To My Children, on Mother's Day

Dear Kids,

I will be giving a talk this Sunday on Mother's Day. Since it is a day set aside for honoring our mothers I will be talking about my mother that day...but I wanted to take some time to talk to you today about your mother. A lot of these things you know but, perhaps, they haven't sunk in to the degree that they should and so I wanted to give you all just a few examples of just how special your mother is.

When I set out to seriously find a wife, one of the criteria I had was that I was determined to find someone who would be a good mother. I didn't know it at the time but, when it came to this particular quality in a mate, I hit the jackpot. Your mother is, quite simply and without reservation, the most selfless mother I have ever known. From the moment you kids arrived on this earth, I have watched her fall completely and hopelessly head over heels in love with each of you. Just about every waking thought she has and every plan she makes is with one or all of you in mind. I know that it might seem burdensome or annoying at times to have someone have so many opinions about your life but, trust me when I say, someday you will miss it.

I know this from first hand experience because, when I became an adult, and for quite a few years before, I was annoyed by my own parents sticking their noses into my business and looked forward to the day that it would end. Although I didn't know it when I was wishing it, the day that they would stop sticking their nose into my business would be the day that they died...and now I sit here and look at pictures of my parents...pictures that show them when they were younger that I am now and I wish I could talk to them and get some much needed advice and wisdom.

There are four of you children, although only three of you are living. We would have loved to have a great many more children for each of you has brought joy and happiness to our lives but, even though your mom was born to be a mother, her body simply would not cooperate. Each pregnancy brought new and ever-increasing challenges.

John-Ross, when you were born, you came into this world a squalling, multi-colored mass of goo. To be quite honest, it was a little disgusting...and yet, as my gaze shifted from you to your mom, it was obvious that she was looking at the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. You were still kicking up quite a fuss when they placed you in her arms....then she softly spoke your name and you immediately became quiet. I knew then and there that, while I would love you to the heights and breadths of my soul, those heights and breadths were  dwarfed by your mother's and that she would love you forever with a love that I simply do not think it possible for a man to achieve. It was, at the same time, one of the saddest and most beautiful moments in my life. Beautiful because of the pure love I witnessed and sad because I knew I could never hope to achieve the intensity of that emotion in this life.

When you were a toddler, you came down with pneumonia. We had to take you to the hospital and your condition was serious enough that they needed to keep you there for a few days. The doctors terrified you and you refused to stay still. You kept pulling the IV's from your arm and the doctors tried in vain until the only solution that seemed viable was to tie your arms and you into your bed so that you could not move. Your mother simply would not allow that and said that she would stay up and hold you. I was on a deadline at work and had to leave. Your mother stayed up with you and held you, going without sleep for three days and two nights until you were well again.

On your third Halloween, it was during the last great recession we had and I took the only job I could find, sales. It wasn't a very good sales job but one of the benefits was that I got paid the instant I made a sale. Your mom sent me out the day of Halloween with one quest. I was to make a sale so that I could get paid and we could buy you a store-bought Halloween costume. I failed. I called your mom at the end of the day and confessed my failure. I could hear the disappointment in her voice, not in condemnation of me but in sadness for you. She told me to come home that supper would soon be ready and she would think of something. That ride home was one of the longest in my life. All I could think of was what a failure I was that I couldn't even afford to buy my son a Halloween costume

When I drove into the driveway, the front door flew open and your mom, smiling from ear to ear, practically dragged me from the car and into the house. She had taken one of your grandmother's hair extensions (I think they call it a 'fall') It was salt and pepper gray to match her hair. Anyway, she had taken the extension and had twisted it into two long braids and tied it to your head with a red bandana. Then she took some eye liner and drew on a stubble beard and placed a ukulele in your hand. You were the cutest little Willie Nelson anyone had ever seen. Later that night, you won first prize at The Ward Halloween Party. I often think about that night and wonder if she realizes how grateful I was to have a wife who could so easily make up for my shortcomings. I also wonder if you realize how special your mother is.

Daniel, when you were born, your mom and I were living in San Francisco, far away from any extended family. Yours was the third pregnancy. We lost a son between you and your brother. We named him Gavin and every August 1st, your mom makes sure that we remember him. Each pregnancy seemed to take a greater toll on your mother's health and, when you were born, she had to stay in the hospital for quite a few weeks afterwards.

