I never saw Mr. Sam again. I continued to deliver mail to his business, always extra careful to place the letters square in the proper mailbox. Eventually, his business moved out, and that was that.

I admit, I may have felt rather snarky about Sam, remembering the discomfort of our one and only encounter. He had all but accused me of incompetence, after all. And I had endured hours of distress over it.

Yeah, I told the tale afterward—the conceited man of prestigious business who unjustly lorded it over me, a struggling mail ma’am carrying Christmas to all of Kimball Junction.

Only, maybe not. I’ve lately fallen into some speculation about Sam. Strange…I haven’t thought about him in years. I didn’t know Sam, and he didn’t know me. But what if I had known what led him to that exchange with me?

Maybe a Dickensian spirit has settled on me, prompting this “ghost of Christmas past” to examine the possibilities. (Does this kind of thing happen to everyone a week after watching George C. Scott’s Ebenezer Scrooge on TV?)

So, my speculations follow.

It’s always been curious to me that Sam repeatedly mentioned his “prestigious business.” At the time, it sounded boastful at best, condescending at worst. What did he mean by it?

What were those missing tickets? It could have been anything from ski passes to Nutcracker seats at the Capitol Theater in Salt Lake City. How many tickets, and who for? And what was riding on those tickets? Was he praying to find them too?

Suppose Sam was responsible for getting valuable tickets into specific hands. I never gave that possibility much thought. What if the consequences of missing tickets were embarrassing, even dire? Maybe crucial clients were involved, even the reputation of Sam and his business.

What if the consequences were heartbreaking? A disappointed child, maybe seriously sick?

What would Sam have had to face if he couldn’t produce those tickets? (Now I’m sliding into George Bailey territory, as in It’s a Wonderful Life.)

I’ll never know the answer. Maybe none of these questions even come close. But asking them has turned a new light upon this Sam of ten years ago. I’m feeling more charity toward him than I did before.

This feels nicer than grieving a long-healed wound.

If we knew the unexpressed motivations of people around us, just imagine how we could understand a person instead of judge a person. Sam’s purposes were likely as important to him as mine were to me. He had his reasons, no doubt. If he didn’t reveal them to me, well, I’ve done the same. Haven’t we all?

If I came face-to-face with Sam tomorrow, we probably wouldn’t notice each other. Maybe Sam has never given me another thought since that day. But it feels better that I have switched from grudge to good will. I hope Sam’s tickets made a difference for himself or for someone he cared about.

But I’m still glad it wasn’t me who fumbled the blessed tickets!

That incident launched a prayer purpose within me that carries on still. Ever since, I have prayed daily over the mail. I can’t do the job without praying, it seems, and I’m fine with that. I need Heaven’s help, so I ask for it. And Heaven is very giving, always.

A MAIL CARRIER’S PRAYER

                Heavenly Father, thank you for helping me to sort and load my mail route today. I ask Thee to please bless me and my fellow mail carriers with the strength, the focus, and the protection we need to deliver our routes accurately, efficiently, and safely.

            Please enable us to deliver all our items to the correct recipients and receptacles, and to place our keys correctly. Help us to scan 100% of our barcodes, and to do all things in good order.

            Please bless our postal customers.

            Help us to maintain possession of our car keys, our route keys, and our scanners. Also our phones and valuables. Bless us to be good stewards over the mail entrusted to us, and the vehicles.

            Please bless our vehicles to operate properly and spare us from breakdowns and mishaps and collisions. Please keep us safe whatever the weather and traffic conditions.

             Thank you for angels to guard our vehicles and the contents thereof.

            Thank you, Lord, for the work you have provided, and for this beautiful day, and for the love and care of Heaven every day.

            In the name of Jesus Christ, Thy Beloved Son, our Savior. Amen.

