My Work Is to Write . . . and Ride When I Can

 

2009 07 26 Sunday, Minnesota

 

I have discovered today, after just a day and a half with my sister Susan, something that I could never have imagined.  

 

My whole life has been dominated by the desire to be with horses:  riding then, jumping them, showing them, brushing them, and loving them.  My sister Susan has the job that—were I given the choice—I thought I would always want.  She manages a horse stable and trains horses and teaches riding.  After only thirty six-hours with her, though, I find that (were I given the opportunity to join Susan in her work) I would quickly become worn out and dissatisfied at the immense volume of effort, planning, self-discipline and sheer willpower that it takes to do what she does.  In other words:  I would hate it.  

 

In living my life as I have, I have left myself with only the ability to pretend at doing what I love.  I hear again my mom’s old complaint that I am good at lots of things, but master of none.  What I really want is the life that I have—but with time and a horse to ride every day.  I have become accustomed to being cosseted by Brent and protected by him from the grit needed to face the public and a real job.  

 

At one time I think I could have worked as most people must, keeping to a time schedule, doing tasks that others have set for me to do, and being who my job needs me to be.  I was ruthless in my approach to the “business” of running a family and keeping finances in order.  Brent observed that in getting things done, I was unfeeling and aggressive.  After almost twenty years of fighting the school system to get what my children needed, stomping down the feelings of others to get through the red tape, crashing through “established channels” to identify the person who could actually make the decision I wanted made, bullying the health insurance department manager into covering the surgery-meds-office visits-procedure-psychologist costs—after almost twenty years of this I was very good at it.  But Brent asked me to please stop.  I was becoming this “efficient” and “single minded” entity ALL the time—not just when on the phone or in the meetings.  He wanted me to become me again.  It was not worth the money I saved or the corporate compliance I achieved—my way of getting things done on schedule and under budget was turning me into something and someone that I was not. 

 

So I stopped.  

 

I do not think that I could go back to that “self” and ever come out again.  I do not have the miraculous talent that Susan has to take care of business during business hours—and to take care of Susan during Susan hours.  I have lost the ability to dichotomize.  Brent can be at work and be an attorney and a manager—and still come home and be my husband and sweetheart.  Both he and Susan can “leave the office at the office.”  I have (if I ever really did have it) lost that ability. Everything  I am is connected to everything that I do and think and feel and say and hear and ponder and read and desire.  And at this moment of self-discovery, I don’t feel sad at the loss—only a great admiration for both my sister and my husband.

 

I am still smarting at Rob’s question of what I have that is worth putting on a blog.  The only answer that I have, the only response that is genuine, is the contentment that consumes me as I put into physical form an approximation of the complex interchange necessary for my mind and heart to make sense of what my eyes and ears take in.  I blog because I love to write . . .

 

. . . and because someday I hope I might make a difference with the words that I craft and send out into the wide expanse of the internet.   

When I Could Not Be There

 

When Lauren accidentally punctured her finger while sewing on her sewing machine.

24 May 2009

 

Dear Cindy,

 

I have not stopped thinking about you since I spoke with you last week.  When Lauren called me, she was panicking, scared and confused about what had just happened to her.  I am thankful that her first thought was to call me—there was a time when she would not have done that.  Not that she wouldn’t have wanted me to know, but she would have been so caught up in the experience of “being independent” that any contact or counsel from me would have not even have entered her realm of consideration.  I wanted to thank you for staying with Lauren while she was at the emergency room.  I know that it had to have been a very long night.  She said that you talked with her during the whole time that she was waiting and with the doctor.  

 

Thank you for being where I could not be and for doing what I could not do.  I am grateful for the love I feel for you and for the love that you give to me and to my children.   Growing up with my dad being the one who always took care of us, I never felt the need to watch out for him.  I find comfort and security in the certainty that you care for and keep him safe. I missed telling you on Mother’s Day, but I do love you and am so very glad that you are a part of my life.

Sincerely,

Carolyn

 

P. S.  Every Sunday I put my scriptures into my big , pink bag and I remember your talent for renewing and keeping things looking fresh and whole.  Thank you.  Carolyn

Finding, Figuring Out, Fine Dining & a Crystal Song

Journal          

Finding, Figuring Out, Fine Dining & a Crystal Song

 

                       Overhead of some of my cord hoard

Dear Megan,

         About the only time that I go through my "hoarding boxes” is when I’m trying to find something that I can’t find – in other words something that I have lost. This morning I am going through everything trying to find the earbuds that your dad and your brother gave me for Christmas last year. While I was rummaging around, I found a headphone/speaker. Actually it is just what I need to put on my head in order to dictate into the computer. I can’t believe the difference that it makes in how accurate the text is.

         I spent the majority of my time yesterday making cards so that I can have something on hand when your dad wants me to send a note to someone. Both of us have been surprised at how often that has happened in the last month.

         I have also come to a conclusion about the question:“Why do I spend hours sitting in the bathroom, either listening to scriptures or studying Spanish or playing a mindless game on my phone or my iPad?”

