I went to the party, and I think I had some kind of fun--although odd fun. I danced. I flirted, and then I left, horrified. Why do I hate these things? I think it reminds me of cars, yes, that's it.
I think because it feels exactly like when I dreamed and planned on buying that first car, I dreamt of the best, mine was a sleek, red, Chevy Impala, with a great engine under that hood,and the body looked great, it would go fast, and the interior, ooolala! I dreamt of the ride, I dreamt of the drive, and the places I would go. Heck, even to park in that car was, well, my fantasy.
Then I found that it would take me years to have enough to even consider that particular model. I could only afford the used car lot, and my dreamt model and design wasn't there. I hated the used car lot. There is always the pushy salesman, and then there's the disclosure statement--the odometer reading, all the ya da yada ya da. Where is the romance? Where is the spontaneity?
Now, I am not opposed to "used" and it is NOT the pejorative many believe. We have, at this age, all been married. So, why does this feel so depressingly like the used car lot? It's because it is far too passive. Are we all just sitting there waiting for some one to negotiate a deal? Okay, I might be a convertible, but am I a Buick, a Chevy, (I know I am not a Dodge--I never Dodge,well maybe a time or two is the dude I am looking for a Harley? Dualie? A monster truck? Is he dinged up, rusty? So, we move around the room, we wonder about the engine, and the missing spark plugs. No, I do not like the used car lot. I am heading downtown for the car auction. That's where the deals are--I have spontaneous wild friends, and they've let me in on it. come on, I at least want the car auction! That's the place where you can find the deal!
The screaming deal rolls in,a vintage classic model--long low and sleek. The auctioneer calls the model name, the year, they pop the hood,and it is sooo exciting! A rev of the engine, listen to him purr after he starts up, check the muffler, does he burn oil, or run clean? Go ahead, slide into the seat feel the leather, and all while the car is moving! Can I drive this one without grinding the gears? Oh, sure, questions are asked, a history disclosed, but it is so much more exciting than the used car lot. It is delightful! Although you cannot take him out for a spin, you at least get to see how he drives. I am going for the auction. What should I bid?
Friday, January 1, 2010
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sepia Shortcut
My grandmother remarried a little less than a year after my grandfather, her husband of 56 years, passed away. She was in the process of moving to her new husband’s home, when she suddenly died. It wasn’t her bank account, real estate titles, stocks or bonds, or her antique furnishings that the family swooped in to find. Like grackles that land and chatter in evening trees, this family descended first at her old house, then at Raymond’s, screeching “Where are grandma’s pictures,” “I know there here somewhere,” “She told me I was to have them,” intermingled with snippets of conversation over past common memories of life with grandma.
They were in a large Justin Boot box—we knew my mother and me, exactly what we were looking for— the yellowed box with big black block letters. This box had survived their home burning to the ground one fall in the late sixties, while she and grandpa were in Dallas. (She had taken it with her on the pretense of having copies made for the family.) My grandmother had been one of the youngest in a family of 9 children. Since she was a twin, it was never really clear who was the youngest until she died, when Uncle Lori with his acerbic humor declared, “she is now.” As a result, the contents of the box held old tin photos; her mother had passed down, photos of great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings that had passed before surviving the First World War, etc. A dower of family history—clippets written on the back –documenting births, marriages, the nomadic tribal moves of the family from one part of the country to another, even the dust bowl immigration to California from Oklahoma.
My mother had been named as the rightful heir to this cardboard treasure chest. But we had to find it, and find it first. We had spent days digging in closets, going through dressers, and cedar chests—all to no avail. Then one day while standing in Raymond’s cluttery kitchen, there it was sitting at the table. Like a person waiting to be served breakfast it sat on a chair pulled up to the table.
“Eureka,” I almost screamed.
Raymond simply stood in the silence of one dumbfounded. “That ol’ box? That ole thing is whatch’ya ‘ll been lookin’ fer?” My mother and I hugged the box, each of us took a turn stroking it, smiled and shook our heads, yes, and this is what we wanted. We hurried home back over to grandma’s to go through its cache.
It is only when going through its contents that I realize why they are such a treasure. Like desktop shortcuts to pieces of our past, our mind clicks when we look at them, our memories download, and we are young again—if only for the moment. Sometimes it is not our experience, rather the icon pulls up a program –the life of a family member, an experience they ran, we never knew about, but is stored in the familial memory rams, a story—ready to go, when we look at the image.
I hold in my hand a sepia print of a dark and sultry flapper.
“Who is this?” I ask my mother. Her brow folds up, like a Venetian blind on the window of her own memory—she is puzzled—we turn the print over and find that it is my Aunt Cora. My jaw drops open in astounded disbelief. My mother, less amazed, as she had been around when people had referred to Aunt Cora’ and her good looks.
But as long as I could remember Aunt Cora had been huge. As a child I had always believed she was so big because she lived a life that was so full. She was amazing and she delighted me. Everything I had witness her do was exciting in a glamorously bizarre sort of way.
Her best friend was Mabel Star. Mabel worked over at Jungle Land and was billed as the first and only woman lion tamer. A few times in my childhood, Aunt Cora had watched me for my mother. On these occasions I often got to go to lunch with her and Mabel. While they took their time over lunch, I had sat holding a baby tiger or lion cub. Their purrs louder, and far more poetic than mere house cats.
One time, Mom had given Aunt Cora a ride to the bank. I had heard it whispered by the adults that she had “money.” My brother and I sat in the back seat, as Aunt Cora unfolded herself to get out of the car. As she did so, her pocketbook strap caught on the lock of the door, broke, and silver poured out tinkling. Our eyes opened wide as we viewed what we believed to be millions, roll out onto the sidewalk, and all in dimes.
She ran a dump just outside of Thousand Oaks and charged a dime a load. She lived in one of the world’s first mobile homes. It was silver, and round, and sat on black tires with white walls. Her last husband had died before I was ever born. She lived in this silver bullet of a house, at the entrance of her dump. With her lived her two dogs, Judy and Susie, nervous Pomeranians that regularly went to the hairdresser to keep their blonde stylish coifs untangled and clean. The compact living room held a large recliner, and two child size wicker rockers with peach chintzed palm trees. A television sat across from the chairs. On the walls were shelves and dolls of every size and type lined the shelves. Aunt Cora had rescued many of them from the dump heap, cleaned them up and made clothes for them. They were dressed in an array of costume and fashion. Hats, gloves, and even little shoes had been designed and manufactured by Aunt Cora for them.
When Aunt Cora watched TV, Susie and Judy watched TV, my Aunt in the recliner, Susie and Judy in their wicker rockers. They would sit and rock, while my Aunt crocheted new outfits for the dolls. While they rocked they would whimper and fret, sometimes whine about the program being aired. They preferred my Aunt’s favorites: General Hospital and Merv Griffith on daytime TV, and the late night news followed by Steve Allen for the evening programming. Like old ladies worrying and fretting when the mailman came they would wring their tails like hands, and bark,
“Oh what has the mail brought today?”
