Today is my brother-in-law, Rolf's, birthday. Rolf would have been 60 today. He passed away a little over a year ago.
If I had to choose one word to describe Rolf, it would be WORK. Rolf loved to work. More, he needed to work. He worked in the yard. He worked in the house. He worked in his law office. He worked in the church.
Rolf and his parents escaped eastern Germany before the Berlin Wall went up. They arrived in America with little more than a fierce determination and faith in the Lord. Rolf watched his parents forge a new life in a new land.
Their example stood him in good stead when he served a mission for his church, graduated from college, and went on to law school. During this time, he met my sister, Carla, and fell head-over-heels in love with her. From that time on, his every thought and action was dictated by his love for her and their family.
They stood beside each other when they lost an infant daughter to SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome). Faith that they would be re-united with her someday and their love for each other saw them through that terrible time.
In his last few months on this earth, Rolf did what he did best: he worked. He set up a family trust, making sure Carla and his family would be provided for financially. No detail escaped his attention, including having new tires put on her car.
The media delights in spotlighting Hollywood stars, athletes, and politicians who carelessly disregard their marriage vows, who dishonor their wives and their families with their selfishness. Rolf stands as a shining example of a man who kept his vows, who never tarnished his love.
So, for today, I am grateful for my brother-in-law, my brother.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Day 20, January 20
I love quilts. In particular, I love old quilts. I love the look of them, the feel of them. I love the way those who stitched the quilts worked with what they had--the scraps and pieces of living.
I am fortunate to have several quilts inherited from my mother, ones she and her mother and sisters made during the Great Depression. There was no money for new fabrics so they cut up old shirts and dresses to provide material. One quilt bears the words from a cloth flour sack. Nothing was wasted. Ever.
These quilts are now eighty years old. I would never think of getting rid of them. They are precious, representing the history and art of "my people," my family. Each is unique, fashioned from imagination and ingenuity.
As I finger the fabric of a sun-bonnet quilt, I am put in mind of a dear friend. Like the quilts, Dorothy was unique. Though nearly thirty years separated us, we became fast friends. We shared an off-beat sense of humor that occasionally baffled others. We told each other naughty jokes and laughed over the inanities of life.
Dorothy had weathered the deaths of three husbands, a child, and numerous operations, but she retained an enthusiasm for life and for living to the fullest. On her eightieth birthday, she threw herself a birthday party. She arrived wearing red, white, and blue, a tribute to the country she loved. Though she frequently was in pain, Dorothy defied it--and her years--by insisting that life was good.
Over the years, the quilts have faded, the fabric now fragile, the hand stitching undone in places. Dorothy's skin was also fragile, throwing the webbing of fine lines into stark relief. Scars from the stitching of various operations puckered her skin, but she viewed them as badges of honor and delighted in showing them off--to everyone.
In a culture which prizes youth and beauty above all else, Dorothy served as a reminder that age gives a diferent kind of beauty, one that is far more lasting than silicone implants and "nips and tucks." Dorothy passed away a few years ago, but her example remains with me.
So, for today, I am grateful for quilts which have stood the test of time and ... and for people who have done the same.
I am fortunate to have several quilts inherited from my mother, ones she and her mother and sisters made during the Great Depression. There was no money for new fabrics so they cut up old shirts and dresses to provide material. One quilt bears the words from a cloth flour sack. Nothing was wasted. Ever.
These quilts are now eighty years old. I would never think of getting rid of them. They are precious, representing the history and art of "my people," my family. Each is unique, fashioned from imagination and ingenuity.
As I finger the fabric of a sun-bonnet quilt, I am put in mind of a dear friend. Like the quilts, Dorothy was unique. Though nearly thirty years separated us, we became fast friends. We shared an off-beat sense of humor that occasionally baffled others. We told each other naughty jokes and laughed over the inanities of life.
Dorothy had weathered the deaths of three husbands, a child, and numerous operations, but she retained an enthusiasm for life and for living to the fullest. On her eightieth birthday, she threw herself a birthday party. She arrived wearing red, white, and blue, a tribute to the country she loved. Though she frequently was in pain, Dorothy defied it--and her years--by insisting that life was good.
Over the years, the quilts have faded, the fabric now fragile, the hand stitching undone in places. Dorothy's skin was also fragile, throwing the webbing of fine lines into stark relief. Scars from the stitching of various operations puckered her skin, but she viewed them as badges of honor and delighted in showing them off--to everyone.
In a culture which prizes youth and beauty above all else, Dorothy served as a reminder that age gives a diferent kind of beauty, one that is far more lasting than silicone implants and "nips and tucks." Dorothy passed away a few years ago, but her example remains with me.
So, for today, I am grateful for quilts which have stood the test of time and ... and for people who have done the same.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Day 19, January 19
I love music. I love the juxtaposition of notes that make up everything from concertos to guitar riffs. I love the melding of voices that work together in choirs. In short, I love everything about music.
Sadly, I lack any musical talents of my own, save for a very minor skill on the piano. I cannot carry a tune. I cannot play an instrument. I cannot compose music. Despite this lack, or perhaps because of it, my appreciation for those who possess these talents is endless.