We didn't know what autism was and so, when you constantly cried and refused to be comforted, your mom blamed herself and constantly berated herself for her inability to comfort you. When milestones such as walking and talking came and went, it became evident that you would need much more care than other children. Your mom spend days and weeks on the phone searching for a doctor who could even give us a diagnosis....some place to start so we would know what to call it and how to start helping you. She kept volumes of records in milk crates....enough to fill up a small library. At any given moment, she could go to the proper milk crate and get the proper folder which held whatever record she needed at the time.

Finally we found someone to diagnose you. You have autism and your mother set out being an expert on that particular disease. Such was her determination that your doctors have used her as a consultation resource. The last doctor wrote a note to anyone looking in your file, "Give this woman whatever she wants for her son, she knows more about this stuff than you do"

When the school you were attending refused to give you the services you needed, your mom became an expert in that particular area of the law. There was a point in our lives when your mom and I sat on one side of a table with the other side being filled with twelve other people, school administrators and lawyers. They were there to tell us why they would not, could not, and did not have to, give your mom the services that she was requesting (demanding) that they give to you. Every objection from the other side of the table was met with a response from your mom, who could quote them the law, chapter and verse. At the end of three hours, the head lawyer threw up his hands and said, "We have to give her what she wants" I hadn't the heart to tell him that, if he had only asked me, I could have told him exactly how this was all going to turn out and would have saved us all three hours of our lives that we weren't going to get back.

You also had a special Halloween costume. You loved The Ghostbusters and determined that you wanted to go as The Staypuft Marshmallow Man. They didn't make one of those in the stores and so your mother sewed one from scratch, making the pattern herself..it was perfect. People came up to us and asked where we had bought it.

Sarah, when Daniel was born, the doctors warned us that the next pregnancy would kill your mother. We were both saddened because we both wanted many children but, for years, we heeded the doctors' advice to make sure your mother would not get pregnant. Many times, I would sit at the dinner table and look around at my family and realize that somebody was missing...somebody was not there who belonged at our table. I never told your mom about those promptings because I never wanted to place pressure on her. I knew already that, if I even mentioned having another child, she would risk her life to do so.

Then one day she came to me and told me she wanted another baby. I reminded her of what the doctors had said and she said, "I know. But I have a husband that holds The Priesthood. If you give me a blessing, I know we can do this". I wanted to bless her that she would have an uneventful pregnancy and deliver a healthy baby. However, all that I was allowed to promise was, "you'll live".

By the time you were born, two months early, your mom had been in the hospital for months. After the most grueling delivery of all, I arrived at home to tell your brothers that they had a sister. The phone was ringing. When I picked it up, it was your mother's doctor telling me that, if I wanted to say goodbye to your mom, I needed to hurry.

I raced back to the hospital and watched, terrified as they pumped transfusion after transfusion into your mother in an effort to stop the bleeding. Nurses would scurry in and out of the room. Every once in a while, one would catch my eye, set their mouth to a pencil-thin straight line and give me a grim shake of their head as if to say, "I'm sorry, we're doing the best that we can, but she is just not going to pull through"

Later on, while I sat in my wrecked car and fought off dying, I came to realize how difficult a task it is to hang on to your life when you really should be passing on. It requires a concentration that taxes every fiber of your body and soul. It is so tiring and so tempting to just let go and float away. It is a struggle that I had to endure for about an hour and I could not imagine being able to endure it much longer. Your mom struggled like that for two days. Her incentive was that she had three children to raise.

We often hear of how selfless a person has to be to die for someone else. Very few of us know just how much more difficult and selfless it is to fight off death so that you can live for someone else.

There are so many more instances but I wanted to give you kids these examples so that, perhaps this Mother's Day, your hugs will linger just a bit longer and your kiss on her cheek will be just a bit sweeter...and your hopes for a happy day for her will be just a bit more heartfelt

Love,

Dad

When Upon Life's Billows

This little black rock is very special to me. Lately I've been trying to cultivate the character trait of gratitude. I decided to give myself a reminder from time to time to stop and recount to myself all of the blessings in my life...hence, the rock.

Every day, when I get out of bed, I look to my night stand and see my gratitude rock. It prompts me to think to myself at least ten things in my life for which I am grateful. When I get dressed, I pick it up and place it in my pocket...ten more things.

Throughout the day, whenever I place my hand in my pocket to get my keys, some change, or just to keep them warm, my fingers brush the rock and I am reminded to think of ten things that have blessed my life.

When I go to bed at night, I take it out of my pocket and place it on the night stand...ten more things. I've arranged it so that the first thing I do each morning and the last thing I do at night is to think of things for which I am grateful...and to give thanks to my Heavenly Father for those things.

It is amazing how uplifted my spirits have been since I've started doing this. Little annoyances no longer seem like obstacles. I find myself smiling a great deal more and speaking more sweetly to those I love. This little black rock is becoming a very important part of my life.