Then change and behaving like helpful children they would yip,“We’ve got a customer,” at waiting trucks with trash.
“Judy,” my Aunt would say, “will you please sit down? The mail just brought bills and I’ve the money to pay’ em.” Susie would sigh; jump up in her chair and sit, too. My mother and dad never talked that way to our dog. But Susie and Judy weren’t Aunt Cora’s dogs; they were her companions.
When Aunt Corrie tired of getting rides to the bank, she went out and bought herself a car. She asked my mother for ride to the car dealership, pulled out a roll of $100 dollar bills, laid them on the counter and bought a car. She bought real estate the same way. She saved up her money, and laid the cash out. This fascinated me even as a child. My father, my grandfather, for all their hard work never walked in and just laid out the money. They always signed papers, and paid a little at a time. But my Aunt, who clearly did what she wanted, was owned by no man, and owed nobody. She lived a life of flamboyant freedom.
She wore big flowery dresses, in bright colors, with tiny patent belts. She never wore hose, rather color coordinated anklets, with crochet laced trim, and moccasins. Her jewelry was silver and turquoise and she resembled the Navajo from whom she purchased her jewelry, although she was Cherokee, and therefore much taller. Earrings often sparkled and swung from her ears. Her face was broad, olive and swarthy. Dark wide set eyes, above sharply angled cheekbones. Great crevices of dimples appeared when she laughed and her eyes twinkled a smile when her face was most stoic. Jet-black hair, straight long, but always braided and twisted in a bun at the back of her neck, and even when she died, only a few strands of gray at the top of her hairline whispered her 68 years.
My mother had to go hunt taverns one night, when my father had failed to come home. It was Aunt Cora that loaded us up, and gave my Mom a ride, telling her she should not do that alone. Susie and Judy were told to sit in their chairs, we’d be back for the news, and if not, they’d better watch it so somebody’d know what was goin on.
When I was in 8th grade my mother decided to go to college. She hadn’t finished high school, and everyone thought it was a ridiculous idea. Except, Aunt Cora, she told Mom to get up and go, “The hell with what all them think.”
When my grandfather had a heart attack and decided he needed to get out of the construction business, Aunt Cora sold all of her property in southern California. Pulled up her stakes, and rolled the silver bullet back to the homeland. Grandpa and she looked for farmland in Oklahoma. But being close to the reservation was sad, they decided, and went on to Missouri. She bought 360 acres, and parked the little trailer next to the farmhouse and lived out the rest of her life in southern Missouri. As I grew older, long hot summers were spent blackberry picking, canning pickles, green beans, corn, and quilting with Aunt Cora. She made friends with Naomi Quick a widow farmwoman. She had robbed banks in the twenties, that’s how Burt and her had bought their place, when they decided bank robbin’ was too risky, and they wanted to settle down. This was all shared while snapping green beans, and peas. My Aunt revealed no surprise, rather passed an understanding nod on the riskiness of bank robbing, and complimented Miss Quick on what a fine place she had.
She had crisscrossed the country on many vacations. Riding the train, taking buses, often driving herself, she saw all of the national parks and monuments. Returning from her trips, she would unpack boxes of a variety of souvenirs. In all of her travels, she always came back with hand made items from whatever reservation she had passed through. A reservation, to her, was any place there were poor people trapped in a geographic area. It had nothing to do with skin color and everything to do with culture. Anybody working to make a little money by weaving, sewing, crocheting, painting, quilting, etc., told a story and therefore was a worthy souvenir purchase.
When she passed away, she left her property to my Grandpa and Grandma, her dolls to Linda, a cousin of mine. To me she left an entire set of depression carnival glass, plates, glasses, butter dish, punch bowl and cups. As a child, I had never been impressed with all those dolls. I had shuddered over the responsibility of keeping all of them dressed and well groomed a room full of entirely too much work. I had admired her dishes. She had set different plates (all matching) for different meals. Every meal was really a mini-tea-party. Nothing was served from the container in which it came, or sat in the refrigerator. Rather, each part of the meal had its own little plate. Pink Carnival glass bowls, matching creamer, sugar bowl, with silver Tiffany teaspoons, for breakfast. Blue willow plates for tuna salad, were served at lunch, matching coffee pot, cups, saucers, etc. Dinner sat on pink flowered china, collected by sending in cereal tops in the forties, a set of six. To this day, I have a dish fetish. Most of her dishes had been rescued from the trash dump days, a large percentage of which matured into valued collectibles.
Aunt Cora died shortly after encouraging my mother to go back to school. I wish that she had lived longer, or maybe I wish that I had held this photo in my hand earlier. Remembering her flamboyant non-traditional life sooner, may have influenced me to choose a different path. Maybe, I would have been brave enough to live the life I wanted. While this picture stares back at me, I open the drop down menu of the endless possibilities my own life has because of her example. It’s never too late. Who care’s whatever the hell they think? Get up and go. She confirms for me a decision I have made, my mind clicks, for the first time in my life, my program is up and running.
They were in a large Justin Boot box—we knew my mother and me, exactly what we were looking for— the yellowed box with big black block letters. This box had survived their home burning to the ground one fall in the late sixties, while she and grandpa were in Dallas. (She had taken it with her on the pretense of having copies made for the family.) My grandmother had been one of the youngest in a family of 9 children. Since she was a twin, it was never really clear who was the youngest until she died, when Uncle Lori with his acerbic humor declared, “she is now.” As a result, the contents of the box held old tin photos; her mother had passed down, photos of great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings that had passed before surviving the First World War, etc. A dower of family history—clippets written on the back –documenting births, marriages, the nomadic tribal moves of the family from one part of the country to another, even the dust bowl immigration to California from Oklahoma.
My mother had been named as the rightful heir to this cardboard treasure chest. But we had to find it, and find it first. We had spent days digging in closets, going through dressers, and cedar chests—all to no avail. Then one day while standing in Raymond’s cluttery kitchen, there it was sitting at the table. Like a person waiting to be served breakfast it sat on a chair pulled up to the table.
“Eureka,” I almost screamed.
Raymond simply stood in the silence of one dumbfounded. “That ol’ box? That ole thing is whatch’ya ‘ll been lookin’ fer?” My mother and I hugged the box, each of us took a turn stroking it, smiled and shook our heads, yes, and this is what we wanted. We hurried home back over to grandma’s to go through its cache.
It is only when going through its contents that I realize why they are such a treasure. Like desktop shortcuts to pieces of our past, our mind clicks when we look at them, our memories download, and we are young again—if only for the moment. Sometimes it is not our experience, rather the icon pulls up a program –the life of a family member, an experience they ran, we never knew about, but is stored in the familial memory rams, a story—ready to go, when we look at the image.
I hold in my hand a sepia print of a dark and sultry flapper.