“…let your hearts be full, drawn out in prayer unto him continually for your welfare, and also for the welfare of those who are around you.  Alma 34:27

”Judge not, that ye be not judged.”  Matthew 7:1

Ten Decembers ago, I was maybe nine weeks into my new mail-carrying occupation, and suffering. I hadn’t foreseen the crushing workload involved with holiday mail volume, how the job would swallow my life.

My bloated Park City mail route seemed doubly difficult to me. I was still learning the process, still striving to increase my speed and accuracy. Winter had added considerably to my burden, the cold and icy conditions slowing my progress both in delivery and commute. Every prolonged day, I longed to finish earlier, longed to drive home while it was still daylight.

I had a strong reason for wishing, wanting, and needing to be home in those days—a teenage son suffering with anxiety and depression. But that’s another story.

On one of those pressing December days of 2013, I was finally out to deliver, after too many hours of sorting my onerous workload. Not halfway through my many stops, a man stopped me.

He wondered if I was the carrier for his business, and yes, I was. His name was Sam, and Sam proceeded to inform me how prestigious was his business, and how careless was the mail service. He hadn’t yet received some tickets he expected, and this was a serious matter. He wasn’t rude, just relentless.

Ten minutes is a precious commodity to a pressured mail carrier like me. Sam kept me busy with his story for ten minutes minimum, during which he repeated oft how prestigious was his business and how careless was mine. The contrast must have appeared so to anyone looking on—he the dapper and polished young professional, I the rumpled, bundled-for-winter oldster, behind in my day’s duties.

When I finally retreated, my spirit was deflated. I was truly alarmed. Was I guilty of losing Sam’s valuable tickets? Out of steam, I slogged through the rest of my workload with this new worry added. I prayed in anguish until bedtime.

Next day, I learned that my post office supervisor had investigated my report of missing tickets. Debbie had driven to Sam’s business mail stop, had searched the dozens of mailboxes, and had FOUND THE TICKETS! Sam was correct—they were not in his mailbox. But the envelope was misaddressed! Debbie found the tickets in some other mailbox, but delivered as addressed. She also found Sam and restored his tickets.

What marvelous news! That elation lifted me over the rest of December. I hadn’t been careless with Sam’s prestigious business. Even new and overwhelmed, I had done my job the best I could. I was vindicated!

Best of all, my prayers were answered.

Truly, this was a major turning point. I had always believed in prayer. But this was prayer answered in an unmistakable way! That experience introduced me to a concept I hadn’t before considered—Locater Angels! Debbie was my mortal Locater Angel in this instance, but I believe that heavenly counterparts surely contributed.

I continued through the winter with a mounting sense of unseen help for the dilemmas of my career. Carrying the mail taught me to pray for specifics like never before. The value of prayer grew in my understanding and practice.

I came to consider the possibilities of Specialized Heavenly Helpers for things like tricky driving maneuvers (Perilous Curve Angels), backing my loaded vehicle (Reverse Angels), and the already heralded Locater Angels for all things missing. I decided to acknowledge them and to thank them profusely for helping me again and again.

I wondered if they were a team of angels assigned to me, or the same angel wearing different hats. Relatives of mine? Mail carriers of Christmases past? In any case, I felt humbly blessed with the Best Angels in the Business!

It’s now the last day of 2022, and ten Christmases I’ve delivered. Today, I’m a seasoned, experienced carrier, and excellent at my work. Not perfect. I still make mistakes. But I’m conditioned to sense when I’m in error, most times able to correct before the damage is done.

And the job that weighed so heavy on me in 2013? I’ve come to value and appreciate it for what it has taught me, for qualities it has built in me: endurance in adverse conditions, fortitude in challenging pressures, gratitude for the physical strength and mobility God has blessed me with, and increased resistance to sickness.

In truth, it’s been a blessing to give my efforts to a worthy public service while building worthwhile personal qualities. I could write a lot more about working the mail.

And I will. In Part 2 (posting planned for tomorrow, Jan. 1), I will revisit Sam, and explore my recent musings about what that encounter might have meant to him, not me.

And I will share my Mail Carrier’s Prayer.

