I was thinking about the things I have written in this blog so far and a provocative thought crossed my mind...
If I am able to remember some early memories as young as 2-3 years old and have them mean something to me, then my own son Henry is already gaining memories that somehow might be remembered many years down the road and mean something to him. Makes me wonder if I am giving him the kind of memories I want him to have of me. I must work to ensure he does.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Quiet Word for Bad Words
When I was in Junior High, I played baseball on the Astros in Sacramento, California. My coach (someone please help me remember his name), wasn't my favorite coach because he was quite competitive and winning came before anything else. Unfortunately, I wasn't playing my best baseball at the time, and my coach found it difficult to play me. It made me quite upset and I didn't really get along with him.
Of course this was a hard time for me, as I was very small, didn't have many friends, and wasn't quite fitting in with other students as well as I would like. Not performing well in baseball was a big disappointment. One other thing I was struggling with (without my parents' knowledge) was a language problem. I would swear every which word I could whenever I wanted to and wherever I wanted. I was good at hiding this language at home, church, and other places. However, at school I was pretty bad.
One day at baseball practice, our coach hadn't shown up and there was chaos. No one seemed to know what to do and those who were supposed to run practice (the coach's son) was just a player like us, so not everyone cooperated. Who knows what finally got me frustrated, but I spoke up and swore up a storm that shocked just about everyone, telling them how dumb they were all being, etc etc. It was quite the rant.
The next game, the coach took me aside into the dugout alone and said, "I heard that at last practice you used a lot of foul language. Now I know your parents and what you are supposed to stand for and I can't believe your parents would approve of that language. I am disappointed that you would choose to disappoint your parents and your God. I expect this will never happen again, right?" I sat there embarrassed and ashamed. Here was a man that I disliked, being totally right. I knew that I was wrong and that I had shamed myself and my parents. I realized that while the coach didn't play me in the games as much as I liked, he did respect me and my parents as people of God. And I had disappointed him. It was crushing.
From that night on, I quit swearing. Not only that, but I began to have my first realization of who I was and what I was supposed to stand for. What a life changing moment for me. From then on, I wanted to live up to that expectation and believed that everyone around me was watching. Mistakes have still plagued my life, but it has been far better because of the quiet scolding of a disliked coach. Thanks to him for saying something and for handling it so well.
Today, I still relish the idea that people are watching me. When I travel, I like looking good or wearing something with BYU or Utah on it so that people will watch me or ask me questions. I relish my role as an ambassador for our beliefs. I thank people like my coach, who have reminded me of that role and helped me be better at it.
Of course this was a hard time for me, as I was very small, didn't have many friends, and wasn't quite fitting in with other students as well as I would like. Not performing well in baseball was a big disappointment. One other thing I was struggling with (without my parents' knowledge) was a language problem. I would swear every which word I could whenever I wanted to and wherever I wanted. I was good at hiding this language at home, church, and other places. However, at school I was pretty bad.
One day at baseball practice, our coach hadn't shown up and there was chaos. No one seemed to know what to do and those who were supposed to run practice (the coach's son) was just a player like us, so not everyone cooperated. Who knows what finally got me frustrated, but I spoke up and swore up a storm that shocked just about everyone, telling them how dumb they were all being, etc etc. It was quite the rant.
The next game, the coach took me aside into the dugout alone and said, "I heard that at last practice you used a lot of foul language. Now I know your parents and what you are supposed to stand for and I can't believe your parents would approve of that language. I am disappointed that you would choose to disappoint your parents and your God. I expect this will never happen again, right?" I sat there embarrassed and ashamed. Here was a man that I disliked, being totally right. I knew that I was wrong and that I had shamed myself and my parents. I realized that while the coach didn't play me in the games as much as I liked, he did respect me and my parents as people of God. And I had disappointed him. It was crushing.
