Doomed to Be Last

When I married a man 12 years older than me, I assumed he would be passing first, and I learned to live with that.  I wasn't too surprised that most of our friends turned out to be older than me. Indeed, I was always the baby.

We moved into a neighborhood of mostly elderly people, and I became accustomed to lots of parental advice and counsel.  It was good.  I needed that counsel.  Our ward (church congregation) was made up of elderly folks too.  Again, I was the baby with lots of loving arms to pull me up when I was drowning -- and it was good.

Many years have passed, and the demographics are changing. One by one, my friends are moving on to greener pastures.

We attended the funeral this morning for the last of our "parental" neighbors.  We didn't go to the cemetery, as I told my husband I needed to go to a "happy" place.  Happy to my husband means food, so we ended up at the closest fast food restaurant.  We had only been sitting for a moment when a friend came in and stopped by our table to chat.  I told her we had just been to a funeral and needed a "happy" place.  She said she needed a "happy" place too, since she had just learned that a mutual friend was now in hospice care.  So much for happy.

While it really helps for me to know the plan of salvation, it is sometimes a little depressing to watch your friends dropping like flies.  I knew when I married Danny that there was a good chance I would outlive him, but I hadn't counted on outliving all my friends, as well.  The last couple of years, we've lost some very dear friends.  I'm either going to have to hunt for some younger friends, or I'm going to be an awfully lonely old lady.  Then again, my family line dies out pretty young.  I've already outlived a younger cousin.  This could be my excuse for eating chocolate, drinking soda, and not exercising.  Dying young may not be such a bad thing.  Enduring to the end may be fine--unless you're alone.

Acceptance

Over the last week, I've read bits an pieces of Twitter "tweets", Facebook "status updates", and blog posts about the new guidelines for sister missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  It was a very busy week, and I wish I could have read the whole discussion.  The snippets of discussion that I was able to peruse were fascinating.  There were objections about the guidelines for makeup by some, and a whole discussion about the lack of acceptance of dress in general amongst members of the church.  I thought a lot about my past, and how frustrated it was for me not to be accepted.  After giving it some thought, however, I realized that it was not only in church that I was not accepted.  I was pretty much on the outs with my peers my whole childhood -- not accepted by any "group."  There were individuals who embraced me, but not a single "circle" of friends.
So why is it that it is so hurtful when we are not accepted at church?  Maybe it's because that's the one place on earth (other than in our own homes) that we feel we should be accepted.  Didn't Jesus teach that we should love all of Heavenly Father's children?

The internet blogosphere discussion this past week wasn't really about the guidelines for sister missionaries, as I don't think anyone would argue that the Church doesn't have a right to say how the missionaries should be dressed to represent the Church (indeed, the Saviour Himself).  The discussion went much deeper into how we feel about each other, and what we expect of each other.

A good friend (and my first counselor when I was Relief Society President at church) often reminds me that we are all on different levels spiritually.  Remembering that is the key to not judging others -- especially for outward appearance.

When I was Relief Society President, two wards were dissolved and merged into our ward.  We gained 101 new sisters from all walks of life.  Most people embraced the change and realized what an inspired decision this had been.  There was one sister, however, from our old established ward who cornered me in the parking lot and told me that she was going to attend a new ward because some of the new people "smelled bad."  I was floored.  You could have knocked me over with a feather.  I kept hearing my first counselor's voice in my head, "We are all on different levels spiritually."  Resisting the temptation to punch this sister's lights out, I calmly told her that it was her choice, but that she would be missing a great opportunity to help these new sisters grow -- and to grow her own testimony in the process.  I didn't see this sister for a few weeks, then she came to me to apologize.  I've watched this sister grow in so many ways because of her change of heart and willingness to include others into her circle who took her out of her comfort zone.  I'm happy to say that we are a very cohesive ward now.  While there will always be personality clashes (as with any family or group of people), I truly believe that we all love each other.

May we all strive to love as Jesus loves.

What Kind of Friend Am I?

It's only 11 days into the new year, and I am already soul searching and evaluating mistakes.  Someone who used to work with me passed away in December from a rare form of cancer, and I found out about it this morning.  He didn't develop cancer until after he left our place of employment.  I haven't seen this man since he left the workplace, but I have thought about him occasionally.

Unfortunately, this young man was very unhappy.  I tried to be a friend to him.  We often ate our lunch together in the break room.  I tried to brighten his unhappy outlook on life.  Nothing I did seemed to work.  He was intent on being unhappy, and always seeing black clouds instead of silver linings.  I felt sorry for him.

There came a day when I realized that trying to put a smile on his face was making me frown.  It seemed nothing I did or said made a difference in his life, but he was pulling me down.  So I began to find something else to do during my breaks, and someone else to be with during lunch.  He was a "drag," or a "downer."