I'm very grateful for it

Sunrise in the Valley of Peniel

After eight months of participating in this recession, I will start a new job on Monday. It has been a difficult time and I cryptically blogged about it a few posts ago.

http://boyceinthewilderness.blogspot.com/2010/10/in-valley-of-peniel.html

The way in which this job came about was nothing short of miraculous. Three months after moving my family to Utah, the engineering firm that hired me experienced a turn down and I got laid off...last hired-first fired. I was given a generous severance package that lasted for about four months and, for the last four months, there have been lean times at our home.

The difficulty in finding a job during a recession was compounded by the fact that I had just arrived in Utah and didn't know what firms even specialized in my area of engineering. For months, I would scan want ads, look on the internet for head hunters and send out resumes wherever there was a hint of a possibility...all to no avail.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, there was a ray of hope. A head hunter called and told me that he had set me up on an interview. I was excited because this was the first interview I'd been on in eight months of looking. I decided that my sport coat was a little shabby and I needed to look at the big and tall shop to see if any were on sale.

I don't know who makes all of the fashion decisions in big and tall men's clothes but, apparently being twice as large as anyone else isn't enough, they feel we need to call attention to ourselves with loud colors and patterns. Nothing seemed appropriate and, the only sports coats that were conservative enough for a job interview were well out of the $130 budget I'd set for myself.

For over an hour. the clerks and manager all tried to find something that would fit both my budget and my frame and be conservative enough for a job interview at an engineering firm. They mentioned that they could have something in my size and budget in a week and that's when I told them that this was the only job interview I'd had in an eight month search and I needed it the next day.

I turned to walk out of the store when the manager called me back in, saying that he'd 'found' a suit....not the sports jacket that I was looking for, but a suit....It was in my size, very well put together, the fabric was a very conservative dark gray...and (what a coincidence) the suit just 'happened to be on sale for $125.00'....they threw in a free belt as well.

My interview was the best it had ever been and the interviewer told me that I would start on the very next Monday. I was elated. It seemed that my troubles were over and that our family could finally start enjoying some niceties that we'd foregone over the last eight months. Then, later on that day, I got a call from my interviewer telling me that he had discussed things with the CEO and that the position had been put on hold for a week or two. I was a little disappointed but still confident.

When a week passed and I hadn't heard anything from the interviewer, I started to get worried, however, on our weekly visit to the temple, my wife and I both felt a very strong confirmation from The Spirit, that my employment woes would soon be a thing of the past.

Then, this last Monday, I got a call telling me that it didn't look like the position would be available after all. My heart sunk and I went to my knees to ask Heavenly Father why I had been promised something that didn't seem like it was going to come to pass.

About an hour after my prayer, I got a phone call from an engineering company that I'd never even heard of. They had pulled my resume from a website I'd put it on eight months ago. They wondered if I could come in the next day and interview.

Once again, it was a very good interview but, when I asked when they would be making a decision, the head of the company told me that I was the first of many candidates they were seeing over the next week. As I left, I saw two of my competition waiting in the lobby, both younger, thinner, and more dynamic than myself. I left the office a little less hopeful than when I'd entered.

Anyway, I just got off the phone with the head of the company. They made me an offer and asked me to start this next Monday.

Just try and tell me that there is no God...that He's not aware of my situation....that He's not concerned for my well-being....that He doesn't keep His promises.

Just try.

Heroes

I grew up in the segregated South. The very first words I learned to read were, "Colored Only". It was a time preceding color television, seat belts, safety glass, and central air conditioning. You used to beg to go to the store with your mom just so you could cool off. They had this delicious stuff they advertised as, "Refrigerated Air". I still recall the day I spent wondering when death would come and claim my young life because I had staggered into the Rice Food Market out of the sweltering heat and mistakenly sipped at the "Colored Only" drinking fountain.

My Great Grandfather, the father of my maternal Grandfather was a merchant turned hotel owner. He brought his family to Winters Texas after the Ku Klux Klan burned down his mercantile store in Rome Georgia. His crime was two-fold. He hired colored people and, adding insult to injury, he paid them the same wage the white folks were getting...two inexcusable indiscretions in the Georgia of 1905. So one evening several men in white hoods came to my Great Grandfather's store in the dead of night, and set fire to the establishment. He escaped the blaze with little more than his life and brought his family to Texas.

The relative enlightenment of my fore-bearers notwithstanding, they still referred to black people as "Nigra" using a hybrid between the word, "Negro" and the dreaded "n-word"...a word that I was taught was only used by white trash folks. Apparently, all my playmates and their families were white trash because that's the word they used and, ashamedly, the word I used when in their company.