“Who is this?” I ask my mother. Her brow folds up, like a Venetian blind on the window of her own memory—she is puzzled—we turn the print over and find that it is my Aunt Cora. My jaw drops open in astounded disbelief. My mother, less amazed, as she had been around when people had referred to Aunt Cora’ and her good looks.
But as long as I could remember Aunt Cora had been huge. As a child I had always believed she was so big because she lived a life that was so full. She was amazing and she delighted me. Everything I had witness her do was exciting in a glamorously bizarre sort of way.
Her best friend was Mabel Star. Mabel worked over at Jungle Land and was billed as the first and only woman lion tamer. A few times in my childhood, Aunt Cora had watched me for my mother. On these occasions I often got to go to lunch with her and Mabel. While they took their time over lunch, I had sat holding a baby tiger or lion cub. Their purrs louder, and far more poetic than mere house cats.
One time, Mom had given Aunt Cora a ride to the bank. I had heard it whispered by the adults that she had “money.” My brother and I sat in the back seat, as Aunt Cora unfolded herself to get out of the car. As she did so, her pocketbook strap caught on the lock of the door, broke, and silver poured out tinkling. Our eyes opened wide as we viewed what we believed to be millions, roll out onto the sidewalk, and all in dimes.
She ran a dump just outside of Thousand Oaks and charged a dime a load. She lived in one of the world’s first mobile homes. It was silver, and round, and sat on black tires with white walls. Her last husband had died before I was ever born. She lived in this silver bullet of a house, at the entrance of her dump. With her lived her two dogs, Judy and Susie, nervous Pomeranians that regularly went to the hairdresser to keep their blonde stylish coifs untangled and clean. The compact living room held a large recliner, and two child size wicker rockers with peach chintzed palm trees. A television sat across from the chairs. On the walls were shelves and dolls of every size and type lined the shelves. Aunt Cora had rescued many of them from the dump heap, cleaned them up and made clothes for them. They were dressed in an array of costume and fashion. Hats, gloves, and even little shoes had been designed and manufactured by Aunt Cora for them.
When Aunt Cora watched TV, Susie and Judy watched TV, my Aunt in the recliner, Susie and Judy in their wicker rockers. They would sit and rock, while my Aunt crocheted new outfits for the dolls. While they rocked they would whimper and fret, sometimes whine about the program being aired. They preferred my Aunt’s favorites: General Hospital and Merv Griffith on daytime TV, and the late night news followed by Steve Allen for the evening programming. Like old ladies worrying and fretting when the mailman came they would wring their tails like hands, and bark,
“Oh what has the mail brought today?”
Then change and behaving like helpful children they would yip,“We’ve got a customer,” at waiting trucks with trash.
“Judy,” my Aunt would say, “will you please sit down? The mail just brought bills and I’ve the money to pay’ em.” Susie would sigh; jump up in her chair and sit, too. My mother and dad never talked that way to our dog. But Susie and Judy weren’t Aunt Cora’s dogs; they were her companions.
When Aunt Corrie tired of getting rides to the bank, she went out and bought herself a car. She asked my mother for ride to the car dealership, pulled out a roll of $100 dollar bills, laid them on the counter and bought a car. She bought real estate the same way. She saved up her money, and laid the cash out. This fascinated me even as a child. My father, my grandfather, for all their hard work never walked in and just laid out the money. They always signed papers, and paid a little at a time. But my Aunt, who clearly did what she wanted, was owned by no man, and owed nobody. She lived a life of flamboyant freedom.
She wore big flowery dresses, in bright colors, with tiny patent belts. She never wore hose, rather color coordinated anklets, with crochet laced trim, and moccasins. Her jewelry was silver and turquoise and she resembled the Navajo from whom she purchased her jewelry, although she was Cherokee, and therefore much taller. Earrings often sparkled and swung from her ears. Her face was broad, olive and swarthy. Dark wide set eyes, above sharply angled cheekbones. Great crevices of dimples appeared when she laughed and her eyes twinkled a smile when her face was most stoic. Jet-black hair, straight long, but always braided and twisted in a bun at the back of her neck, and even when she died, only a few strands of gray at the top of her hairline whispered her 68 years.
My mother had to go hunt taverns one night, when my father had failed to come home. It was Aunt Cora that loaded us up, and gave my Mom a ride, telling her she should not do that alone. Susie and Judy were told to sit in their chairs, we’d be back for the news, and if not, they’d better watch it so somebody’d know what was goin on.
When I was in 8th grade my mother decided to go to college. She hadn’t finished high school, and everyone thought it was a ridiculous idea. Except, Aunt Cora, she told Mom to get up and go, “The hell with what all them think.”
When my grandfather had a heart attack and decided he needed to get out of the construction business, Aunt Cora sold all of her property in southern California. Pulled up her stakes, and rolled the silver bullet back to the homeland. Grandpa and she looked for farmland in Oklahoma. But being close to the reservation was sad, they decided, and went on to Missouri. She bought 360 acres, and parked the little trailer next to the farmhouse and lived out the rest of her life in southern Missouri. As I grew older, long hot summers were spent blackberry picking, canning pickles, green beans, corn, and quilting with Aunt Cora. She made friends with Naomi Quick a widow farmwoman. She had robbed banks in the twenties, that’s how Burt and her had bought their place, when they decided bank robbin’ was too risky, and they wanted to settle down. This was all shared while snapping green beans, and peas. My Aunt revealed no surprise, rather passed an understanding nod on the riskiness of bank robbing, and complimented Miss Quick on what a fine place she had.
She had crisscrossed the country on many vacations. Riding the train, taking buses, often driving herself, she saw all of the national parks and monuments. Returning from her trips, she would unpack boxes of a variety of souvenirs. In all of her travels, she always came back with hand made items from whatever reservation she had passed through. A reservation, to her, was any place there were poor people trapped in a geographic area. It had nothing to do with skin color and everything to do with culture. Anybody working to make a little money by weaving, sewing, crocheting, painting, quilting, etc., told a story and therefore was a worthy souvenir purchase.
When she passed away, she left her property to my Grandpa and Grandma, her dolls to Linda, a cousin of mine. To me she left an entire set of depression carnival glass, plates, glasses, butter dish, punch bowl and cups. As a child, I had never been impressed with all those dolls. I had shuddered over the responsibility of keeping all of them dressed and well groomed a room full of entirely too much work. I had admired her dishes. She had set different plates (all matching) for different meals. Every meal was really a mini-tea-party. Nothing was served from the container in which it came, or sat in the refrigerator. Rather, each part of the meal had its own little plate. Pink Carnival glass bowls, matching creamer, sugar bowl, with silver Tiffany teaspoons, for breakfast. Blue willow plates for tuna salad, were served at lunch, matching coffee pot, cups, saucers, etc. Dinner sat on pink flowered china, collected by sending in cereal tops in the forties, a set of six. To this day, I have a dish fetish. Most of her dishes had been rescued from the trash dump days, a large percentage of which matured into valued collectibles.