He was 33 years old when he passed away.  I'm sad today.  I'm sad that he had an unhappy life -- or at least he couldn't share his happiness with others.  I'm sad that I gave up on friendship with him.  I shouldn't have done that.  I should have tried harder.  Maybe I should have shared with him how I was feeling about his attitude.  Maybe I could have found a way to make a difference.  Could I have brightened his time on this earth just a little?  Would that have been too great a sacrifice?  What more could I have done to help him?  What more could I have done to be a friend?

The truly haunting question is, where would I be if the Saviour ever gave up on me?  I'm sure I was a "drag," and a "downer," in the Garden of Gethsemane.  How many drops of blood did He sacrifice for me?  I'm guilty of giving up on one of Heavenly Father's children -- because it was easier than working with him to help him solve his problems.  What kind of Christian does that make me?  Not a very good one, I'm sure.

What will I do the next time someone passes through my life?  How will I respond?  Will I be a better friend?  Will I learn something from this experience?  I certainly hope so.

My Buddy Dave

You can tell a lot about a man by the friends he keeps. When I married my husband, I got some pretty good buddies, especially Dave.

Dave was a relatively short, bald-headed, man with a smile that made me feel instantly loved. He never judged me--not even in my young and dumb years. He quietly stood in the wings ready to be of true Christian service every time we called "uncle," which was pretty much every time we worked on a household project.

My husband is a good man with some wonderful qualities--none of them involving a hammer or power tool. Danny and I would try our best to complete a household project and then call Dave to rescue us from ourselves. There is not a single room in our home that doesn't have Dave's stamp on it.

Among the many projects that Dave helped with at our home: A new roof, plumbing problems, ceiling fan installations, kitchen fan installation, kitchen cupboard installation, setting toilets in both bathrooms, and much more. I had painted around the huge valance in my living room several times, and one time I decided it would be easier to paint it if I took it down. It never occurred to me that if I stood on the ladder and took the screws out at one end that it would come crashing to the floor from the other side! I had no idea how heavy the thing was. As it came crashing down, it brought big chunks of the ceiling with it. Time to call Dave. In no time the ceiling was replastered, painted, and the valance was firmly attached.

We built an addition to our home, and that meant curtain rods had to be installed in the family room and in my new bedroom. I actually did a pretty good job of installing them myself. Then I made a crucial mistake. I followed my mother's example and put the curtains up wet so that they wouldn't have to be ironed. The problem was, I had very heavy thermoguard curtains in the bedroom at that time. The extra weight from the water in the drapes sent my curtain rods crashing to the floor--taking huge chunks of plaster from my brand new bedroom walls with it. As I lay on the floor crying like a baby, Danny called Dave.

Then there was my redecorating stage. I watched every show on television about how to redecorate a home on a budget. The time came to build my own headboard. I'm actually pretty good at crafts, and I built a really cool headboard. When it was finished, I looked at it and had an "Oh crap!" moment. It never occurred to me that this huge, heavy headboard would have to be picked up from my living room floor, carried to my bedroom, lifted up, and somehow mounted to my bedroom wall. Yep, time to call Dave.

In addition to his handyman skills, Dave was a master at making me see someone else's viewpoint. He never judged me, but gently guided me. He was a friend to me even when I was my worst self.

One night Danny and I were talking, and Danny made a slip of the tongue and stopped short. I pried and pried until he finally realized he was not going to get any peace until he fessed up to me. There had been a little conspiracy for a number of years between Danny and Dave. Dave had been single for years. At some point, apparently, Danny made Dave promise that if anything happened to Danny, Dave would marry me and take care of me. It never occurred to either one of them that I might have something to say about the matter!

Dave had a gift for remembering my birthday--which is amazing since it falls right before Christmas when everyone is busy. Dave never forgot my birthday. He always gave me a card. In all the years I knew Dave, he never mailed my birthday card. He came by the house and delivered the card himself. He took time out of the busy holiday season to come personally. One year he came when I was putting up the outdoor Christmas lights. I had been standing in the cold for a couple of hours, and was finally finishing up the lights on the orange tree when Dave drove up. Unfortunately, Danny wasn't home. Dave was too much of a gentleman to come in the house when Danny wasn't there, so we stood in the bitter cold under the orange tree and talked until the two of us almost had frost bite!

Dave is now in a happier place. He may have lost his battle with cancer, but I'm sure he's won the hearts of angels. We will miss you, Dave. Keep things stirred up until I get there, will you? God be with you 'till we meet again.

Friends

Friends come in all shapes and sizes. They are young, and they are old. You find them in the strangest places. Friends are found in school, at work, in church, at baseball games, and in clubs. I used to think that you had to meet someone and at least shake their hand to begin a friendship. That seemed logical, and I'm nothing if not logical.