Music touches my soul in ways that mere words cannot. It reaches inside me and squeezes my heart. At church services, I feel the Spirit most while the congregation or choir is singing. How can anyone not be moved by the magnificent "How Great Thou Art?" I am no less moved by the children singing "I Am a Child of God."
It is not only spiritiual music that resonates with me. I have seen "Phantom of the Opera" four times and discover new depths in it and fresh appreciation for it every time. I marvel at Andrew Lloyd Webber and his genius in bringing the tragic story alive.
So, for today, I am grateful for music and those who give life to it.
Sadly, I lack any musical talents of my own, save for a very minor skill on the piano. I cannot carry a tune. I cannot play an instrument. I cannot compose music. Despite this lack, or perhaps because of it, my appreciation for those who possess these talents is endless.
Music touches my soul in ways that mere words cannot. It reaches inside me and squeezes my heart. At church services, I feel the Spirit most while the congregation or choir is singing. How can anyone not be moved by the magnificent "How Great Thou Art?" I am no less moved by the children singing "I Am a Child of God."
It is not only spiritiual music that resonates with me. I have seen "Phantom of the Opera" four times and discover new depths in it and fresh appreciation for it every time. I marvel at Andrew Lloyd Webber and his genius in bringing the tragic story alive.
So, for today, I am grateful for music and those who give life to it.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Day 18, January 18
Yesterday I wrote about Benjamin Franklin and libraries. It seems I am not done with Ben. His accomplishments--from inventing bifocals to the rocking chair, from his work with electricity to serving as America's ambassador to France--continue to fill me with awe.
One of his lesser known roles was as postmaster. As postmaster, Franklin established the first national communications network. What a boon he gave the fledgling nation, to connect people over vast distances.
In today's world of emailing and texting, blogging and Facebook, the humble postage stamp frequently gets lost. Don't misunderstand me: I love the ease of email, and, obviously, I love blogging.
But I remain a devotee of sending cards the old-fashioned way, handwritten with a stamp placed in the upper right hand corner of the envelope. I take pleasure in choosing the perfect card to send to a friend. Is there anything more thrilling than receiving a real letter in the mail? They serve as beacons of intimacy in an assortment of impersonal junk mail, bills, and political announcements.
Letters are an intensely personal form of communication. I saved letters from my parents (both deceased) and re-read them, connecting with my mother and father all over again. I save cards from friends who care. I save cards from my children who express their love.
So, for today, I am grateful, once again, for Ben Franklin ... and for the postage stamp.
One of his lesser known roles was as postmaster. As postmaster, Franklin established the first national communications network. What a boon he gave the fledgling nation, to connect people over vast distances.
In today's world of emailing and texting, blogging and Facebook, the humble postage stamp frequently gets lost. Don't misunderstand me: I love the ease of email, and, obviously, I love blogging.
But I remain a devotee of sending cards the old-fashioned way, handwritten with a stamp placed in the upper right hand corner of the envelope. I take pleasure in choosing the perfect card to send to a friend. Is there anything more thrilling than receiving a real letter in the mail? They serve as beacons of intimacy in an assortment of impersonal junk mail, bills, and political announcements.
Letters are an intensely personal form of communication. I saved letters from my parents (both deceased) and re-read them, connecting with my mother and father all over again. I save cards from friends who care. I save cards from my children who express their love.
So, for today, I am grateful, once again, for Ben Franklin ... and for the postage stamp.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Day 17, January 17
Today many people are celebrating Martin Luther King's birthday. Because I frequently march to the beat of a different drummer, I am celebrating the birthday of a different American.
Benjamin Franklin was born January 17, 1706. Called the "First American," Franklin was an author, statesman, scientist, and designer. For book-lovers like myself and others, though, he may best be remembered for establishing the first lending library in America.
As a child, I haunted the public library. In it, I found a treasure trove of wonders. Through books I was anything I wanted to be. They took me from my introverted self into unknown and unexplored worlds. I came home with bags full of books and returned the following week for more.
My mother checked out reproductions of famous paintings, exposing our family to the works of the great masters. As a young mother I took my children to the library for story hour. They sat enraptured as dedicated librarians read to them.
Libraries of today are an Aladdin's Cave of activities, lectures, and books--always books. Do you want help in preparing your taxes? Do you want to attend a lecture on a trip down the Amazon? Do you want to check out the latest in music and movies? Do you want to read Grisham's current bestseller? Head to your library.
Do you want to give your children the gift of loving to read? Do you want to treat them to trips to the Orient, to the South Pole, to ancient Greece? Do you want to enrich their lives in untold ways? Then head to the library.
So, for today, I am grateful for Benjamin Franklin and his vision.
Benjamin Franklin was born January 17, 1706. Called the "First American," Franklin was an author, statesman, scientist, and designer. For book-lovers like myself and others, though, he may best be remembered for establishing the first lending library in America.
As a child, I haunted the public library. In it, I found a treasure trove of wonders. Through books I was anything I wanted to be. They took me from my introverted self into unknown and unexplored worlds. I came home with bags full of books and returned the following week for more.