From that night on, I quit swearing. Not only that, but I began to have my first realization of who I was and what I was supposed to stand for. What a life changing moment for me. From then on, I wanted to live up to that expectation and believed that everyone around me was watching. Mistakes have still plagued my life, but it has been far better because of the quiet scolding of a disliked coach. Thanks to him for saying something and for handling it so well.
Today, I still relish the idea that people are watching me. When I travel, I like looking good or wearing something with BYU or Utah on it so that people will watch me or ask me questions. I relish my role as an ambassador for our beliefs. I thank people like my coach, who have reminded me of that role and helped me be better at it.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
A Tribute to A Primary Teacher
Well, this entry is dedicated to my primary teacher, Sister Madsen, in Lincoln, Nebraska. When I was 8, I had the greatest primary teacher in the whole world. Sister Madsen is still an inspiration to me today. When I taught sunbeams for 2 years with Amy, I often thought back to her and wondered how she would have approached each day. I fell far short of her effort, but I did find moments of improvement because of her inspiration.
Each Sunday, Sister Madsen would have a very well prepared lesson about the New Testament. I particularly remember the lessons about the journeys and writings of Paul the apostle. Sister Madsen had maps, scriptures, pictures, and more all organized. Somehow she was able to excite us about our lessons and learn. I remember how intensely everyone in the room listened (at least as far as I can remember). She gave us "homework" each week and rewarded us when we accomplished it. I learned an amazing amount about each subject for the age I was. She didn't aim too low with us, but expected much more of us than most primary teachers would for that age group. I don't actually remember a lot about the specific lessons, but the feelings of excitement and commitment that she instilled in me concerning the scriptures still stirs my heart today. I believe that Sister Madsen new how to help us newly baptized children, feel the influence of the Holy Ghost and today I can look back and recognize the feelings I had in those classes as the Holy Ghost. That is a sweet memory.
I am not sure if I am correct, but I keep thinking that she was this really small woman and her husband was pretty big. Anyone remember? Well, no matter her size, she surely was a spiritual giant to me. After all these years, she still impacts my life. This is how I hope to be for others, regardless of where that may be - in a small classroom with children, or in my Elder's Quorum each week I teach, or in the home of someone I hometeach. Sister madsen magnified her calling and inspired the heart of at least one small boy. I am grateful for her example.
Each Sunday, Sister Madsen would have a very well prepared lesson about the New Testament. I particularly remember the lessons about the journeys and writings of Paul the apostle. Sister Madsen had maps, scriptures, pictures, and more all organized. Somehow she was able to excite us about our lessons and learn. I remember how intensely everyone in the room listened (at least as far as I can remember). She gave us "homework" each week and rewarded us when we accomplished it. I learned an amazing amount about each subject for the age I was. She didn't aim too low with us, but expected much more of us than most primary teachers would for that age group. I don't actually remember a lot about the specific lessons, but the feelings of excitement and commitment that she instilled in me concerning the scriptures still stirs my heart today. I believe that Sister Madsen new how to help us newly baptized children, feel the influence of the Holy Ghost and today I can look back and recognize the feelings I had in those classes as the Holy Ghost. That is a sweet memory.
I am not sure if I am correct, but I keep thinking that she was this really small woman and her husband was pretty big. Anyone remember? Well, no matter her size, she surely was a spiritual giant to me. After all these years, she still impacts my life. This is how I hope to be for others, regardless of where that may be - in a small classroom with children, or in my Elder's Quorum each week I teach, or in the home of someone I hometeach. Sister madsen magnified her calling and inspired the heart of at least one small boy. I am grateful for her example.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
A Dark and Cold First Night
Jason mentioned (in his comment) our first night in Nebraska. I actually do have a little memory about it. I don't remember anything once we got inside or anything about the ride there, but I do have this clear memory of being pulled out of the vehicle and carried into the house. I am not sure if this is true, but it seems in my mind that I have always remembered the sky to be black and clear with some moonlight, making the snow glow. I just know that I felt safe and comfortable in the arms of my parents. I also keep thinking I was wearing soft, yellow zip-up PJs. Is that true? Anyone remember?