A year or so ago my daughter encouraged me to open a Facebook account, and then some months ago I was encouraged at work to open a Twitter account. I began talking with complete strangers on the internet. It was odd for me at first. I wasn't sure what to say. As the months moved on, however, conversation became more natural. I listened to people's problems (in 40 characters or less). I began reading their blogs. Suddenly these funny made-up names on my computer screen became real people. I found myself actually caring about these people. We've rallied around each other as we've dealt with health issues, financial problems, a home that burned down, sick children, deaths in the family, raising children, staying connected with grandchildren, social issues, and our own struggles to be the kind of people we aspire to be. We've prayed for each other. We've prayed for each other's family members and friends.

As I began reading my internet buddies' blogs, I found a kind of friendship I've never before experienced. I read, I digested, I thought about, and then I responded. That's a novel concept, isn't it? When two people converse in the same room, how often do we stop to digest and think about what the other person says before we respond? Normal conversation seems to flow so quickly in this fast-paced world in which we live. Do we really listen to each other anymore?

Say what you will about social media. It can take up too much of our time if we allow that to happen. It can control our lives if we allow that to happen. Or social media can be a means of making us better people. We can learn from others. We can comfort others. We can develop bonds that reach beyond cyberspace and into human space.

Yes, friendship is found in a variety of places. Thank you Twitter and Facebook friends. I love you all.

Good Neighbors

Harry and Alma were our next-door neighbors for many years. We met them the weekend we moved into our home. It was uncommonly chilly for Sacramento that May, and we were having difficulty lighting the pilot light on the furnace. I don't know why, but my husband went next door and introduced himself to Harry looking for help so that his pregnant wife wouldn't freeze. Little did he know that Harry installed the furnace for the previous owner, who was a single female. Actually, Harry knew our home like the back of his hand. (I'm sure he sometimes wished he didn't.)

Harry and Alma owned a farm in Kansas, and Harry was retired from Union Pacific Railroad. Alma's mother died when she was in the 8th grade, and she quit school to help her father raise her eight brothers and sisters. They were great people, and very devout Lutherans. Neither my parents, nor Danny's parents lived in California, so Harry and Alma became our "local" parents, and eventually an extra set of grandparents to our children.

The neighborhood gathering place on warm evenings was Harry's driveway. He would pull out his chair and one for Alma in the driveway. As neighbors would stop by, he'd pull out a few more chairs. In the daytime the driveway was home to all the kids in the neighborhood. Roller skates, skate boards, bicycles -- all skills were learned in that driveway -- and many bicycle repairs.

On those days when I'd had enough of motherhood and even had enough of Danny, I'd run next door and pour my heart out to Alma who was nothing if not a good listener. By the time I'd leave Alma's house, I was ready to face anything.

Harry became the official "go to guy" anytime we were doing a household project. I love Danny, but he is almost as bad at household projects as my father -- and that takes a lot of effort. Harry was incredibly patient with Danny. On one occasion after Harry got too old to actually do the work, I went to get him, sat him on a chair in my garage, and said, "Okay, Harry. You're going to sit there and tell me how to fix this dryer." He walked me through the process of taking off the back of the dryer, cleaning out the lint, changing a belt, and putting it all back together again. I thought that Harry was helping me, but I soon realized that Harry felt useful again, and that was a big deal for him.

I remember when I was pregnant with Ezra (3rd in the lineup of 4). I was so sick. Molly and Hannah would just wear me out. One day after lunch I sent the girls out in the front yard to play, while I laid on the couch and watched them through the big picture window in our living room. It wasn't long before Harry pulled out his chair from his garage and pulled it up far enough so that I could see him. He motioned for me to go to sleep, and that he would watch the girls. This went on every day for several more weeks until Ezra was finally born. I can't tell you how much I appreciated that nap!

Harry always wore coveralls (habit from his railroad days). My sister sent a couple of pairs of coveralls in a bag of hand-me-downs, and Molly was in heaven because she could dress like Harry. Molly wore coveralls for the longest time -- with a San Francisco Giants baseball cap on backwards (and usually covering her eyes).

I could tell that Harry had always ruled his household, and what he said was law in his home. I think he got quite a kick out of the fact that I stood up to Danny. On many occasions I would see him turn his head and chuckle when I'd give Danny whatfor about some household project or something that I disagreed with Danny about. I'm probably the first female he ever knew that didn't wimp out at the sound of a man's voice. I think Alma learned a little from me in that regard, as well. She got a little fiesty there at the end.

All my kids loved Harry and Alma. Ezra was completely devastated when Harry died. I don't think I've ever seen a kid cry that much at a funeral. Harry's family felt really sorry for Ezra that day. The kids helped me tie a yellow ribbon around Harry's tree the day he died. It wasn't long after that Alma left us too. I sit at my computer ever single day on Harry's chair. It's old. It hurts my backside. But I won't give up Harry's chair. Oh how I miss them!