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find…”  Matthew 7:7

In her middle years, Mom took care of older people in various stages of decline. This wasn’t her paid occupation. More like family obligation. She nursed people extensively, without a nurse’s equipment and a nurse’s credentials. But she did it, again and again, with all her skill and devotion.

She didn’t love it. It was hard. Hard work and hard on her heart. Mostly because she saw the ailments of age bring her dear ones down. And it got her thinking . . . what about herself?

In those days, Alzheimer’s was an unknown word, but not an unknown condition. My mother saw her own mother’s decline into memory loss, and it grieved her.

It also disturbed her. “I’m afraid I’ll get old, and my mind will go like my mother’s.” I can still hear my mom’s sorrowful voice saying those words, time and again. She said it often enough that it impressed my young mind.

Mom died at age 79, after experiencing the accumulating effects of Alzheimer’s disease for eight years. She probably nursed that apprehension of memory loss for thirty years before her memory did begin to fail.

After Mom passed, I gave some thought to my own future. My mother had Alzheimer’s, and her sister did too. My grandmother had it, and her sister did too. What did this mean for me? I didn’t like the odds.

A subtle dread began to grow in my heart. When I considered my chances, I could feel a shattering threat. I felt I might fall to pieces if I thought about it enough. I was still grieving my mother’s death, and these distressing thoughts plagued me.

At some point, I realized something true about myself. I found that I cannot bear to live in fear. I knew I had to get a handle on my troubled mind, to shake myself free of useless dread.

I recalled my mom’s recurring statements, how she spoke her fear over and over. With nothing to go on but that recollection, I considered the power of her fear, expressed and repeated. I wondered if that was an element of Mom’s situation. I didn’t know. But I knew I needed something different.

It occurred to me that I am also the offspring of my dad. He experienced some age-related ailments, but he didn’t suffer memory loss. What if I could take after my dad in this instance, I wondered?

Because the fearful thoughts rattled me so much (What are my odds?), I chose to form a different, bracing idea to support my outlook. “I’m going to be sharp until the end,” I told myself. Repeatedly. With zero proof of my slogan, still I summoned that thought often, when my mind strayed into dire territory.

“I’m going to be sharp until the end.”

I pitched it to my sisters.

It’s seventeen years since Mom passed. I guess I’ve fortified myself with my “sharp” saying for at least fifteen of them. It’s a success so far.

I have no guarantee that I’m immune from future memory loss. Supposing I don’t ever acquire Alzheimer’s disease, I can’t foresee what else I might encounter. Nor do I want to.

I can say this: I never worry about getting Alzheimer’s. Haven’t for years. That former dread has lost its hold. I can contemplate the possibility. I can consider the impact on myself and my family. I can wonder what other ailments might inflict me.

But since I can’t stand to live in fear, I do my best to live in assurance that I’ll be supported in whatever I come to experience—now, and in the future.

“Fear not,” said Jesus Christ. “Believe only.” I’m grateful He taught this. Surely He meant it. And I must remember it.

I’ve pondered the power of fear. Can it be self-fulfilling? If so, then it seems similar to faith—like the two sides of a coin. Fear and faith, exercised, each bring their fruits, bitter and sweet.

Supposing fear is that powerful, I wondered if maybe I should be extra choosy about what I’m afraid of. I came up with some candidates:

• I’m afraid I’ll get old and sharp-minded.
• I’m afraid I’ll get old and strong.
• I’m afraid I’ll get old and healthy.
• I’m afraid I’ll get old and beautiful.
• I’m afraid I’ll get old and wealthy.
• And maybe famous!

And it keeps me up at night.

My mother, Thelma Jessop, exercised great faith in her life. I owe my life to the faith she practiced—determined to increase her family when doctors advised against undertaking another risky pregnancy.

She faced more than her share of heartaches, dilemmas, and losses. She taught her children to pray. She read to us—scriptures and faith-promoting stories. She served others all her life. She made us laugh. She fed everyone!