It's interesting how little difference there was between the word my family used around the dinner table and the word I used on the playground with my friends but that little phonetic nuance was sufficient to provide a chasm of social distinction between a person of culture and someone you wouldn't want dating your sister.

I attended Elementary School at Montgomery Elementary in south Houston. I remember every one of my teachers: There was Miss Buzzbee, my Kindergarten teacher (isn't Buzzbee the perfect name for a Kindergarten teacher?) One day she told us we were going to have some special visitors in class that day....they never came. I felt ripped-off until I was thirty and I realized that the "special visitors" she spoke of were named "Dick" and "Jane" and had a dog named "Spot".

There was Mrs Harris, my first grade teacher, who was a stickler for manners. It was her task to prepare us for eating in the cafeteria. With a precision that would make any Field Marshall proud, she drilled us on the etiquette of standing in line with a tray, our silverware to the right and our quarter for lunch in the top left hand corner. If you brought an extra nickle with you, you could get cookies and milk. (Although the milk came with a paper straw that was only good for two sips before it became impregnated with milk and collapsed, and the cookies weren't really cookies. They were rectangular and chocolate and dotted with holes. They looked suspiciously like ice cream sandwiches without the ice cream) I never used the straw, I just unfolded the milk carton and dunked in my ersatz cookies.

One day, Charlotte Stinson, the girl who sat directly in front of me at the lunch table ordered me to stop. (I should insert an editorial note here. Charlie Brown had his Lucy, Dennis the Menace had his Margaret, and I had Charlotte Stinson)

"Stop", ordered Charlotte.

I looked up with a mouthful of milk sodden faux cookie and asked, "Stop What?" (although it sounded more like "Top Wah?")

"Stop being gross", said Charlotte.

Although I was no stranger to an accusing finger being leveled in my direction, with the charge of "being gross" following right behind, I couldn't for the life me figure out what Charlotte was going on about. I looked to Pat Ellis at my right who eyed me up and down checking for wanton grossness and finally just shrugged as if to say, "Women!"

I looked to my left at Johnny Tait who had forgotten his lunch and was eating paste. He was similarly baffled as to what I was doing that would set Charlotte off like that. Finally, I just shrugged and picked up my next cookie. Charlotte jumped to her feet and went over to the table where the teachers were eating.

For a kid in the cafeteria to approach the teachers' lunch table was akin to a WWII prisoner of war crossing the warning wire in his prison camp. All eyes in the cafeteria were on Charlotte Stinson as she approached Mrs. Harris. I couldn't make out what she was saying from that distance but, when she finished, she turned with a smug expression and pointed at me.

Mrs Harris leapt to her feet and dragged me out of the cafeteria by my ear proclaiming loudly that if I could not mind my manners, I could eat outside with the other animals. I was accused, tried, and condemned faster than a French Aristocrat on Bastille Day. I didn't even get to finish my second cookie (For which Johnny Tait was grateful)

Mrs. Harris brought me to Mrs Nesbit, our school's principle who was, early in my academic career, on a first name basis with my mother. She was a behemoth of a woman whose massive backside rolled like thunderclouds beneath her perpetual black dress as she strolled the halls of Montgomery Elementary. Whether she was always dressed in black because she was in mourning for a lost husband or her youthful figure, I do not know. What I do know is that one day Kevin McCreary showed me a picture of Sophia Loren dressed in black lingerie and black seamed hose and I was for a long time, put off of pin-up pictures because black seamed hose happened to be Mrs Nesbit's stocking of choice.

As I look back now...maybe she wasn't always dressed in black after all. Perhaps she was so dense that light couldn't escape from her. I often wondered if I threw a chalkboard eraser at her if it would hit her or just go into orbit....but I digress.

Mrs Nesbit grilled me on what I was doing that was gross. I steadfastly maintained that I was doing nothing more than dunking my cookies in my milk. Mrs. Nesbit looked at Mrs Harris and asked, "what did he do?" Mrs. Harris just looked back as if to say, "What? it was the Boyce kid accused of being gross...you do the math" Finally, they decided to bring in Charlotte to clear up the mystery. When Charlotte corroborated my version of the events there was a moment of embarrassed silence. Finally they excused Charlotte and a much nicer Mrs Nesbit said, "Tom, you can go back to class now".