Aunt Cora died shortly after encouraging my mother to go back to school. I wish that she had lived longer, or maybe I wish that I had held this photo in my hand earlier. Remembering her flamboyant non-traditional life sooner, may have influenced me to choose a different path. Maybe, I would have been brave enough to live the life I wanted. While this picture stares back at me, I open the drop down menu of the endless possibilities my own life has because of her example. It’s never too late. Who care’s whatever the hell they think? Get up and go. She confirms for me a decision I have made, my mind clicks, for the first time in my life, my program is up and running.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A few Word's from Mother's Day
Sarah liked this talk, and I said I would post it for her. It is a copy of the talk I gave on Mother's day at church:
The role of righteous women in Zion—is the topic I was given for this day—Mother’s day. When I first was given the topic, I had not realized that it was Mother’s Day—so I found myself puzzling just a bit over the topic.—After all, only righteous women should be in Zion—unless something different is meant by the term “Zion.” Needless to say, I had to think and search a little bit about what that does mean. In the bible dictionary on page 792, we learn (and like me , your ears recognize) that the word is used repeatedly in all the standard works of the church, and is defined in latter day revelation as “the pure in heart (D&C 97:21). Other usages of Zion have to do with a geographical location. For example , the City of Enoch, and the early restoration of the gospel and revelations sometimes refer to Jackson County Missouri, in many places of the Doctrine and covenants. But latter-day revelation has clearly defined it as “the pure in heart.” So, who are the “pure in heart” and what role do women play in the “pure in heart?”
As latter-day saints, we all recognize that people all over the world, no matter the nation to which they were born, what place they live, or language they first speak, to some extent has the “light of Christ’ inside them. We are all born with it. It is that essence that tells us right from wrong, in spite of what we may or may not have been taught. This light depends largely on the actions of the person in whose heart it resides. It can be extinguished, and it can also be so bright that it allows for the heart to become purified. And there are people all over the world, and there have been people throughout all time no matter where in the world they were born, and people in and out of this church that have that light. Usually, people who have this light are lovers of truth. . . and in some ways they search for truth in all areas of their life.
For example, M. Russell Nelson wrote how it lead one heart surgeon to research and find the intricate workings of the heart, so that successful heart surgery could be accomplished, and another individual might be a simple fisherman and through a combination of his experience that would allow him or her to recognize signs in nature, and a feeling to go a certain spot –to haul in a successful catch, or like when someone tells a lie—when it is heard—it is recognized as a lie. (As parents, we may all have had moments like this, and likewise, we recognize the truth)—the point is this moral compass—this light lets us know when something is wrong, or right. It is our spiritual lamp. It can be brightened and it can be dimmed. Brigham Young said that women were naturally more spiritual than men—that does not mean that men cannot be spiritual, rather it means that most women have a natural inclination towards the spiritual—those things of the heart.
In the scriptures, the first reference to women—is Eve. The world had been created, the animals, and then man. Heavenly Father quickly realized “that it was not good for man to be alone.” So, woman was created—not as an afterthought, but as God’s crowning achievement (as Gordon B. Hinckley suggested), and for the greater good of man.
Now , I would like to tell you about some stories of women in my life ,and how they have affected me, and perhaps, in some ways, they have also affected you. But first I have to start with my grandmother, and most of you are not familiar with her story.
When I was a little girl, some of the very best times I had were those times I was able to spend with my dear grandmother, Florrie Carney Culpen. She told me stories, trickster tales, Bible stories, and Bible versus. One of my earliest memories is of her singing and teaching me not only the scripture found in Matthew 5:15 but the over all message in the children’s song “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, (sing it) now if you turn to the scripture you will find starting at verse 14 and I quote, “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven.” This, then is the role of righteous women in Zion. My grandmother was instrumental in placing that light in me, and teaching me to recognize it and my great role in my own family, and possible potential in the lives of others. Most women intuitively teach how to keep the light alive—through obedience to doing that which is right, and good.
I think that we could all agree that throughout history, and throughout the world, women have sometimes suffered at the hands of a value system that can be referred to as only Male Hierarchy. Notice I said male hierarchy—that is different from patriarchy—for patriarchy by its very name implies there is an equal value system called matriarchy—a father and a mother—both empowered and the visual aid you can mentally picture to see the difference is a balanced scale representing the patriarchal/matriarchal societies, whereas hierarchies would be best represented by a ladder with men above women in the system referred to as male hierarchy.
So, then it can be said that there have been some societies that have attempted to hide women and their light under a bushel. I think this might be attributed to the fact that some men, and women, misinterpret the Lord’s system that indicates a patriarchy/matriarchy to be male hierarchy. This is not true! This verse in Matthew clearly indicates, as I am sure all of you know, that light should be placed high, as on a candlestick, so that it giveth light to all that are in the house.Today is the day, that we honor good women—not just the mother’s—although that role—definitely allows for the influence of light to shine on to future generations, but women have been instrumental in both the figurative building up of Zion as in becoming the pure of heart, and in the literal as in a place where the gospel could be restored. Women all over the world and throughout all time have shared this gift..
This thought of women influencing the future brings me to a familiar poem written by William Ross Wallace. He was a contemporary of Edgar Allen Poe, and one of the lines of the poem has become almost a cliché –I am sure most of you are familiar with it.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother's first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow--
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world. Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky--
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
As mothers we are the keeper of light on the candlestick. . . we teach our children and in so doing prepare them to choose light over darkness. However, there are many women who have never had children, and may never have children in this life. So, I would like to point out, that at various times, throughout history, women who have never had children—still have rocked the cradle.
Let me give you one example. Surprisingly, It is the story of a very dysfunctional family. This woman at a very young age lost her mother. Her mother was sent to prison shortly after giving birth to this little daughter. And was sentenced to death when the little girl was less than three years old. However, the daughter, in her formative years was reared by a series of excellent educators, one of whom remained a cherished friend for life. Her father married again, several times, and current events then, and history validates that this man, this girl’s father murdered several of his wives, including this girl’s mother, through his manipulation of the court system in place then. But life went on, she, and all of society, never witnessed that her father ever paid for any one of these murders, in fact he lived in relative opulence.
But at a young age, and largely at the hands of aspiring men who operated within the belief system of hierarchy, that hierarchy almost always male, she came to a position of wealth, and power, while still single and unmarried. In spite of her obviously dysfunctional family, she had a firm belief in God. Smart, well-educated, planted in a position of wealth and power—she was courted by many suitors. Writings indicate that she had a desire to be loved, have a husband, and children. However, she never married. She never married, never was called mother, and yet she has affected several generations—her name? Elizabeth I of England—under whose hand cradles rocked on the waves of the sea—as colonization of North America moved forward, new nations were born in the promised land and the gospel was eventually restored. I like to believe that her long reign was the result of following that small light that was within heart, that her moments of greatness were a result of following that light, being true and faithful to that level of truth that light within gave her. She lived at a time when the gospel was not on the earth—yet by following the truth she had access to within her–allowed Zion to move forward. I recognize that she, like all women born on this earth, was not perfect. But her belief in the Savior, and ability to follow those feelings that light gave her, allowed her to have moments where she contributed to the building up of Zion, by remaining pure in heart.