I wouldn’t trade her for anyone, ever.

Thanks, Mom, for your love, and for all you taught me. I love you.

Margaret Peters

“Fear not: believe only…” Luke 8:50

It’s Veteran’s Day, November 11, 2020. My heart runs full of honor, admiration, and gratitude for those who serve and protect, and for their sacrifices, and those of their families.

An odd assortment of reflections have occupied my thoughts this day. I wonder if I can loop a couple together with a “veterans” theme.

First, I’m thinking of my grandson who is a new US Marine, since last January. With less than a year of service behind him, veteran may not yet apply to Justen’s status. (A quick definition of veteran is: “a person who has had long experience in a particular field.”)

But he has surely undergone great personal transformation in stepping into these new boots. He is now part of an organization intensely dedicated to serving and protecting.

The molding of Justen into a US Marine has also been a family-changing affair for his parents and siblings. In the words of my daughter Natalie, Justen’s mom, “Yeah, we were enlisted automatically with him.”

Second musing: Most of this year 2020 has–like it or not–stretched us and tipped us in unsuspected ways. Eight or nine months is not usually considered a great length of time. But these last ones have certainly had their impact, throwing us into untested waters and ways.

Accustomed to our previous social conditions, who among us has not felt the strain? Mandates and masks, social distances, altered experiences in shopping, traveling, worshiping, the spike in social unrest. The contrast between “the norm” of 2019 and that of 2020 is shocking and sobering.

We may feel more like victims of change than veterans. But I’m finding that much may be learned from contrast.

In fact, a sharpened sense of gratitude for, shall we say, mundane things has happened to me. For instance, I was recently astonished at the delight I felt when I braked for a crossing guard helping school children cross the street. Same feeling for watching a couple holding hands as they strolled a socially-distanced sidewalk.

And faces! It’s a delight to see a face. How miraculous that we all have faces to appreciate!

If I can develop into a veteran of gratitude, it will be a blessing of troubled times.

Third of my ponderings:

My 2019 ambition to produce a regular blog got sidelined by the onslaught of 2020’s upheavals. I had seven published blogs under my belt before the weirdness arose.

It’s quirky that my last blog was written on New Year’s Eve of 2019, in praise of my anticipations for the new year.

2020. I was ready for big changes. I thought.

January began with a new occupation that needed me to acquire sharper technological skills to succeed. I was hard at it and making slow progress when, in mid-March, Coronavirus changed the landscape. Eleven weeks into my new career, I was done: “reduction of workforce due to Covid 19.”

But it was my good fortune to find my old work as a mail carrier still available to me. When so many people were sheltering at home, barred from their regular workplaces, I found myself as busy as ever, driving miles and miles every day, and seldom at home. I even acquired an unforeseen label: “Essential Worker.”

Thus, I observed, in October, my seven year anniversary as a contracted mail carrier in Park City, Utah. I’m back at the relentless, weathery, six-days-a-week physical labor I was trying to leave behind.

I’m surprised at how content I feel about that!

I experienced nearly three months away from my mail route, and it gave me a new perspective. I realized there were things about it that I missed.

I’m pleased now to again be self-directed in my daily work, to be physically active, to have lots of driving time to think and to listen to Classical 89 on the radio. It’s good to be serving the community in a worthwhile pursuit that demands my focus and effort.

I’m a Mail Carrier Veteran of seven years. I’m grateful.

And I blogged again! Back burner . . . take that!

This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him.

Lamentations 3:21-25 (NIV)

In my times past, New Year’s Eve has typically been an un-favorite. These days I consider myself as a positive person. But I recall plenty of past New Years that I faced with trepidation and pessimism. I can’t say exactly why. But I know that I seldom looked forward to that end-of-December midnight.

Let’s just settle the blame on The Anticipation of January and move on.

It’s different tonight, as 2019 trickles out. I like 2020 already. Something about that number—2020—just seems classy and good-natured. The number itself implies clear eyesight. It even teases at good foresight.