Montgomery Elementary was an all white school. There were only two black faces in the place, our janitor, and the balding black man in dungarees whose oil painted portrait hung in Mrs. Nesbit's office. The polished brass plate under the portrait declared that the black man's name was "James Arle Montgomery" On the way out of her office, I stopped and pointed at the portrait and asked, "Mrs. Nesbit, why is our school named after a n____r?"

Mrs Nesbit rose from her desk and, with a speed and agility that belied her bulk, closed the door and ushered me back to my chair.

"You must never use that word", she said.

"Why not?" It was a legitimate question at the time. Practically every one I knew used it.

"Because", said my principle, "it is an evil word".

Mrs Nesbit then told me a story of something that had happened a few years before I was born, at another elementary school in Houston named Edgar Allen Poe. Like Montgomery Elementary, Poe was also an all white school whose only black face was a janitor named James Arle Montgomery. One day a man named Orgeron came to the school. He had been in arguments with the school the day before trying to enroll his son, Dusty, but without the proper documents. He angrily vowed to return the next day with the proper papers.

When he did return, it was with a suitcase full of dynamite. He walked onto the playground and gave a note to a teacher threatening to explode his bomb. The teacher called over one of the students and sent them to get the school principle and the janitor, who was the only male adult in the place. Montgomery was able to get most of the children away from the madman and went back to try and get the rest.

It was while Mr Montgomery tried to reason with Orgeron that the bomb exploded and six people, including Montgomery and Orgeron were killed.

"I want you to sit here for a while and look at that picture and think about that word you said and what I just told you", said Mrs Nesbit. Then she rose and left her office, closing the door behind her.

I sat there for a while and stared at the picture and then I began to understand. Montgomery was a black man in a school just like mine; an all-white school whose students probably called him the name I had just called him.

For the first time in my life, I placed myself in someone else's shoes. I imagined being someone who was constantly made fun of and called names and had to watch what he said or did, where he lived, ate, slept, drank, sat on the bus or even waited for the bus..for all of these things he had to carefully be sure he was within the limits, for fear of violent reprisal.

There was a line drawn between us but even at that tender age, I could see that, if I crossed that line and drank at a fountain I wasn't supposed to, the worst that would happen to me was some chuckling or rolling of the eye from the people in charge.

For Montgomery to cross that very same line would mean being arrested or, perhaps, taken from his home in the dead of night and hung from the nearest tree.

I thought of being a man who was hired by the very people who had drawn that line and demanded that he stay on his side of it...who was hired to clean toilets he was forbidden to use and polish drinking fountains he was forbidden to drink from.

I wondered, if I were such a man and was called upon to come to the aid of the children of my oppressors, would my feet be as swift and my actions as daring? I thought about how much like Christ a man had to be in order to willingly lay down his life for the very people who mistreated him

I stared at the picture of Montgomery as I remembered how Mrs Nesbit related to me that, after the explosion, the police called the families of the victims to the school to help identify the remains. Tears rolled down my face as I thought of Montgomery's own son having to wait off of the campus until all of the white people had finished their business.

Mrs Nesbit stayed outside while, for the better part of an hour, I wept as I thought of all these things in her office. Then I stood up, wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve and left.

In the early sixties John Glenn orbited the earth in his Mercury Space Capsule, and Mickey Mantle chased Babe Ruth's record for the most home runs hit in a single season.

When I went into Mrs Nesbit's office, my heroes were John Glenn and Mickey Mantle, when I left, my hero was a black janitor named James Arle Montgomery.

Making Others Feel Special

I hadn't stepped more than two feet into the Memorial Ward Chapel before Bret Bassett came up to me and introduced himself. He asked me my name, welcomed me to the ward and laughed at my jokes. Forty years later, Bret is still one of my closest friends and that laugh hasn't changed.

I was invited to a pool party at his subdivision and a follow-up party at his house that next Wednesday. At the party, Bret made sure that I was introduced to everyone. All of the time I was in his company, he made me feel like I was his closest and dearest friend. I kept thinking of the words that Christ used to describe Nathanael, "Behold, a man without guile". (later on I discovered a little guile here and there...but not much)

The first time I ate dinner with the Bassetts, I discovered a few things. First, if you weren't quick, you'd starve before you got anything to eat in that household. All of the food was placed atop a large Lazy Susan that sat at the round kitchen table. Nobody ever asked for anything to be passed, they just spun the Lazy Susan until the food item they wanted was in front of them.

I have heard people opine that the smallest increment of time known to man is called, 'A New York Minute'. It is the interval of time between the light in front of you turning green and the cab driver behind you honking his horn. However, I have discovered an infinitesimally shorter increment of time..it is the period of time between 'Amen' being said over the food at the Bassett home and the Lazy Susan starting to spin.