My mother checked out reproductions of famous paintings, exposing our family to the works of the great masters. As a young mother I took my children to the library for story hour. They sat enraptured as dedicated librarians read to them.
Libraries of today are an Aladdin's Cave of activities, lectures, and books--always books. Do you want help in preparing your taxes? Do you want to attend a lecture on a trip down the Amazon? Do you want to check out the latest in music and movies? Do you want to read Grisham's current bestseller? Head to your library.
Do you want to give your children the gift of loving to read? Do you want to treat them to trips to the Orient, to the South Pole, to ancient Greece? Do you want to enrich their lives in untold ways? Then head to the library.
So, for today, I am grateful for Benjamin Franklin and his vision.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Day 16, January 16
I have always been fascinated by hands. I am fascinated by the look of them, the shape of them, the feel of them. I am fascinated by how they function, how the thumbs and fingers work together to perform tasks as simple as holding a pencil and as complicated as playing a piano concerto.
Some people believe that you can tell a person's character by what is written in their face. I believe that a person's character can be found in their hands, by the marks and lines and blemishes that come from living and loving.
One of my favorite sculptors, Mark Hopkins, fashioned a beautiful work depicting the Lord's hands creating the earth. The idea and process of creating--whether painting a picture, composing a piece of music, or designing a PC (printed circuit) board--fill me with wonder. How did DaVinci paint his masterpieces? How did Handel compose the Messiah? How does my husband design PC boards?
Because I can do none of the above, I am in awe of those who can. I am in awe of their hands. More, I am in awe of their minds and hearts which allow them to see beyond what is there.
A few days ago I wrote about my father's hands. They bore the scars of a lifetime of working and helping and creating a noble life. Another Father's hands also bear scars. Those scars are evidence of His love for us, of His sacrifice that made the Atonement possible.
So, for today, I am grateful for hands that create and for the hands of the Creator.
Some people believe that you can tell a person's character by what is written in their face. I believe that a person's character can be found in their hands, by the marks and lines and blemishes that come from living and loving.
One of my favorite sculptors, Mark Hopkins, fashioned a beautiful work depicting the Lord's hands creating the earth. The idea and process of creating--whether painting a picture, composing a piece of music, or designing a PC (printed circuit) board--fill me with wonder. How did DaVinci paint his masterpieces? How did Handel compose the Messiah? How does my husband design PC boards?
Because I can do none of the above, I am in awe of those who can. I am in awe of their hands. More, I am in awe of their minds and hearts which allow them to see beyond what is there.
A few days ago I wrote about my father's hands. They bore the scars of a lifetime of working and helping and creating a noble life. Another Father's hands also bear scars. Those scars are evidence of His love for us, of His sacrifice that made the Atonement possible.
So, for today, I am grateful for hands that create and for the hands of the Creator.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Day 15, January 15
Two nights ago, my sister, Carla, and I pulled into a restaurant's parking lot to meet a friend for dinner. The lot was full, and Carla waited patiently for a departing patron to back out of a parking spot. At that moment, another driver, who had just arrived, pulled into the spot.
Her rudeness startled us. I caught a glimpse of the driver, a well-coiffed, well-dressed woman and found myself thinking, "Where are your manners?"
I compared her thoughtlessness to that of another driver on a different occasion, who allowed me to pull in front of him when I needed to change lanes. I waved my thanks through the rear-view mirror, and he waved back.
Manners are more than meaningless gestures, as some people claim. Manners--both good and bad--define us in important ways. How we treat others is a mark of character, or lack of the same. Good manners smooth the rough bumps of life.
When growing up, I was taught the importance of saying, "Please" and "Thank you." Such simple words. As I grew older, I began to better understand the significance of them.
Are they not the same words we use when addressing our Father in Heaven in prayer?
We thank Him for the blessings He has bestowed upon us, and we ask Him for His continued blessings.
I am certainly not a paragon. Like the lady I described above, I am sometimes thoughtless. Then I try again, asking the Father for His help in doing better.
So, for today, I am grateful for people who touch my life with their kindness.
Her rudeness startled us. I caught a glimpse of the driver, a well-coiffed, well-dressed woman and found myself thinking, "Where are your manners?"
I compared her thoughtlessness to that of another driver on a different occasion, who allowed me to pull in front of him when I needed to change lanes. I waved my thanks through the rear-view mirror, and he waved back.
Manners are more than meaningless gestures, as some people claim. Manners--both good and bad--define us in important ways. How we treat others is a mark of character, or lack of the same. Good manners smooth the rough bumps of life.
When growing up, I was taught the importance of saying, "Please" and "Thank you." Such simple words. As I grew older, I began to better understand the significance of them.
Are they not the same words we use when addressing our Father in Heaven in prayer?
We thank Him for the blessings He has bestowed upon us, and we ask Him for His continued blessings.
I am certainly not a paragon. Like the lady I described above, I am sometimes thoughtless. Then I try again, asking the Father for His help in doing better.
So, for today, I am grateful for people who touch my life with their kindness.
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