It’s amusing, now, to recall the New Year’s drama of twenty years ago—the changeover from 1999 to 2000.

“Y2K” (Year 2000) was an ominous futuristic forecast that people stewed over for months. Chicken Little-like rumors circulated everywhere. The young digital age had taken firm root in mainstream America, and every 1999 industry depended on computers.

But could computer capacity handle the transition of the embedded 1990s dates to the untried 2000 date? Or would the sky fall?

Not being attached to computers myself, in those days, I didn’t know. I didn’t much care, either. Truth is, I didn’t understand what all the frenzy was about.

My 1999 circumstances were those of a stay-at-home mom with a range of active and imaginative kids. Untroubled about Y2K, I based our New Year’s observance on something way more solid and reliable than computers: M&Ms.

I planned ahead and procured my giant bags of M&Ms at Sam’s Club (well before the threatened computer crash). I smuggled them into the house and managed to keep even myself from busting into my stash.

On December 31^st, behind locked doors, I sat on my bed and counted M&Ms into a jumbo glass serving bowl.

2000 M&Ms. What a gorgeous sight! I covered the bowl with clear wrap and affixed a label:

DO NOT OPEN UNTIL MIDNIGHT!

Our family festivities included the usual pizza and root beer and games and Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Midnight arrived right on time, and Year 2000 with it. The kids ran outside to make their biggest noise, then raced back in to liberate the M&Ms. We played and partied for a while, then wound down to a late/early 2000 bedtime.

No computers were harmed in the process.

Y2K fell into the follies of the past. No one, as far as I know, suffered any of the computer failure and fallout that people had dreaded.

We even had leftover M&Ms!

In hindsight, I discerned a symbolic aspect of my bowl of candy. In Roman numerals, the number 1000 is represented by “M.” Thus, 2000 would be written as “MM.”

It seems that my 2000 M&Ms were right on the pecuniam.

2020 is just about here, now. My kids are all grown, and even some grandkids, nearly. I’ve grown as well, in some useful capacities . . . like faith and optimism. I can welcome 2020 with good will.

And I do. Happy New Year!

Do people still go out Christmas caroling? It occurs to me that haven’t heard carolers in recent years. Maybe it’s a holiday custom that didn’t cross into the 21^st century.

I can recall the fun of caroling from my (20^th century) teen years. One long-ago night of Christmas carols stands out.

My Uncle Fred and Aunt Lillian had a home on the outskirts of Sugarhouse, a Salt Lake City suburb. I spent a big chunk of my growing-up-years there, playing with my cousin Kathy. Her cousin Melinda lived on the same street, and we were all the best of pals.

Kathy’s neighborhood—called “Mt. Aire Acres”—was ideal for caroling. A group of us gathered at her house, one December evening, to sing through the chilly streets.

Our unofficial music leader was my cousin Rick, Kathy’s elder brother, and newly married. He arrived with his bride, Cherre, and Excelsior, his accordion. (Rick is, to this day, the only accordion player I’ve ever known. His Lady of Spain is legendary!)

Our group included my cousin Marianne—our star soprano—and a half-dozen-or-so young friends and kinfolk. Bundled for the cold, we watched as Rick strapped Excelsior over his parka. He fingered some preliminary chords and turned to the door. We stopped chattering, followed him out and broke into our vocals, singing the songs of Christmas to Rick’s bouncy accompaniment.

Deck the Halls, Jingle Bells, Hark the Herald Angels Sing . . . we sang them all as we ambled along the snowy, slick sidewalks. The more we shivered, the louder we sang. It was good cold fun!

We were well warmed up—voice-wise, at least—when we launched into O Holy Night. This favorite brought out our best.

“O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ning!” we warbled. “It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.”

We gave our guts as we built to the climactic moment.

“For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. FAAAAAAAAAAAAAALL on your KNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!” we crescendo-ed—just as Rick slipped on a patch of ice. Down he instantly dropped, as Excelsior bellowed in distress.