I wasn't quite sure what was on the menu because that Lazy Susan spun so fast that all I saw was a blur...an amalgam of foods whipping by too fast for the eye to lock onto so the mind could register. (I thought I smelled chicken) It was Brett's brother Bruce who showed me how to get fed. You simply stuck your arm into the middle of the Lazy Susan and scooped whatever dish came by off and onto the table. Once I'd seen it done a couple of times and was assured that I wouldn't lose a limb in the process, I copied Bruce's example. The timing required to accomplish this feat is something akin to the timing required for double dutch jump rope.

The second thing I learned from visiting The Bassett home was that all of Bret's brothers and sisters had, in varying degrees, the very same ability to make a stranger feel like you were family. It didn't take long to discover that this remarkable talent was due to the example set by the matriarch of The Bassett Clan, Sister Bassett.

Sister Bassett was the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove. Those ice-blue eyes of hers would look straight into yours in a way that said, "I'll brook no nonsense from you, young man" with a generous twinkle that also said, "but you're fun to have around". Even when those eye's flashed in anger, you could still detect a hint of that twinkle lurking around the edges.

I think it was because I loved the dichotomy of those angry eyes with a hint of twinkle so much that I made it my life's mission to be the thorn in Sister Bassett's side. I never left the field of verbal battle with Sister Bassett unbloodied, or even close to victorious. (but to this day, I haven't given up)

Once her youngest son, Sid, did something that caused Sister Bassett to reach out and swat his behind. I chided her by saying that the prophet, David O. McKay's children said that the worst thing he ever did to them was to say, "I wish my children would be good". Usually, a zinger like that will catch my opponent off guard long enough for me to prepare another one before they answer back...but not Sister Bassett. She shot back at me with, "I've read a lot of wonderful things about President McKay. I've never read anything about his kids though"

Score:Janice 1; Tom 0

We had an ongoing argument over my failure to attend BYU Education Week. I refused to go on the grounds that they charged an entrance fee and The Book of Mormon says that paying people to preach to you was priest crafts

This one came out a tie.

I never paid for a haircut my entire time in high school. If my hair got too long, Sister Bassett would get out her clippers and barber's cloth, set me in a chair in the kitchen, place the cloth around my shoulders and cut my hair. It was during these times of captivity that she imparted her wisdom to me. If I showed any reticence about accepting that wisdom or wanting to argue with her, I was told to be quiet and listen. Usually these demands for silence were punctuated by short tugs to a lock of hair on the back of my head.

Sister Bassett's favorite form of punishment was to sentence the guilty to a week of doing the dinner dishes. Over the years I had seen each of the Bassett children take their turn several times with this punishment. The seriousness of infraction required for the issuance this ultimate sentence waned proportionate to the days of the week. Meaning, if it was Sunday and nobody was cued up to do dishes for the next week, you watched yourself.

I thought that this punishment was reserved only for her children and paid for my folly one week by stepping over the line while teasing the youngest sister, Liz. I was roundly chastised and told that I was expected in the Bassett home every night at seven o'clock for a week so that I could do the dishes. All of the Bassett children cheered...mainly because, if I was doing the dishes, they didn't have to.

Explaining to my parents why I had to leave our dinner table and drive over to the Bassett's to do the dishes was a little awkward, especially when I didn't do dishes in our home. My dad asked me what would happen if I just ignored Sister Bassett's demand. To be honest, I hadn't really thought about it...and when I did...it scared me a little.

Sister Bassett became like a second mom to me. She's been in the hospital and, as I write these words, she is about to undergo surgery on her heart. There is a definite chance that she will not make it through the surgery...but how I hope and pray she does.

I went to visit her in the hospital on Monday and all of her children there greeted me like a long lost sibling. We all chatted while Sister Bassett slept, when she opened her eyes and saw me, the first thing I did was offer her a sip of my Dr. Pepper.

"You know I don't drink that", She said.

"Are you judging me?" I asked. "Is this the kind of thing that you want to be doing while getting ready to see Jesus?...judge others?"

I was rewarded with a huge twinkle out of those eyes that hadn't seemed to age a bit over the last 4 decades (score one for Tom)

When it came time to go, I went over and kissed her forehead, she said, "I love you forever and have since the first time you came into our home."

I've been keeping up with her progress by reading the blog her kids set up. I also read the comments of the people she's touched over the years....people who I don't know but feel the same way about her that I do. It made me think, for a moment, that I wasn't that special to her after all....but then I quickly realized that we all are.