But, Debi you say, of course she influenced the world she was a world ruler! Okay, let me tell you about another woman. Elizabeth Fry.
Lizzie is best known today—as the woman on a 5 Lb note in England—all those made after 2002. Elizabeth Gurney was born in Gurney Court, off Magdalen Street, Norwich, Norfolk, England to a Quaker family the year was 1780. At 18 years old, the young Elizabeth Gurney was deeply moved by the preaching of William Savery, an American Quaker. Motivated by his words, she took an interest in the poor, the sick, and the prisoners. She collected old clothes for the poor, visited those who were sick in her neighborhood, and started a Sunday school in the summer house to teach children to read. She met Joseph Fry (1777 –1861), a banker and also a Quaker, when she was twenty years old. They married, and eventually had eleven children in all. Yes, she was a wife and a mother, and she was a woman with a cause! For she took that light, and went to the dark places within her society, and brought a little beacon of hope. She did this by remaining true and faithful to the teachings she had been taught as a young Quaker, her interest in the poor took her to those women suffering in the Prisons. She first visited Newgate Prison, and at this time England’s prison was full of debtors—a time when women and children served the sentence with a indebted husband and father. She was horrified with the living conditions. She was a woman of simple means, her own husband at this time suffered a significant financial loss, so she was only able to return with a little food and clothing, but surely there was more that she could do. She asked these women what she could do to alleviate their plight, and she prayed about it, and she got and it came to her to start a school.
So she started teaching the children, it was about this time that England started sending the prisoners to colonies, first Georgia, then Australia. Now,Stephen Grellet was a family friend, and also a Quaker. He travelled with one of the first groups that were released on the shores of Australia, after Lizzie started educating the imprisoned children. When he came back, he reported to Lizzie the horror that awaited these women.
There were no shelters waiting for them, they were left literally on the shores of foreign soil, without food or money. Many of the women were forced by these conditions to sell their bodies in order to provide the children with food for survival. Elizabeth Fry was desolate! She knew she had prayed and knew she was to start a school –had she not felt prompted, had she not seen and felt the light correctly? She went back to her heartfelt feeling, and prayed again—and received additional light! She should not focus on the children, but rather educated the women. Teach the women to read and when they land on the shores of Australia—they could be hired as educators—as governesses, teachers, and child-care givers that had the skill of reading. Of course, she had to use the King James Bible—everyone like the idea of supplying women prisoners with Bibles, and it changed the course of a nation. For when missionaries arrived with the restored Gospel, the field was white and ready for harvest—for the descendants of these families often had an increase of light that included a testimony and knowledge of Jesus Christ! Modern Revelation in the writings of Wilford Woodruff indicated that Lizzie Fry was one of eminent women that appeared to him in the Manti temple –clearly her calling and election were made sure for the acts she did while following that light within and allowing her light to illuminate the lives of others.
Of course, the scriptures have a few examples of women that have illuminated, and allowed that light to direct them and further Zion—Eve,Rebecca, Leah and Rachel, Sariah that became Sarah wife to Abraham, Ruth and Naomi, Deborah and Jael, and the list goes on. I wanted to focus today on some modern women. Aside from my own grandmother,and mother, I am also greatly influenced by my sisters –the women that were born in this time, that I have been blessed to be associated with. I also have to comment on my own daughters, who have been much better at finding good husbands than I have been. Largely a result of being sons of good mothers, these men follow a light that includes a knowledge of Christ, modern enough to occaisionally change a diaper, make dinner, and give them time to fill their lamps and let their light shine. They are good men whose cradles were rocked by the hands of good women. There is a song by Martina McBride, that says all that I can say about these women who are also my daughters:
In my daughter's eyes
I am a hero I am strong and wise
And I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see
She was sent to rescue me
I see who I want to be
In my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
Everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light
And the world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me
Gives me strength when I am weak
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes
And when she wraps her hand
around my finger
Oh, It puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about
It's hanging on when your heart
Has had enough
It's giving more when you feel
Like giving up
I've seen the light
It's in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
I can see the future
A reflection of who I am
And what will be
And though she'll grow
And someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see
How happy she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes
In closing, I would like to share one more story. My daughter, Chrystal had a roommate while she was in college and living in Provo. Iku was her name and she was from Japan. She was a new convert that had learned English by answering an advertisement that offered free English classes at the church of Jesus Christ of latter day saints. She not only learned English, but the gospel, and she was baptized and came to Provo in the fall of 1995 to attend BYU. Chrystal was coming home for Christmas that first year, and realized that Iku had no family, and had never experienced a traditional Christmas. So she invited her to come with her to Crockett, Texas for Christmas. Her mother taught her a story about Cormorants is a type of bird with which Japanese fishermen used to fish. They are a bit like pelicans, although they are considered “eagles” of the sea—a ring goes around its neck that allows for the little fish to be swallowed and he eats, and the large fish are brought back to the fishing boat and laid out for the master—the fishermen. A harness of strings is attached to the bird, and the fisherman holds the birds a little bit like you work a kite—the birds are given enough strings that will allow for them to dive, scoop the fish up, and bring them back to the fishing boat. Well, in this one particular story, an old grandfather and his grandsons are trying to fish with 14 birds, and an old vessel that is not too good, although they have to pay the owner of the boat a portion of their fish. There are other fishermen in the river, and the one that owns the boat makes fun of him, because he is not able to fish well—there are too many cormorants for him to control, and the grandsons are young and inexperienced. But the grandfather knows each of his birds and calls them by name, and touches them affectionately as he hoists them up into the air. His hands are old and gnarly, and the grandson is worried that they won’t get as much fish as they need. Well, somewhere along the way, another boat gets too close and bumps theirs, and the cormorants’ strings become tangled. And it is clear that they will have to cut the strings just to save the birds. Well, the little boy is heartsick—for he knows their baskets will be empty, and he is scared. Well, a few minutes go by and surprisingly the birds come back even though they are free—they come because the strings—have trained them where they are supposed to be, and what they are supposed to do, and their master loves them!
The little boat is literally filled with the fish! They have more fish than anyone else—this story is what allowed her to accept the gospel. Her mother, who was Shinto –and was not a Christian told her this story but it served as an allegory for her accepting the gospel—the strings are the commandments—many people think that following commandments tie us down, but they train us how to obtain the light we need—like the birds, the strings ---choosing right from wrong, choosing good over evil, following the commandments teach us where we are supposed to go and what we are supposed to say. So, in this way she was prepared to accept the gospel—the light she had been given by her mother allowed for her to accept a fullness of the gospel.
