Hope...

Some days it is just hard to keep it alive.

Where do I turn for peace?

I was asked to do something this past weekend that was so emotionally difficult for me, I didn't know how I could possibly survive, yet knew I had to do it just the same. I cried and stewed for 3 days over the assignment. I spent hours studying the subject and praying...but it just would not come together. When I was in the eleventh hour, I read this true story by Jeffrey R. Holland:

"Katie Lewis is my neighbor. Her father, Randy, is my bishop; her mother, Melanie, is a saint. And her older brother, Jimmie, is battling leukemia.

Sister Lewis recently recounted for me the unspeakable fear and grief that came to their family when Jimmie’s illness was diagnosed. She spoke of the tears and the waves of sorrow that any mother would experience with a prognosis as grim as Jimmie’s was. But like the faithful Latter-day Saints they are, the Lewises turned to God with urgency and with faith and with hope. They fasted and prayed, prayed and fasted. And they went again and again to the temple.

One day Sister Lewis came home from a temple session weary and worried, feeling the impact of so many days—and nights—of fear being held at bay only by monumental faith.

As she entered her home, four-year-old Katie ran up to her with love in her eyes and a crumpled sheaf of papers in her hand. Holding the papers out to her mother, she said enthusiastically, “Mommy, do you know what these are?”

Sister Lewis said frankly her first impulse was to deflect Katie’s zeal and say she didn’t feel like playing just then. But she thought of her children—all her children—and the possible regret of missed opportunities and little lives that pass too swiftly. So she smiled through her sorrow and said, “No, Katie. I don’t know what they are. Please tell me.”

“They are the scriptures,” Katie beamed back, “and do you know what they say?”

Sister Lewis stopped smiling, gazed deeply at this little child, knelt down to her level, and said, “Tell me, Katie. What do the scriptures say?”

“They say, ‘Trust Jesus.’ ” And then she was gone.

Sister Lewis said that as she stood back up, holding a fistful of her four-year-old’s scribbling, she felt near-tangible arms of peace encircle her weary soul and a divine stillness calm her troubled heart.

Katie Lewis, “angel and minister of grace,” I’m with you. In a world of some discouragement, sorrow, and overmuch sin, in times when fear and despair seem to prevail, when humanity is feverish with no worldly physicians in sight, I too say, “Trust Jesus.” Let him still the tempest and ride upon the storm. Believe that he can lift mankind from its bed of affliction, in time and in eternity."

The story was an 'angel and minister of grace' for me. I felt peace encirlcing my weary soul and I just let go and trusted. Everything turned out they way it needed to.

Oh, Let the Sunshine In

Traditions of the Heart

I recently received a call from a not so favorite relative requesting a treasured recipe. It is a recipe for a white fruitcake that my mother used to make every Christmas and give to family members and very close friends. Needless to say, it is the best fruitcake I have ever tasted.

3 years before she died, Mom let me in on her secret recipe, and had me assist her in preparing and baking the cakes. A few days after Thanksgiving, the two of us would sit at her dining room table and cut up the fruit for the cakes, chop the nuts and share special conversation. When the mixing was done, and the cakes were in the oven, we would wrap the pajamas she had sewn by hand for every member of the family and a few other small gifts, and place them in sturdy boxes for mailing. As the cakes were baking, the room would fill with magic. The Christmas spirit traveled in the aroma whiffing from the oven and shown in the brightly wrapped, yet simple gifts, and also in the excitement of my mother's voice.

Finally, when the cakes were done, we would wrap them in shiny aluminum foil, place a bow on top of each and then place them in their treasured spot in the boxes. We would cover each large box with brown wrap, and then tie them up with string, and then carefully address them. This ritual took all day and for 3 sweet years, I got to share this special ceremony with my mother.

Our last year baking cakes together was most poignant. It was December, 1974. She was dying of pancreatic cancer. Although mom had not been diagnosed at the time, she knew it was her last time making cakes and our last Christmas together. She insisted I do most of the preparations as she watched over me to make sure everything was prepared just so. When the day was at a close, and the boxes ready to mail, she gave me her treasured recipe, and told me I was the only other person alive who had it. I remember feeling so special, so loved and honored that I had been chosen out of all her eight children to be given this special gift and knowledge.

I have always held the recipe sacred. I don't bake the cakes every year, but when I do, I give them away to those I love the most...those who share an intimate spot in my heart. Every time I do take the time to bake them, it takes me right back to those three very special Christmases so many years ago. I can almost hear my mother's voice of instruction and feel her with me again. And when I smell those golden loaves baking, I remember every special, treasured moment.

I decided to make this relative a cake after she called. I found the fruit a couple of days ago, and even though Christmas is over, I cut up the fruit yesterday with my daughter, and started teaching my daughter the secret combination. The cakes baking last night filled my kitchen with soft memories of love.

Now I have a decision to make. Someone is asking for the recipe...not just anyone, but the one person in my life who has caused me more sorrow, heartache and frustration than any other living soul. Do I give her the recipe or not? One person suggested to me that I just take her a cake and tell her that I don't give out the recipe. Another person, a daughter, said to me, "Mom, it is just a recipe."

How many Christmases do I have left? I do not know...maybe my last one just passed...so I have decided to deliver the cake to this relative tomorrow, along with my treasured and beloved recipe and in doing so I hope to rid my heart of all malice towards her, and perhaps bestow an even a greater gift for my daughter's sake, the gift of forgiveness. I need to do this, Mom, hard as it is...for it is the right thing to do.