In The Valley of Peniel

I watched a program on The History Channel the other day about the ancient patriarch, Jacob, whose name was changed to Israel after he wrestled all night with a heavenly being. Jacob called the name of the place where he struggled, 'Peniel' because, 'I have seen the face of God'. The name 'Israel' was given to Jacob as a blessing by the Heavenly messenger. Israel can have one or more of several meanings from, 'struggled with God' to, 'prevailed with God'. It was given to Jacob by the heavenly messenger at the dawn of an all night struggle during which neither was victorious. The scriptures state that the heavenly being reached out and touched Jacob's thigh and that his hip was out of joint. Despite the obvious pain and discomfort he was going through, Jacob stubbornly clung to the being and refused to let him go. Seeing that the dawn was upon him, the messenger told Jacob to release him. Jacob refused and demanded a blessing.

What interested me most was the literal way in which the historian commentators took the story. I must admit that, up to that point, I too had thought of Jacob's struggle in a literal sense...but not anymore. Maybe, perhaps, because I, also, have been struggling of late.

I've been going through some difficult times, lately. Although I've weathered far worse times, what makes this current episode so difficult to take is the way in which I've sought solace and comfort in vain. In other times, when I've gone to The Lord in prayer for relief and comfort, the burdens that I carried into the conversation and laid at Heavenly Father's feet have been taken from me. Nothing in my outward circumstances had changed. I still faced the same challenges as I did before I hit my knees, and yet...those burdens were taken from me and I left that meeting with my Father in Heaven with a knowledge that I was equal to the task before me...that things will, somehow, work out and my family and I will do well.

For the past few months, however, that solace has been sought in vain. The heavens seem to have closed themselves up and every petitioned blessing has been answered with a new challenge or obstacle. I don't know when I've ever felt more alone. Like Jacob, I have been struggling with God.

I suppose that's why yesterday's broadcast seems like a Godsend to me. For the first time I understood what must have been really happening that night, and I saw Jacob's struggle with God as a spiritual, rather than a physical struggle. Jacob seeking to connect with his Father in Heaven and seeking solace and comfort and assurance from God before he went on to meet his estranged brother, Esau...and that solace and comfort and assurance being withheld. Perhaps, during his distracted struggle to connect with God, Jacob lost his footing in the dark, slipped and fell and dislocated his hip, seeing that painful injury as an answer from God for his petitions.

As Jacob writhes in pain, he looks to the East and sees that the sky over the horizon is a shade or two lighter than the last time he looked and he realizes that he has been struggling with God all night long for a blessing that seems to not come.

And then Satan enters Jacob's heart in the guise of God, Himself, and say's 'Let me go'...'Abandon your worship of me'

And this is where Jacob proves to himself the metal of which he's made. He refuses to give up and abandon God, although it appears to Jacob as if God has given up on Jacob and abandoned him. He stubbornly refuses to let go and clings to God, asking a blessing once more...and this time the sought for blessing comes.

Jacob's name is changed to Israel and he is promised that he will be the father of many nations. The great blessing that was given to his father, Isaac and his grandfather, Abraham, will be realized through Jacob. Through his lineaqe will come the Savior of the World, and he will be praised throughout eternity.

Maybe I'm wrong and misreading this whole episode...maybe it's been so long since I've had a confirmation from The Spirit that I'm misinterpreting this whole scenario....but maybe I'm right.

Anyway, it's given me the strength to hold on...to stubbornly cling to God and await his answer.

Orange you glad we came?

Salerno was my first and, as sometimes happens, fourth city on my mission. Nestled just south of Naples along the southern end of the Amalfi Coast, reputedly one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. It was one of my favorite cities for several reasons.

The allies landed here during WWII and then slugged it up north where they had a major battle at Monte Casino where Germans had set up their stronghold in a Benedictine Monastery high on a hill overlooking the town of Casino. The battle was one of the bloodiest and most decisive battles in WWII and with the fall of Monte Casino, the road to Rome was open.

For some reason, I confused the old dilapidated ruins of a monastery high on a hill overlooking Salerno with the famed battle site located some 100 kilometers to the north.

In my defense, I blame a lack of interest in World History and that Italians actually believe that the grotto and manger wherein Christ was born was spirited away from Jerusalem by angels one medieval night and is now located in the town of Assisi Italy (Of St. Francis fame). Apparently the lead in the Italian water system causes these types of geographical delusions.