It is my prayer that we can all live our lives so that we can have moments where our hearts can become purified. As we follow that light we can have moments where we are pure in heart, and perhaps those moments can become longer—and we can remain the pure in heart. Every man and woman needs good women in their lives, sometimes its is our mother, sometimes we have a woman in our life that assumes that role—it may be a grandmother, or a teacher, a sister, a daughter, or a wife, a good woman. This then, is the role of righteous women: This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine! I hope that I can do this, that I can pass that light along. I say this in the name of Jesus Christ—amen.
The role of righteous women in Zion—is the topic I was given for this day—Mother’s day. When I first was given the topic, I had not realized that it was Mother’s Day—so I found myself puzzling just a bit over the topic.—After all, only righteous women should be in Zion—unless something different is meant by the term “Zion.” Needless to say, I had to think and search a little bit about what that does mean. In the bible dictionary on page 792, we learn (and like me , your ears recognize) that the word is used repeatedly in all the standard works of the church, and is defined in latter day revelation as “the pure in heart (D&C 97:21). Other usages of Zion have to do with a geographical location. For example , the City of Enoch, and the early restoration of the gospel and revelations sometimes refer to Jackson County Missouri, in many places of the Doctrine and covenants. But latter-day revelation has clearly defined it as “the pure in heart.” So, who are the “pure in heart” and what role do women play in the “pure in heart?”
As latter-day saints, we all recognize that people all over the world, no matter the nation to which they were born, what place they live, or language they first speak, to some extent has the “light of Christ’ inside them. We are all born with it. It is that essence that tells us right from wrong, in spite of what we may or may not have been taught. This light depends largely on the actions of the person in whose heart it resides. It can be extinguished, and it can also be so bright that it allows for the heart to become purified. And there are people all over the world, and there have been people throughout all time no matter where in the world they were born, and people in and out of this church that have that light. Usually, people who have this light are lovers of truth. . . and in some ways they search for truth in all areas of their life.
For example, M. Russell Nelson wrote how it lead one heart surgeon to research and find the intricate workings of the heart, so that successful heart surgery could be accomplished, and another individual might be a simple fisherman and through a combination of his experience that would allow him or her to recognize signs in nature, and a feeling to go a certain spot –to haul in a successful catch, or like when someone tells a lie—when it is heard—it is recognized as a lie. (As parents, we may all have had moments like this, and likewise, we recognize the truth)—the point is this moral compass—this light lets us know when something is wrong, or right. It is our spiritual lamp. It can be brightened and it can be dimmed. Brigham Young said that women were naturally more spiritual than men—that does not mean that men cannot be spiritual, rather it means that most women have a natural inclination towards the spiritual—those things of the heart.
In the scriptures, the first reference to women—is Eve. The world had been created, the animals, and then man. Heavenly Father quickly realized “that it was not good for man to be alone.” So, woman was created—not as an afterthought, but as God’s crowning achievement (as Gordon B. Hinckley suggested), and for the greater good of man.
Now , I would like to tell you about some stories of women in my life ,and how they have affected me, and perhaps, in some ways, they have also affected you. But first I have to start with my grandmother, and most of you are not familiar with her story.
When I was a little girl, some of the very best times I had were those times I was able to spend with my dear grandmother, Florrie Carney Culpen. She told me stories, trickster tales, Bible stories, and Bible versus. One of my earliest memories is of her singing and teaching me not only the scripture found in Matthew 5:15 but the over all message in the children’s song “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, (sing it) now if you turn to the scripture you will find starting at verse 14 and I quote, “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven.” This, then is the role of righteous women in Zion. My grandmother was instrumental in placing that light in me, and teaching me to recognize it and my great role in my own family, and possible potential in the lives of others. Most women intuitively teach how to keep the light alive—through obedience to doing that which is right, and good.
I think that we could all agree that throughout history, and throughout the world, women have sometimes suffered at the hands of a value system that can be referred to as only Male Hierarchy. Notice I said male hierarchy—that is different from patriarchy—for patriarchy by its very name implies there is an equal value system called matriarchy—a father and a mother—both empowered and the visual aid you can mentally picture to see the difference is a balanced scale representing the patriarchal/matriarchal societies, whereas hierarchies would be best represented by a ladder with men above women in the system referred to as male hierarchy.
So, then it can be said that there have been some societies that have attempted to hide women and their light under a bushel. I think this might be attributed to the fact that some men, and women, misinterpret the Lord’s system that indicates a patriarchy/matriarchy to be male hierarchy. This is not true! This verse in Matthew clearly indicates, as I am sure all of you know, that light should be placed high, as on a candlestick, so that it giveth light to all that are in the house.Today is the day, that we honor good women—not just the mother’s—although that role—definitely allows for the influence of light to shine on to future generations, but women have been instrumental in both the figurative building up of Zion as in becoming the pure of heart, and in the literal as in a place where the gospel could be restored. Women all over the world and throughout all time have shared this gift..
This thought of women influencing the future brings me to a familiar poem written by William Ross Wallace. He was a contemporary of Edgar Allen Poe, and one of the lines of the poem has become almost a cliché –I am sure most of you are familiar with it.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother's first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow--
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world. Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky--
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
As mothers we are the keeper of light on the candlestick. . . we teach our children and in so doing prepare them to choose light over darkness. However, there are many women who have never had children, and may never have children in this life. So, I would like to point out, that at various times, throughout history, women who have never had children—still have rocked the cradle.
Let me give you one example. Surprisingly, It is the story of a very dysfunctional family. This woman at a very young age lost her mother. Her mother was sent to prison shortly after giving birth to this little daughter. And was sentenced to death when the little girl was less than three years old. However, the daughter, in her formative years was reared by a series of excellent educators, one of whom remained a cherished friend for life. Her father married again, several times, and current events then, and history validates that this man, this girl’s father murdered several of his wives, including this girl’s mother, through his manipulation of the court system in place then. But life went on, she, and all of society, never witnessed that her father ever paid for any one of these murders, in fact he lived in relative opulence.
But at a young age, and largely at the hands of aspiring men who operated within the belief system of hierarchy, that hierarchy almost always male, she came to a position of wealth, and power, while still single and unmarried. In spite of her obviously dysfunctional family, she had a firm belief in God. Smart, well-educated, planted in a position of wealth and power—she was courted by many suitors. Writings indicate that she had a desire to be loved, have a husband, and children. However, she never married. She never married, never was called mother, and yet she has affected several generations—her name? Elizabeth I of England—under whose hand cradles rocked on the waves of the sea—as colonization of North America moved forward, new nations were born in the promised land and the gospel was eventually restored. I like to believe that her long reign was the result of following that small light that was within heart, that her moments of greatness were a result of following that light, being true and faithful to that level of truth that light within gave her. She lived at a time when the gospel was not on the earth—yet by following the truth she had access to within her–allowed Zion to move forward. I recognize that she, like all women born on this earth, was not perfect. But her belief in the Savior, and ability to follow those feelings that light gave her, allowed her to have moments where she contributed to the building up of Zion, by remaining pure in heart.
