in a few more days anyway?” Then she laughs. Naturally, everyone else does, too. “I’m kidding. Don’t cut off his head. Really.”

Well, clearly, we’re all still here, no Rapture. Because, yes, Oprah’s last show was recorded this week, but it doesn’t actually air until next week! So, I’m thinking I have another week to get my life in order and prepare to meet my Maker—and, although I have to admit she does seem to be the queen of make-over’s, I am still referring to God the Father as “Maker,” not the demi-goddess, Oprah.

So, thanks for a few more days. Here’s to a good week!

The Christmas Manger

With Christmas come so many thoughts of family time, sweet treats, fun toys, and, of course, the Savior.

Remember the story of how I told my dad I had volunteered him to provide the set for our school Nativity program--the night before? Well, I thought of him the other night as I decided to attempt to build my own manger for our family's Christmas. My dad had just spent two weeks here helping me (I use that term "help" rather loosely--yeah, he did most of it--I drove to Home Depot--but more on all that later, maybe even pictures) fix and build things for our new house. So, I was feeling pretty inspired in the building department.

But as I started building the manger my thoughts turned from my own father to another father. I thought of Joseph, a carpenter by trade, who, in anguish might have thought "I could make a beautiful cradle for this baby, maybe carve a cozy bed ," but instead had to borrow a manger from the local live-stock for the King of Kings to rest. I broke down in tears there in my saw-dust-filled garage, thinking about that humble father.

Jeffery R. Holland said, “I wonder what emotions Joseph might have had as he cleared away the dung and debris. I wonder if he felt the sting of tears as he hurriedly tried to find the cleanest straw and hold the animals back. I wonder if he wondered: ‘Could there be a more unhealthy, a more disease-ridden, a more despicable circumstance in which a child could be born? Is this a place fit for a king? Should the mother of the Son of God be asked to enter the valley of the shadow of death in such a foul and unfamiliar place as this? Is it wrong to wish her some comfort? Is it right He should be born here?

But I am certain Joseph did not mutter and Mary did not wail. They knew a great deal, had the help of the Holy Spirit, and did the best they could.”

This reminded me of a poem I wrote once about Joseph:

As Joseph walked those noisy streets

So many years ago,

And knocked upon door after door

I wonder, did he know

That he would find no place of rest

Except a stable bare

For Mary to lay down her head

With him alone to care?

As Joseph’s hands, so rough with work,

But gentle as the snow

Prepared a little manger bed,

I wonder, did he know

That in that bed he’d place that night

A new born baby boy

The king of kings, the prince of peace

To fill the world with joy?

As Joseph’s hands took Mary’s

While he held her all alone

As she brought forth her first-born son

Could he have really known?

That special baby’s tiny hands

Would one day heal blind eyes

And bless the sick, and cheer the weak

And cause the dead to rise.

Those tiny hands would one day bear

The scars that he would show

To thousands who would touch those hands

So each of them would know

That he was Christ, the Lord of Hosts

The Hope of all mankind

To strengthen hearts and cleanse the souls

And ease the burdened mind.

As Joseph rocked that tiny boy,

Christ’s hands around his curled

Yes, Joseph knew that his hands held

The Savior of the world.

So, my new manger sits on our fireplace hearth reminding us of Christ's birth. It reminds me, too of loving fathers like Joseph, and our Heavenly Father, and of course, my own father who has always worked so hard to make my family's life comfortable and beautiful. To help us remember the true meaning of Christmas we put a small pine bough in the manger each time someone does a good deed. Some days fill up better than others, but each bough is a gift, one that helps us think of the very greatest gift of all, our Savior, Jesus Christ.

From the Mouth of Babes

Our youngest son just got baptized, and wow, what an amazing spiritual powerhouse, even at 8-years-old! He was so excited and so ready. The next day he didn't want to watch "The Amazing Race" with us because "they use too much bad language, and sometimes the girls don't dress appropriately." We read "Billy Twitter's Blue Whale Problem" instead.

Then, after our trunk-or-treat party at church Saturday night he so simply stated, "I don't think the Spirit can be there for Halloween." What a conversation we had then, including being afraid of the dark, being in places where the Spirit can dwell, modest dress, witches and monsters, yeah, you get the picture. What a bizarre holiday, really, when you think about it. So I don't. For me it's a time for costumes and candy, but the whole scary, creepy scene...I'm going to have to re-think that one.

On a different note, our daughter is often the talk of the ward at church, and her performance during the annual primary program last month was no exception. Not only did she dance during most of the music, but when her speaking part came, and the teacher went to whisper a hint to her, our adorable daughter put her hand in the teacher's face and said, "No, I can do it myself." And in her sweet angel voice (the kind that can shake the earth when used right into the microphone) said, "When Jesus was on the earth, He always surrounded himself with little children because He loved them so much!" Is it any wonder why?