 I think it has to do with the fact that while I am in the TV room with your dad and Nathan, in the evenings, the TV is always on. Most of the nights, Nathan has his headphones on and is working on something on his phone and your dad is asleep. I need to find a way to discuss with them the reason for the TV during these times. Perhaps for Dad, it’s like my Dad when I was growing up.  On Sunday afternoons my dad would turn on a golf tournament and then lay down on the floor and go to sleep. If someone tried to turn off the TV or to change the channel, he would wake up and tell them to put the golf game back on—and then go back to sleep.

Your sister, Lauren, who has a hard time falling asleep, does so more easily if she has background static with the volume turned up to what sounds like a freight car rushing past you as you wait at the railroad tracks. Your dad also turns on white noise when he goes to bed at night. I haven’t been able to duplicate that pattern. But the meds I take for my manic depression push me to sleep whether I want to go or not.

Different subject.

At the grocery store last week, they had a darling, miniature, gardenia plant. The leaves could not have been a deeper satin green or the plant covered with more buds, ready to bloom. I brought it home with me and then watered it once and forgot about it. Even though it was in the front hallway by the door, I didn’t really see it. Your dad came in this morning and told me that he wasn’t sure, but he thought that the little green plant by the door was dying.  He was correct.

 I have it now soaking in water so that the soil will not harden. I will need to go in a few minutes and pull it out so that the roots do not drown.  All around me, I sense that I have surrounded myself with hundreds of things that need doing but that I do not do because they have been there for so long. They are just part of the landscape.

Every other week I have two women who come and clean the bathrooms, the kitchen and do all of the floors. The day before, and on the morning of their arrival, I am pushed into a flurry of what I call “cleaning before the cleaners come.”

My mom and dad used to do exactly the same thing the day before we had a house full of company. One Thanksgiving not only was mother baking furiously and cleaning the upstairs, my dad was downstairs carpeting the main hallway and the biggest room. When the 50-or-so people arrived the next day, the house was spotless. The meal was incredibly wonderful, and after everything was eaten, the dishes were washed up, and people were going back for dessert, mom and dad put away all of the tables and chairs from the guests that had eaten downstairs and everyone sat on the couch, on pillows one the flood, and also sprawled out on the carpet and we watched a Thanksgiving movie.

I have no idea how many of them fell asleep while watching the movie, but I imagine they were quite a few.

         One of the movies that we have was while we were living in Edina, Minnesota. While we were there, I attended first through sixth grade at Concord Elementary school. Every once in a while, dad would get out a movie camera and take silent videos of special occasions. One of these was a family Thanksgiving dinner served in the formal dining room. Everyone had changed into nice, clean clothes for the meal. And dad took a picture of the turkey and of mother coming in, and all of us sitting down around the table.

         New subject.

He also took a video of us as we danced to a song playing on the radio that was in a huge, beautiful, console made of finished wood, that also contained a record player and speakers. In the day, it was the pinnacle of audio listening equipment. Susan, Martha and I were dressed in our nightgowns, and as we twirl around, they billowed out around us. 

Another Minnesota memory was of a Christmas morning that I have written of other times. Again, we were in our pajamas as we rushed into the living room, where the tree stood almost touching the ceiling, and covered with lights and ornaments. What I have never thought about on paper before was that dad was going to surprise mom with a full set of silver gilded porcelain dishes.  I don’t remember if he got her a set of 12 crystal goblets with them or if those came later.  He had hidden them in the garage.  After all 5 of us children had riffled through our Santa hoard and opened all the gifts, he brought in the huge box.  He filmed as mom opened it up and was gratified, I’m sure, by her happy reaction to his gift.  Of course, since we kids were young, we didn’t understand the significance of the gift.  This is the china that Brent bought for me that I am too scared/too lazy to use.

 

 

Mom graduated in Home and Family Science—back then, Home Economics.  In her sorority (Lambda Delta Sigma), they practiced gracious dining:  setting the table, making conversation, planning meals that had two different coloured vegetables—cauliflower and mashed potatoes were never to be served together.  One of the things that Mom taught all of us was how to properly set a table:  plate in the center, forks on the left, knife and spoons on the right in descending order of use, and a dessert spoon or fork placed horizontally above the plate, to the right of the small salad and/or dinner roll plate.  The glass was on the right, just above the knife and spoons.

Dad’s gift gave mother the proper tools to follow that polite, correct procedure/tradition.  She really was thrilled with the China dinnerware.  It came out for every Thanksgiving and Christmas meal from then on.

Here I am, surrounded by piles and piles of fire wire, USB-C, USB, and a whole lot of other kinds of connecting wires. As technology marches forward, I have to either throw out my old cords (which are not damaged in any way), and get new ones with the correct endings OR order adapters. The new telephones, iPads, laptops, and computers all come with cords of their own. Over the last 20 years, we have amassed a very large plastic container, filled to the brim with electronic cords. There’s another one, even bigger, also filled to bursting with cords that no longer connect to anything we own—but that used to be necessary to hook up VCR/DVD/Internet devices to the TV or to the Internet.