But, Debi you say, of course she influenced the world she was a world ruler! Okay, let me tell you about another woman. Elizabeth Fry.
Lizzie is best known today—as the woman on a 5 Lb note in England—all those made after 2002. Elizabeth Gurney was born in Gurney Court, off Magdalen Street, Norwich, Norfolk, England to a Quaker family the year was 1780. At 18 years old, the young Elizabeth Gurney was deeply moved by the preaching of William Savery, an American Quaker. Motivated by his words, she took an interest in the poor, the sick, and the prisoners. She collected old clothes for the poor, visited those who were sick in her neighborhood, and started a Sunday school in the summer house to teach children to read. She met Joseph Fry (1777 –1861), a banker and also a Quaker, when she was twenty years old. They married, and eventually had eleven children in all. Yes, she was a wife and a mother, and she was a woman with a cause! For she took that light, and went to the dark places within her society, and brought a little beacon of hope. She did this by remaining true and faithful to the teachings she had been taught as a young Quaker, her interest in the poor took her to those women suffering in the Prisons. She first visited Newgate Prison, and at this time England’s prison was full of debtors—a time when women and children served the sentence with a indebted husband and father. She was horrified with the living conditions. She was a woman of simple means, her own husband at this time suffered a significant financial loss, so she was only able to return with a little food and clothing, but surely there was more that she could do. She asked these women what she could do to alleviate their plight, and she prayed about it, and she got and it came to her to start a school.
So she started teaching the children, it was about this time that England started sending the prisoners to colonies, first Georgia, then Australia. Now,Stephen Grellet was a family friend, and also a Quaker. He travelled with one of the first groups that were released on the shores of Australia, after Lizzie started educating the imprisoned children. When he came back, he reported to Lizzie the horror that awaited these women.
There were no shelters waiting for them, they were left literally on the shores of foreign soil, without food or money. Many of the women were forced by these conditions to sell their bodies in order to provide the children with food for survival. Elizabeth Fry was desolate! She knew she had prayed and knew she was to start a school –had she not felt prompted, had she not seen and felt the light correctly? She went back to her heartfelt feeling, and prayed again—and received additional light! She should not focus on the children, but rather educated the women. Teach the women to read and when they land on the shores of Australia—they could be hired as educators—as governesses, teachers, and child-care givers that had the skill of reading. Of course, she had to use the King James Bible—everyone like the idea of supplying women prisoners with Bibles, and it changed the course of a nation. For when missionaries arrived with the restored Gospel, the field was white and ready for harvest—for the descendants of these families often had an increase of light that included a testimony and knowledge of Jesus Christ! Modern Revelation in the writings of Wilford Woodruff indicated that Lizzie Fry was one of eminent women that appeared to him in the Manti temple –clearly her calling and election were made sure for the acts she did while following that light within and allowing her light to illuminate the lives of others.
Of course, the scriptures have a few examples of women that have illuminated, and allowed that light to direct them and further Zion—Eve,Rebecca, Leah and Rachel, Sariah that became Sarah wife to Abraham, Ruth and Naomi, Deborah and Jael, and the list goes on. I wanted to focus today on some modern women. Aside from my own grandmother,and mother, I am also greatly influenced by my sisters –the women that were born in this time, that I have been blessed to be associated with. I also have to comment on my own daughters, who have been much better at finding good husbands than I have been. Largely a result of being sons of good mothers, these men follow a light that includes a knowledge of Christ, modern enough to occaisionally change a diaper, make dinner, and give them time to fill their lamps and let their light shine. They are good men whose cradles were rocked by the hands of good women. There is a song by Martina McBride, that says all that I can say about these women who are also my daughters:
In my daughter's eyes
I am a hero I am strong and wise
And I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see
She was sent to rescue me
I see who I want to be
In my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
Everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light
And the world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me
Gives me strength when I am weak
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes
And when she wraps her hand
around my finger
Oh, It puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about
It's hanging on when your heart
Has had enough
It's giving more when you feel
Like giving up
I've seen the light
It's in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
I can see the future
A reflection of who I am
And what will be
And though she'll grow
And someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see
How happy she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes
In closing, I would like to share one more story. My daughter, Chrystal had a roommate while she was in college and living in Provo. Iku was her name and she was from Japan. She was a new convert that had learned English by answering an advertisement that offered free English classes at the church of Jesus Christ of latter day saints. She not only learned English, but the gospel, and she was baptized and came to Provo in the fall of 1995 to attend BYU. Chrystal was coming home for Christmas that first year, and realized that Iku had no family, and had never experienced a traditional Christmas. So she invited her to come with her to Crockett, Texas for Christmas. Her mother taught her a story about Cormorants is a type of bird with which Japanese fishermen used to fish. They are a bit like pelicans, although they are considered “eagles” of the sea—a ring goes around its neck that allows for the little fish to be swallowed and he eats, and the large fish are brought back to the fishing boat and laid out for the master—the fishermen. A harness of strings is attached to the bird, and the fisherman holds the birds a little bit like you work a kite—the birds are given enough strings that will allow for them to dive, scoop the fish up, and bring them back to the fishing boat. Well, in this one particular story, an old grandfather and his grandsons are trying to fish with 14 birds, and an old vessel that is not too good, although they have to pay the owner of the boat a portion of their fish. There are other fishermen in the river, and the one that owns the boat makes fun of him, because he is not able to fish well—there are too many cormorants for him to control, and the grandsons are young and inexperienced. But the grandfather knows each of his birds and calls them by name, and touches them affectionately as he hoists them up into the air. His hands are old and gnarly, and the grandson is worried that they won’t get as much fish as they need. Well, somewhere along the way, another boat gets too close and bumps theirs, and the cormorants’ strings become tangled. And it is clear that they will have to cut the strings just to save the birds. Well, the little boy is heartsick—for he knows their baskets will be empty, and he is scared. Well, a few minutes go by and surprisingly the birds come back even though they are free—they come because the strings—have trained them where they are supposed to be, and what they are supposed to do, and their master loves them!
The little boat is literally filled with the fish! They have more fish than anyone else—this story is what allowed her to accept the gospel. Her mother, who was Shinto –and was not a Christian told her this story but it served as an allegory for her accepting the gospel—the strings are the commandments—many people think that following commandments tie us down, but they train us how to obtain the light we need—like the birds, the strings ---choosing right from wrong, choosing good over evil, following the commandments teach us where we are supposed to go and what we are supposed to say. So, in this way she was prepared to accept the gospel—the light she had been given by her mother allowed for her to accept a fullness of the gospel.