Rick landed ON HIS KNEES.

Never was a reverent hymn so abruptly interrupted! We burst into laughter and couldn’t stop.

Rick managed to draw himself up to his proper 74 inches, and we resumed our trek over the treacherous sidewalk. We made every effort to continue, but our singing was spoiled for the night. Every verse got corrupted with giggles.

We soon gave up the perils of caroling and headed back to Uncle Fred’s, where we laughed again into our hot cocoa.

I still smile when I remember a Christmas Carol, accordion to Rick.

Oh what fun!

It sounds like a Nancy Drew mystery, but it’s a memory from high school. The Back-to-School season has got me remembering my student years. And my dive into online Blogging has reverted me to study-mode anew. I’m finding some correlation.

Granite High School (gone but not forgotten) soaked up my major time and attention, when I was one of “the Fighting Farmers!” (Yep, Granite’s mascot was the Farmer.)

The school’s layout resembled a small college campus, with various buildings stationed on the 27-acre plot. Students crisscrossed the campus every hour, racing from one class to the next.

The three-story “L” Building” housed history classrooms, built above the basement swimming pool. The “A Building” held the auditorium, gym, and dance studio. The “I” building provided classes in industrial arts and auto mechanics. But the iconic “S Building” was the heart of Granite High.

“S” stood for science, presumably. But English, foreign language, and business classrooms lined those halls as well. Granite High’s trophy cases and “the Seal” graced the main foyer. (Any miscreant caught stepping on “the Seal” was pushed to hands-and-knees and given a toothbrush to scrub clean its hundreds of miniature mosaic tiles.)

Upstairs in the “S Building” ran a cramped corridor known as Sardine Hall. It’s south wall was lined with lockers, and the north held maybe a half-dozen business classrooms. The hallway itself was nowhere near as wide as Granite’s typical halls. Thus, the between-class traffic in Sardine Hall was . . . well, you get the picture.

I muscled my way every day to the far end of Sardine Hall for three years—first for type class, then two years for shorthand. (I got A’s.) After each class, I’d backtrack the hall, heading for my locker.

My last steps out of Sardine Hall led me past a couple of classrooms that I ignored every day. Computer classrooms.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

That was forty-plus years ago, when computers didn’t interest me any more than plumbing did. Computers didn’t impact my life in the least. I spent every day dutifully learning to write “Dear Sir,” and “I am” in shorthand. (I can still write those phrases. I’ve forgotten the rest.)

Today, I can speak “Dear Sir” into my COMPUTERIZED mobile phone, and it appears magically spelled out on the screen. I can text my “Dear Sir” to any point on the globe, in a matter of seconds.

My rusty skill of shorthand is a dinosaur. Computers run the planet.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

The Secret of Sardine Hall was the fledgling knowledge of computer science. I never dreamed that I strode past The Future every day before lunchtime. I never knew I’d regret it.

I regret it!

Now I’m a student of things computer. I feel determined to close the gap in my understanding. Even if I’m still miles from mastery of the computer power in my life, I like learning to learn it. I’m truly motivated, because I possess something now that I didn’t have two months ago—a Website!

It’s rather like owning a bronco. I approach it gingerly.

Still, my twenty-first century endeavor is to Blog, so I push along. Just because I’m baffled by stuff like plugins, widgets, dashboards, and Search Engine Optimization . . . that doesn’t mean I can’t still play. Does it?

Thank goodness this Farmer can type!

The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge; and the ear of the wise seeketh knowledge.  Proverbs 18:15

My Dad was a handyman. He was a native of an era in which things got repaired, not discarded. He used to say he could fix anything except a broken heart.

That was as close to boasting as I ever heard of him. He was humble, selfless, kind, and never one to blow his own horn . . . except about his one-and-only cooking specialty–sourdough pancakes. (But that’s another story.)

Dad’s ability to fix broken things got me once right between the eyes. I remember it clearly.