Anyway, It's nice to have a memory like that. My parents have always kind of carried me even when I kicked and fought it. And what I didn't know most of the time was the cold and dark that lay around me because they braved much of it for me while they protected me. Thanks to all people in my life who have carried me.
That was our first night in Nebraska. I don't remember the cold or the deep snow or any bad conditions on the road. Just a memory of being safely carried home. I am grateful for Jason's additions to it. It is the first of many, many good memories of Nebraska. Those will be fun to tell.
Anyway, It's nice to have a memory like that. My parents have always kind of carried me even when I kicked and fought it. And what I didn't know most of the time was the cold and dark that lay around me because they braved much of it for me while they protected me. Thanks to all people in my life who have carried me.
That was our first night in Nebraska. I don't remember the cold or the deep snow or any bad conditions on the road. Just a memory of being safely carried home. I am grateful for Jason's additions to it. It is the first of many, many good memories of Nebraska. Those will be fun to tell.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
A Tow and Ride
Really old memories are hard because although they seem so real, it's hard to know if you remember them correctly. One of those few really old memories for me occurred on our way to Nebraska in 1976. Our family picked up and moved from Utah to Nebraska in 1976. My father was starting a new farming venture. It reminds me a little of homesteading, I guess seeing as it was all kind of primitive in a way. Anyway, I would have been just over 2 years old and we were moving in the dead of winter - going from freezing cold to surface of Pluto cold. I do know that for some reason, our old blue truck broke down in the middle of Nebraska (at least I believe that was the vehicle we were in - someone please correct me if need be). I don't remember a lot, but I do remember a brief, but important memory of actually being towed to the nearest town while we rode IN the truck (our truck). I also have this random thought all the time about this that we were eating raisins. Dad was riding in the tow truck, I believe. Kind of a strange, hazy memory, but...
It is the first memory I have of a trial that our family/parents went through. The first of a never ending life of them. Seems that our parents rarely, if ever, have caught a break in life. Something was always breaking, failing, not working as planned, etc. I sit here laughing out loud because it is almost a ridiculous truth, and has been such a defining part of my life. Fitting that one of my earliest memories is of a trial. All I know is that my father and mother have always been in trial and they have somehow always made it work. I think my parents are some of the last pioneers - not in age, but in spirit.
I always thought I was so different from my parents, but one quality I have learned from my parents is to persevere, to never quit, to never give up. When there is little to hope for, they muster up more faith until they find more hope. It has rarely rewarded them in the eyes of the world, but what an amazing and powerful gift they have given to me. I now see my life mirrored in my parents at times. I have seen it done - the ability to hope and to faith your way through life's difficulties. I hope I can pass that message on to my children because I find it of high value - it is in a way, the spirit of repentance, redemption, and the gift of enduring to the end.
I look back at a small space many years ago where 3 small kids, their mother, and their hopeful father found light to cling to on a lonely and dark path. For some must push and some must pull...all is well, all is well. If there are saints and pioneers of that spirit, my parents will someday walk with a lighter path.
It is the first memory I have of a trial that our family/parents went through. The first of a never ending life of them. Seems that our parents rarely, if ever, have caught a break in life. Something was always breaking, failing, not working as planned, etc. I sit here laughing out loud because it is almost a ridiculous truth, and has been such a defining part of my life. Fitting that one of my earliest memories is of a trial. All I know is that my father and mother have always been in trial and they have somehow always made it work. I think my parents are some of the last pioneers - not in age, but in spirit.