It is my prayer that we can all live our lives so that we can have moments where our hearts can become purified. As we follow that light we can have moments where we are pure in heart, and perhaps those moments can become longer—and we can remain the pure in heart. Every man and woman needs good women in their lives, sometimes its is our mother, sometimes we have a woman in our life that assumes that role—it may be a grandmother, or a teacher, a sister, a daughter, or a wife, a good woman. This then, is the role of righteous women: This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine! I hope that I can do this, that I can pass that light along. I say this in the name of Jesus Christ—amen.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Room of Her Own--
I know that Virginia Woolf thought of the term--but I think this tool will allow all women everywhere to have that proverbial room of her own--to contemplate, to write, to discuss, and the beauty of it is --the room is in our own home, and we are in that place, and yet--we can have influence worldwide--this is so rich!! I am almost giddy with delight! Okay, so I am a late bloomer, or rather I am not Quick Draw McGraw--it takes me a while to 'get it,' and when I do I want to run outside and shake a tree or something. I have to thank my daughter, Sarah, because she has been doing this a lot longer, and encouraged me so much. I just loved going to her room and taking a look. This is better than email, better than the phone, and allows for better discussion, and real growth as a writer,
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Friendly Persuasion
I cannot believe that I am actually doing this! For years, I have been frustrated by the media and their interpreting my culture, the world in which I live. I grew up in the 60s and 70s, a time when the news really was the news, and we were allowed to see all the images, and interpret on our own. We did not need a talking head, or a body language expert, (and what credentials does she have, pray tell?), or any other media mogul to come on and tell us what it all meant! We took it in and thought about it--and the images were largely unedited. We watched a dinner the burning child running in the street in Viet Nam, on the news. I think that our ability to interpret for ourselves, allowed for the Viet Nam War to come to a close--from pressure, those of us witnessing the events, put on the government. Now, I see this modern culture (in America) hooked umbilicaly to this matrix of internet/cell phone/podcasting/ and largely in need of thinking. Suffering under the effects of no child left behind education, they believe they are catching up and not left behind because they have an electronic instrument in hand--however, some idiot on TV must interpret events for them, because many of them do not know how to think!
But it is not just the youth. Many of us have become complacent, after all, why are we tuning in and listening to the talking head.? So, I am forced into this matrix in order to have a voice, to respond, to think, and record that I am alive and well, and still thinking! Oh, happy day! Maybe this is where I will find others, equally frustrated and still thinking largely, and actively analytical and logical. It is our forum, our release, and our taking control of a media gone wild. We can call them on the hype, we can redress their errors, and we will over come!
Slavery, and its manacles and chains, are alive and well still today. It comes disguised somewhat in our technologically driven society as anything faster, easier, quicker, prettier, cuter, tinier, a reworking of a new tool. Any thing that allows for gratification in an instant! But in what web are we then caught? I listened to a young student this past spring justify why he can text message while he drives, how his is a generation that must have response in an instant. I sat sadly as his instructor, and wondered what price he will pay for this belief? I asked him if he did not think that in each day that he lived he should have one small window of time that was his? Only his? A portion of time that only he owned, and spent on himself--maybe only in quiet thought or reflection? He looked at me like a deer in headlights, what? He asked me, I then responded that there are so many things in life that deserve careful thought, and attention. Yet, he was able to text, send, and cruise down the road without any thought. Didn't he think he was short changing himself? The class went up in an uproar--no, Ms. Greene, you don't understand, we're the new generation. We like everything fast, instantaneous. Yes, I replied, I am not so far gone that I do not remember my youth. However, I have always known, and in my life's experience found that there are many things, if taken slowly that are quite remarkable, satiating, and wonderfully enjoyable at a nice slow pace. Are you telling me that you are an entire generation that will never experience ROMANCE? Those capital letters are intended. Because at their rate, it will only be lower case, if ever experienced. What about watching that first child take his steps, or baking a loaf of bread whose rich aroma permeates the house slowly, blossoming each room with yeasty yummy fragrance? There are thousands of things in my life that I am glad I did them slowly. I know that there are many more undiscovered things, that as I come to them I will want to take them nice and slow--so that I can memorize the wonder of the event. However, I do recognize that we live in a world filled with busy-ness and driven by business, it places demands that must be met timely, and sometimes we mistake that for immediacy.
So, I come to this blog to make a formal call for a fullness of each moment. If it be a political thought--give me (and the rest of us) a full moment to take in the facts, and make my own response. I am not the village idiot, and I think the majority of Americans are capable, insightful citizens with the ability to formulate our own thoughts, and analyses and make judgements without the media idiot. I am also calling everyone dependent upon the cell phone, or internet, or television--to unplug, and inhale deeply in a moment of quiet and free thought. Take ownership of that moment, and expand.
But it is not just the youth. Many of us have become complacent, after all, why are we tuning in and listening to the talking head.? So, I am forced into this matrix in order to have a voice, to respond, to think, and record that I am alive and well, and still thinking! Oh, happy day! Maybe this is where I will find others, equally frustrated and still thinking largely, and actively analytical and logical. It is our forum, our release, and our taking control of a media gone wild. We can call them on the hype, we can redress their errors, and we will over come!
Slavery, and its manacles and chains, are alive and well still today. It comes disguised somewhat in our technologically driven society as anything faster, easier, quicker, prettier, cuter, tinier, a reworking of a new tool. Any thing that allows for gratification in an instant! But in what web are we then caught? I listened to a young student this past spring justify why he can text message while he drives, how his is a generation that must have response in an instant. I sat sadly as his instructor, and wondered what price he will pay for this belief? I asked him if he did not think that in each day that he lived he should have one small window of time that was his? Only his? A portion of time that only he owned, and spent on himself--maybe only in quiet thought or reflection? He looked at me like a deer in headlights, what? He asked me, I then responded that there are so many things in life that deserve careful thought, and attention. Yet, he was able to text, send, and cruise down the road without any thought. Didn't he think he was short changing himself? The class went up in an uproar--no, Ms. Greene, you don't understand, we're the new generation. We like everything fast, instantaneous. Yes, I replied, I am not so far gone that I do not remember my youth. However, I have always known, and in my life's experience found that there are many things, if taken slowly that are quite remarkable, satiating, and wonderfully enjoyable at a nice slow pace. Are you telling me that you are an entire generation that will never experience ROMANCE? Those capital letters are intended. Because at their rate, it will only be lower case, if ever experienced. What about watching that first child take his steps, or baking a loaf of bread whose rich aroma permeates the house slowly, blossoming each room with yeasty yummy fragrance? There are thousands of things in my life that I am glad I did them slowly. I know that there are many more undiscovered things, that as I come to them I will want to take them nice and slow--so that I can memorize the wonder of the event. However, I do recognize that we live in a world filled with busy-ness and driven by business, it places demands that must be met timely, and sometimes we mistake that for immediacy.
So, I come to this blog to make a formal call for a fullness of each moment. If it be a political thought--give me (and the rest of us) a full moment to take in the facts, and make my own response. I am not the village idiot, and I think the majority of Americans are capable, insightful citizens with the ability to formulate our own thoughts, and analyses and make judgements without the media idiot. I am also calling everyone dependent upon the cell phone, or internet, or television--to unplug, and inhale deeply in a moment of quiet and free thought. Take ownership of that moment, and expand.
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