Day 7, January 7

I am a baby-boomer, growing up in the 50s and 60s. Computers belonged to the future. We had never heard of iPods, iPads, or the internet. (Notice how all of those being with the letter I?)

We didn't have language labs, media centers, or cafe-auditoriums. We brought our lunch from home, wore dresses every day to school, and minded our manners.

What I remember most from those years are the teachers: Mrs. Little, my kindergarten teacher. Miss Pease and Miss Bush, who taught second and third grade respectively. Mrs. Kennedy, who taught fourth grade and navigated my class through the first presidential election I can remember. Mrs. Biedler, who taught sixth grade and challenged the class to read every day.

These special teachers taught me reading, writing, arthrimetic, and so much more. They taught me how to think. More, they taught me how to dream.

Fast forward two decades. I was married, had a young family of three little children, and pulled one of my dreams out of cold storage. I wrote a short story and sent it to a magazine. To my amazement and delight, it was accepted. An editor liked my story! What's more, she sent me a check for it. Someone had paid me to write. It was a heady feeling.

I continued writing, selling a story here, a story there. My mother wrote to say that Miss Bush called her to tell her that she had read one of my stories in a magazine. I was touched that she remembered me and took the time to contact my mother.

Our family grew to include two more children. I kept writing, eventually selling a book, then another. All the while I remembered those teachers who instilled in me a love for words and how they could be strung together to form sentences, paragraphs, pages, stories.

So, for today, I am grateful for teachers who care enough to inspire.

Day 6, January 6

My husband and I raised five children. Our home was a cacaphony of noise--raised voices, video games, piano practice, video games, trumpet practice, video games, flute practice, video games. You get the picture.

I reveled in our family, in the activity and sheer energy of our three sons and two daughters. At the same time, I knew I needed moments of quiet. My family quickly learned that Mom needed her "alone time."

Like many writers, I am an introvert. Recently I learned a new definition of introverts: An introvert is one who gathers energy from solitude. (An extrovert, on the other hand, gathers energy from being around others.) While I enjoy attending church, parties, and other events, I need slices of quiet every day to recharge myself.

Over the years, I've learned that controlling my outside environment is often easier than controlling my own unruly thoughts. Negative, fearful, and sometimes downright snarky thoughts impinge upon my mind, making my quest for quiet impossible.

One of my favorite hymns is "Be Still, My Soul," by Katharina von Schlegel.

"Be still my soul:
The Lord is on thy side;
With patience bear
Thy cross of grief or pain."

The beautiful words remind me that the Lord is always there and is, indeed, on my side. When I acknowledge that assurance, my thoughts quiet and my mind is at rest.

So, for today, I am grateful for quiet. In the outside world. And in my soul.

Day 5, January 5

I am not a fancy person. My clothes come from garage sales, as do the furnishings in my home. As previously mentioned, I drive an 18 year old car. It is no wonder that I am equally frugal (some would say cheap) in my skin care.

I live in Colorado where the dry climate is hard on aging skin like mine. Budget and principle prohibit me from spending $100 or more on fancy creams that come in fancy packages. What do I use instead?

Vaseline.

Yes, you heard me right. I use good, old-fashioned petroleum jelly on my face at night. It fills in the cracks and pores, much like spackling fills in the cracks in drywall.

Vaseline, in its humble plastic jar, serves a myriad of other purposes as well. It soothes chapped lips and hands. It protects a baby's bottom from diaper rash. It can loosen a stubborn ring that refuses to come off.

Why am I going on about Vaseline? I'm not a spokesperson for it. I'm certain the manufacturers would want someone far younger and prettier to represent it.

The reason is simple: Vaseline reminds me of some special people in my life, people who quietly serve without drawing attention to themselves. A friend who sees a need in another and sets about to fill it. A cousin who lovingly tends four grandchildren and calls her home "The Granny Farm." A lady in our church who sees to the needs of her seven small children with unfailing good humor and unflagging energy. My sister, who, despite problems of her own, is the first to volunteer to help when someone is in trouble. My husband, who sends flowers not only to me but to this same sister. The people in our church who serve wherever they are called to without fanfare and without recompense.

Contrast these "Vaseline people" to media stars and politicians whose every move is calculated to gain attention and notoriety. Grand gestures to charity are heralded with the "blowing of trumpets." Drunken sprees are heralded in the same manner. Nothing is done without an ulterior purpose.

So, for today, I am grateful for Vaseline ... and Vaseline people.

Day 4, January 4

It is now ten days past Christmas. During the previous month, I overindulged, as I always do, on honeyed ham and mashed potatoes, cheese platters and crackers, cookies and candies. In short, I ate too much.

The results are not pleasant: An out-of-shape body that refuses to get back into shape. No control top panty hose are going to help this particular problem. (And while we're on the subject of panty hose, how many of you have ever tried to fit in one-size-fits-all hose? Need I say more?)