One day in junior high, my ugly brown eyeglasses (Buddy Holly-style) cracked in half at the bridge and clattered onto my desk. After the initial shock, I almost cheered. I HATED my glasses. But I needed them.

I carried my injured spectacles to my counselor’s office. He issued me a street pass labeled “Sick Glasses.”

I walked home in a quarrel of contemplation—half-hoping for a sleek new wire-rimmed pair of specs (John Lennon-style) and half-ashamed, knowing the expense would be a hardship to my family.

When Dad got home from work, he examined my broken glasses with an appraising eye. “I think I can fix these,” he declared, and disappeared into his workshop.

I waited in miserable anticipation.

My Dad was a practical man. The demands of fashion did not disturb him as they did me, a fourteen-year-old ’70s teenybopper. Oh, I knew he could fix my glasses, all right. I squirmed at the prospect of walking into school tomorrow with my glasses firmly fastened by an industrial-strength nut and bolt—right between my eyes. (Frankenstein-style!)

Dad emerged from his lair sooner than I expected. He handed me my restored specs. He had somehow reinforced the bridge with a small strip of transparent plexi-plastic, heated and molded, glued together, and sanded down smoothly. The repair was barely noticeable. It was an elegant job. (Naturally, he had cleaned the lenses as well.)

So I didn’t get my detested eyeglasses replaced, not for another couple years. But I learned something important.

My Dad understood the needs of his young daughter, even the vanity that I was ashamed to admit. He took charge of my dilemma and gave me his best effort . . . without one word of reproach to me for breaking my costly specs and inconveniencing him.

Thanks Dad!

Today’s blog honors my much-loved and deeply-missed Dad. I cherish this life-long memory: Dad’s voice offering family prayer and reading the scriptures aloud to his children.

August is Dad’s birthday month. Happy Birthday Dad! Till we meet again.

For we walk by faith, not by sight.  2 Corinthians 5:7

But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.  Matthew 23:11

The first heroes of my young life were surely the early Latter-Day Saint Pioneers. My parents read to us. A lot! I grew up on stories of faith and inspiration. Many stories recounted the courage of those seemingly average folks who crossed an American wilderness on foot in the 1840s.

I marvel at the faith and fortitude that enabled the Pioneers to leave established homes and communities, to strike out westward for a land unknown. How I admire their devotion and sacrifice!

The achievements of those Pioneers are celebrated every year on the 24^th of July. It is an established holiday in Utah and commemorates the arrival of the first pioneer company in the Great Salt Lake Valley. We celebrate with picnics and barbecues, watermelon and lemonade, festivities and fireworks.

But the Pioneers themselves didn’t party. They halted their oxen teams, dropped their handcarts, and picked up shovels. In 1847, no man-made resources awaited the travelers—no market, no pump, no hitching post.

In mid-summer, they broke ground to plant gardens. Surely winter would come to this unknown land, but how soon? They prayed over unsprouted seeds for an adequate harvest of edible crops.

There are hardships that threaten dire outcomes. The Pioneers had no choice but to act. Starvation was the consequence if they failed.

I wonder and ponder. How would I have managed under those meager circumstances? Could I have borne a challenge so severe? I’ve never faced the reality of life-and-death that way.

The Pioneers did. And they managed to rise to the occasion.

They were ordinary people with an extraordinary pursuit. An assortment of leaders and followers, dreamers and doubters, strivers and slackers—these all must have dug in together in the uncultivated “Promised Land.”

Was it also promised to us?

The Pioneers paved the impossible way. Today, these seventeen decades later, the once isolated Salt Lake Valley is paved from side-to-side, front-to-back, top-to-bottom. The Sanctuary of the Saints is no longer remote and sheltered.

And neither are we. As individuals and as a society, we too face a wilderness of sorts—not weather, terrain and privation, but the newly-opened floodgates of information and influence.

I wonder sometimes, would the Pioneers have wanted to stand in our shoes? They did without much of what we discard daily. Their physical environment exacted constant toil and energy.