The fact that St. Francis' birthplace and the birthplace of our Lord is now located within a five minute walk of each other should be viewed as a bona fide miracle and we should not fall prey to the cynical assumption that this is just a thirteenth century marketing ploy. (On your way out, don't forget to take a look at our beautiful place mats which feature St. Francis' "Lord, make me an instrument of they peace" prayer in gold leaf on one side with the Holy Family manger scene recreated in stunning 3D reality on the other side....if you keep your left eye open while rapidly blinking your right, you'll see Baby Jesus wink at you)...now, back to our story.

Anyway, when I told my companion that I was certain that the run-down monastery on the highest hill overlooking Salerno was the famed WWII battle site, we made plans to climb the hill and visit it on the very next P-Day.

We started our climb about ten in the morning under a blazing August Mediterranean sun. It soon became apparent to both of us that the hill was a lot higher than we had anticipated,a lot steeper than we had anticipated, and that we should have brought along some water for the climb.

The road to the monastery wasn't anything you'd drive a car up....or even a jeep if it had a nice paint job. It was more of a goat path, complete with the occasional goat bleating out protests against out intrusion into their domain. Both my companion and I were tired, hot, thirsty, and sweaty and I suspect that if either of us hinted at wanting to go back without making it to the top, we'd have turned around immediately...but neither of us wanted to be the weenie and so we soldiered on.

About fifty yards from the top, we stopped to rest on a rock and catch our breath. That was when we discovered that the monastery which we had thought was abandoned was, in fact, inhabited. A party of three monks came down from the top of the hill towards us. They had witnessed our climb, which took the better part of an hour, saw that we had foolishly forgot to bring liquid refreshment, and were coming down to greet us with a couple of bottles of wine.

In Italy, EVERYONE drinks wine...and many Italians view a refusal of offered wine as an insult akin to spitting on their flag. It doesn't matter how much you protest that it is against your religion, they will try every ploy up to and including wrestling you to the ground, forcing open your mouth, and pouring the stuff down your throat.

The monks came up to us and introduced themselves. One of them told us that he was the prior of the small cell of monks that was living in and restoring the old monastery. When he offered us the wine he had brought to us, we politely refused, telling him that we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and that drinking wine was against our religion.

Given the Italian's sensitive feelings about their wine and the fact that we were Mormon missionaries on Italian soil, we fully expected to be shown the way back down the mountain. Instead, the prior inclined his head and whispered something to one of the other monks who went running back up to the monastery with the two bottles of wine.

The prior then invited us to lunch and asked us to sit and rest ourselves on a large rock overlooking the Bay of Salerno until we were refreshed and could continue our journey. After about two minutes, the monk that had left came hurrying back with a couple of cups and a pitcher of the coolest, sweetest spring water I had ever tasted.

When we got to the monastery, we saw that a table had been set up in the courtyard and the rest of the monks, about twenty in all, were busy setting up a simple, rustic meal of freshly baked bread, goat cheese, tomatoes, olives, vinegar, appricots and oranges, all made there in the monastery by the monks that now waited on us hand and foot. We were told several times how it was a pity that we could not drink wine which was also made there and, reportedly, quite wonderful.

Towards the end of the meal, the prior again bent his head and whispered something to the monk who had brought us the pitcher of water and sent him scurrying off on yet another errand. When he returned, he was holding two dusty bottles. We thought that we were, again, going to have to refuse an offering of wine when the dust was blown off and we discovered that what was being offered to us was aranciata...simple orange soda. Aranciata is the second favorite drink in Italy right after wine and coffee. When the rest of the monks at the table saw the bottles, they hastily drained the wine from their glasses in anticipation of the treat. There was just enough for a small glass of orange soda for each of us.

As we sat around the table and talked, there was no arguing over religion. Instead, we openly envied each other. My companion and I envied the amount of time afforded to the monks for study and prayer while they openly envied the fact that we were actively involved in bringing souls to Christ.

The hour was late and we had to be back and dressed in white shites and ties before 5:00 in the evening and so, after much hand-shaking, hugging, and a little more cheek-kissing than either my companion and I were comfortable with, we said our goodbyes.

As I related that story to our branch president, he told me that the monks on the hill were very poor and that they normally only ate very poor fare. "That meal they gave you was probably like their Christmas feast...and those two bottles of aranciata were probably donated and saved for a special occasion. They usually only eat what they grow or make and only come into town only twice a year and what little money they have is spent on building supplies"

The very next P-day, my companion and I and the two other missionaries that served in Salerno with us trudged up the hill to the monastery once more. The climb took a little longer this time because each of us were weighed down with shopping bags full of cheese, bread, olives, vinegar..and orange soda...lots of orange soda.

We probably could have brought one or two bottles more but we just had to have room in the bags for twenty bars of chocolate.