So why am I grateful for my mis-shapen body?

Because, no matter how out of shape it is, I still have the strength to do what God intended it to do. I can still hold a grandchild, still comfort a grieving friend, still walk and enjoy the beautiful world our Father created.

This brings me, once more, to appearances vs. substance. In my case there is definitely too much substance, but let's move on from that unpleasant subject. Our culture continues to value the outward shell more than the inner spirit. Have you noticed the proliferation of makeover shows on television? Each one says, "You are not good enough as you are. You must be better. You must look better. You must conform to an artificial standard set by Hollywood stars, socialites, and other celebrities."

Do I really want to "Keep Up with the Kardashians?" In truth, I don't know who they are. Nor do I care.

I'm more interested in keeping up with my family. My friends. My God.

And so, for today, I am grateful for my body, out-of-shape though it is.

Day 3, January 3

My husband, Larry, and I have two aging cars, 12 and 18 years old. Like me, they are showing their age. Dings, scratches, and hail dimples (not unlike cellulite) mar their once shiny surfaces. Creaks and groans occasionally occur when they are started. Both are well past the 100,000 mile mark.

Why, then, am I thankful for these cars? Several reasons, actually.

First, the cars are paid for. As the children of children of the Great Depression, Larry and I were taught to "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." We chose used cars, paid cash, and never made a car payment on them.

Secondly, the cars perform a function. They take us to church, to work, to visit family. They allow us to perform errands, to drive a friend to the grocery store or doctor, to attend garage sales! In short, they do what they are supposed to do.

Lastly, they represent substance. Though they have lost much of their comely appearance, they remind me that substance trumps appearance every time. In a world where appearances are all-important, I am grateful for the reminder that in things, and in people, the inner workings are far more important than the outward trappings.

In this regard, I think of my father's hands. They were gnarled, the veins raised, the fingers bent, but they were beautiful to me. They symbolized a lifetime of hard work and care.

So, for today, I am grateful for old cars.

Day 2, January 2

I'm currently away from my home in Loveland, Colorado and visiting my sister, who lives in Sandy, Utah. This is the land of the Mormon Taberncale Choir, Temple Square, and green Jello studded with pineapple chunks. (This is not a peculiarly Mormon dish, but we have raised it to an art form.) It is also the home of the inversion effect where a bowl of gray sits over the Salt Lake Valley during the winter months, defying any sunlight to pass through.

When errant rays of sun make their way through the gray, it is a cause of rejoicing. Yesterday, the sun dared to shine, gilding the recent snow until it glowed. I felt my spirits lift with every speck of gold radiating from above.

Doctors tell us that sunlight is an important and much-needed source of Vitamin D. My spirit tells me that it does much more than provide an essential vitamin. Sunlight is a blessing from God, a benediction upon the day. Without it, I feel anchorless.

I wondered why that should be so. Is it simply a case of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? Like many others, I suffer from that. Or could it be more?

I love to play with words. Anagrams, word searches, crossword puzzles--they all fascinate me. Could the word "sunlight" hold a deeper meaning? Could it be that "sunlight" is synonymous with "Sonlight?" That by basking in the sun, I am also basking in the Son? That I am feeling His love when the sun touches my face?

It is a question to ponder. Certainly this comparision is not original with me. Many have put forth the same metaphor. Yet I had never before applied it so intensely to my own life. (I'm a late starter in many ways.)

Sunlight. Sonlight.

So, for today, I am grateful for the sun. It goes without saying that I am always grateful for the Son.

Day 1, January 1

The New Year is traditionally a time to look forward, to make resolutions to live one's best life. However, today, I am looking back, specifically, back to those who have gone before and the legacy they have given me.

My father's ancestors traveled across the plains in the mid-nineteenth century for religious freedom. They settled in Utah, built a comfortable home, and started a new life. At directions from then President and Prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Brigham Young, they uprooted their family to journey to the Gila Valley of Arizona.

Gila monsters, sand, and hardship greeted them. Still, they persevered and established a settlement, began a freighting company, and built churches. A town, Hubbard, was named for my grandmother's family. Hard work and worship were their watchwords.

My mother's people (in the south, you don't say family but "people") dug in to the fertile soil of eastern Tennessee. With stubborn pride and a love for the Lord, they taught their children to work, to revere God, to serve in whatever way they could. My mother frequently related stories of growing up during the Great Depression. She and her sisters each had two dresses: one for school and one for church. These few clothes were not popped into an automatic washer but sponged off every night, made ready to wear for the next day. Thrift and making-do were a way of life.

My parents left little in the way of material goods, but they gave my sister and me and our families a legacy rich in service, faithfulness, and integrity.

So, today, I am grateful for the legacy of family, for those who have gone before.