And us? We suffer a surplus!

We are engulfed by uncountable ideologies, temptations, even possessions. The digital landscape has become inextricable from our lives, our homes, even our pockets. It is both boon of advantage and sinkhole of distraction. Our wilderness holds immense promise. But it is not without serious pitfalls.

That is a blessing of rare proportions! We, too, must rise to the occasion, and discipline ourselves against dire outcomes.

The Pioneers accomplished wonders. They lived and died reaching a new home, building a new world. They labored to make the desert “blossom as the rose.” (Isaiah 35:1) Their achievements have won the admiration of all the ages since.

In ages to come, will future generations look on us and admire our fortitude and faith? Will we live worthy of the example set by the devoted Pioneers?

They planted their seeds too late for a harvest, that first summer. But they were blessed with success and survival. Let’s not forget that they sought the Lord’s guidance and protection. They cultivated their wilderness with prayer and faith in God.

May we do the same with our wildernesses, and blossom the deserts-within-us as the rose.

And because of your diligence and your faith and your patience with the word in nourishing it, that it may take root in you, behold, by and by ye shall pluck the fruit thereof, which is most precious, which is sweet above all that is sweet, and which is white above all that is white, yea, and pure above all that is pure; and ye shall feast upon this fruit even until ye are filled, that ye hunger not, neither shall ye thirst.     Alma 32:42

How do we cross from a sleeping to a waking state? Who pays attention to that? How likely is our Waking Self primed to observe–and take notes–as our Sleeping Self begins to stir?

Maybe it can’t be done. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Sleep seems a pleasant and an inviting mystery. We participate willingly every chance we get. And we’ve been known to neglect it as well.

Waking, however, can be troublesome, if one’s waking thoughts are unsettling.

I came to understand this a few years back, when I realized that my “second second” of the day was already filled with apprehension.

The first second of waking I experienced the realization that I was awake. The second second? The demands of the day crowded in. Before I had raised my head, stirred the sheets, or put one foot on the floor, I was already falling behind.

My “To Do and To Pay” list met me every morning like Hungry Hounds. They gobbled up my confidence. I felt cornered by my circumstances and obligations. Rising from my bed meant resigning myself to my shortcomings.

At the time, I didn’t know to bounce out of bed and holler “BRING IT ON!” I only felt pressed to face my debts and difficulties with honor, somehow. Still, I gradually came to realize that my waking thoughts were defeating me.

That raised the question: Could I alter my waking thoughts? Could I choose what to think? I didn’t know, but I determined to try.

I made a timid start, waking again to the Hounds as usual. But the Hungry Hounds had to sit while I diverted my thinking to . . . what else?

Supposing . . . gratitude?

I chose to direct my thoughts to anything in my life that made me grateful. Surprisingly, there were many! I kept still under my bed covers while I spread my thoughts upon my blessings. I thanked God for His goodness, and wondered why it felt new to me.

It took a little longer to roll out of bed, since I was so purposefully engaged. But when I did, I knew I felt better, by a marginal measure. I determined I would try it again the next day, and the next. I would choose my waking thoughts in my waking moments.

It’s been seven-or-so years since that first “awakening.” I didn’t master my “second seconds” in a matter of days. it took a lot of practice and repetition. But I saw my dread diminish by degrees. The pushy “To Do and To Pay” list remained. It required my daily attention still. But it had lost a bit of its bite.

That was a turning point for me. It started me observing my own thinking in additional areas of my life. It helped me begin to understand the power of choice on a basic, intensely personal level.

Changes have been gradual, but noticeable and real. With steady practice–even unsteady–I’ve grown more and more acquainted with my own potential. I can choose my thoughts and responses to life’s circumstances! This selection is a privilege, even if some events aren’t.

Or, maybe the events are, and that’s a subject for another day.

I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the Lord sustained me.  Psalms 3:5

Wherefore he saith, Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.  Ephesians 5:14