I always thought I was so different from my parents, but one quality I have learned from my parents is to persevere, to never quit, to never give up. When there is little to hope for, they muster up more faith until they find more hope. It has rarely rewarded them in the eyes of the world, but what an amazing and powerful gift they have given to me. I now see my life mirrored in my parents at times. I have seen it done - the ability to hope and to faith your way through life's difficulties. I hope I can pass that message on to my children because I find it of high value - it is in a way, the spirit of repentance, redemption, and the gift of enduring to the end.
I look back at a small space many years ago where 3 small kids, their mother, and their hopeful father found light to cling to on a lonely and dark path. For some must push and some must pull...all is well, all is well. If there are saints and pioneers of that spirit, my parents will someday walk with a lighter path.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
My First Memory...
My first memory is appropriately, of my mother. I can't remember where we lived at the time, or how old I was, but amazingly I had to have been younger than 2 years old because it was prior to our family moving to Nebraska in 1976 (I was born in 1974). Who knows how I remember this, but I do. It is a brief, but vivid memory.
I think when you are the one who has to get up early, it's easy to forget that others have done the same for generations. I remember one early morning - still pretty much dark in my memory - I was lying just inside the kitchen entrance, with my blanket and at least one small toy. I have always had this picture of a green toy tractor or something like it. I also can clearly see in my mind, my pajamas - the complete jumper that zips up from the foot to neck - the ones with the plastic/rubber on the bottom of the feet. Who knows why (or why any young child) was up so early, but there I was.
Almost immediately after my memory begins, I see my mother enter coming towards me from the other room and she crosses over me, talking to me as she does. I don't know what she was saying, but I am sure it was something like, "why are you up so early, you crazy kid?!" My mother goes straight to the stove where she begins to work - most likely making breakfast for my father before he goes to work.
Thinking back, there is a great and calming feeling from that memory, a surety that comes from the constancy and sacrifice of my mother. How many breakfasts did she make for me over the years? For others? How many does she still make? It's an amazing thing. I could always count on a breakfast being organized by my mother - most of the time it was something like pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and all those great things you get as a special breakfast now. I never remember going without food for breakfast.
There is something amazingly comforting and humbling about that. I guess it is fitting that my first memory is of my mother's early rising to a new day, a breakfast to begin a day, and the comfort that it brings me to remember that our days, my days, rarely started without my mother being there and helping to start it off right. Most fitting because she has always been a cornerstone for my life, being an anchor of faith and dedicated to the needs of others. Not sure I would want anything else as a first memory. Thanks to my mother for always getting up and lifting us up with her each morning.
I think when you are the one who has to get up early, it's easy to forget that others have done the same for generations. I remember one early morning - still pretty much dark in my memory - I was lying just inside the kitchen entrance, with my blanket and at least one small toy. I have always had this picture of a green toy tractor or something like it. I also can clearly see in my mind, my pajamas - the complete jumper that zips up from the foot to neck - the ones with the plastic/rubber on the bottom of the feet. Who knows why (or why any young child) was up so early, but there I was.
Almost immediately after my memory begins, I see my mother enter coming towards me from the other room and she crosses over me, talking to me as she does. I don't know what she was saying, but I am sure it was something like, "why are you up so early, you crazy kid?!" My mother goes straight to the stove where she begins to work - most likely making breakfast for my father before he goes to work.
Thinking back, there is a great and calming feeling from that memory, a surety that comes from the constancy and sacrifice of my mother. How many breakfasts did she make for me over the years? For others? How many does she still make? It's an amazing thing. I could always count on a breakfast being organized by my mother - most of the time it was something like pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and all those great things you get as a special breakfast now. I never remember going without food for breakfast.
There is something amazingly comforting and humbling about that. I guess it is fitting that my first memory is of my mother's early rising to a new day, a breakfast to begin a day, and the comfort that it brings me to remember that our days, my days, rarely started without my mother being there and helping to start it off right. Most fitting because she has always been a cornerstone for my life, being an anchor of faith and dedicated to the needs of others. Not sure I would want anything else as a first memory. Thanks to my mother for always getting up and lifting us up with her each morning.
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