I got to teach Sunday School last Sunday, and, as part of my closing testimony shared the fact that I was grateful for technology that would allow me to talk to you and your sister and your children almost anytime I wanted to. The miracle that I could see them and hear them over a telephone thrills me to the bone.

        

 

Argentina, Turning Into My Mother, Riding Horses

 

Journal            Buenos Aires Argentina           Cordoba Mountains                   11 Jan 1999

 

Dearest Beth:

 

Thanks to all of you for remembering us at Christmas time.  I appreciated your prayers and well wishes.  I am pretty much back to my grouchy, stubborn self--so all is well.  Nathan sat beside me in Church yesterday and looked up at me with long-suffering borne of a full fifteen minutes of sitting in Sacrament Meeting.  "Mom," he whispered to me, "are you all better yet?"  Brent overheard and couldn't help but laugh.  Nate glared at him and then looked back at me.  "Well, are you?"  "Yes," I answered, "I'm just about all better."  Nate looked depressed.  "It seems," I asked "like it is taking a long time, doesn't it?"  "Yah," he agreed, then added, "Can we go home early from Church today?"  "No."  "Why not?"  "That's one of the problems with me getting better.  Now I love being at Church and I want to stay for the whole three hours!"  With that Nathan rolled his eyes and lapsed into an agonized quiet.  Every silver lining has its cloud, eh?

 

It has been nice weather down here lately.  I am beginning to get used to the metric system and the 25°C days (about 78°F) appeal to me.  Just a week ago we had a heat wave--temperatures up to 40°C (104°F)--yuck.  Rain came, though, and with it, cooler temperatures. 

 

There are lots of nicer things about living here, though.  Monday through Friday I have a wonderful woman named Ofelia come and take care of the house and the laundry.  She is a marvel.  She does more in 4 or 5 hours than I could do all day.  The children miss their old friends and familiar neighborhood, but they don't miss cleaning their rooms or having their dirty clothes returned to them the next day all ironed and folded.  Nathan (10 in March) says he misses Taco Bell and Boston Market--but he loves the beef here.  There are also a myriad of small "kioskos"--bitsy little stores hidden along every block--that sell candy, sodas, milk, small toys and juice.  He loves those and I know I will hear laments about his missing those when we return to the States.  The school is good.  It is small--classes are no larger than 18 students.  Nathan's class has 16.  He studies Spanish for two hours each morning.  There are children who speak 4 and even 5 languages all around him.  Most of the children that attend the English school do not come from the United States.  There are a large number who speak  neither English nor Spanish--they are learning both.  It must be a frustrating experience for them.  There is a whole different feeling at the school.  Pride in who you are is all wound up in your national traditions, your family ties, and your independent efforts to become an individual.  It is strange, wonderful sensation.  

 

Meg (15 years) and Lauren (13 years)  are growing quickly.  They are both taller than I am.  Megan is blossoming into a talented artist.  A teacher from Buenos Aires' University of Fine Arts lives just a few blocks from us and gives Meg art lessons twice a week.  La and Nate have also decided to enroll--they go once a week on Saturday mornings.  Lauren is the tallest of the three of us Hendry girls.  It is strange to walk along side of her and Megan--I feel old.  I remember my mom saying that us kids were growing up too fast, and I used to laugh.  Now I laugh and keep my feelings to myself, thinking that I am turning into my mother.

 

As old as I am, I am enjoying something that I never thought I would be able to.  I am taking riding lessons here from two instructors who are national champions.  The horses here are wonderful.  The barns are closed on Mondays and I spend Sundays at Church and with the family so I only ride 5 days a week.  They are glorious mornings, though.  I take Megan to her early morning religion class and Brent to the train station. Then I come back to the house and get Nathan and Lauren and take them to school on my way to the barns.  It is a good way to get myself going every day.  I am learning elementary dressage and I am jumping jumps over a meter high.  What matters most to me, though, is that I can feel myself getting better and better.  Things that I have been focusing on for months and months are finally becoming habit.  I am freed to begin working on a new list of details that the instructors have quite nimbly come up with.  I don't even mind that the number of elements they keep calling out to me remains the same--it is just enough that what they call out changes over time.  

 

Brent is busy at work.  He was able to hire another lawyer before Thanksgiving and this has freed him up just enough so that the stress level is bearable now.  He still goes in at 6:30 am and returns after 7:30 or 8 pm, but he sleeps more peacefully.  He has managed to keep his weekends free for us--and I am very grateful for this talent.  He only has to travel a few times a year, so we are indeed fortunate. 

 

Everyone is progressing slowly with their Spanish.  Mine seems to have begun disintegrating.  We went on a week and a half trip to Cordoba (about 10 hours west of Buenos Aires into Argentina's interior mountain ranges and desert plains) for our family's Christmas vacation, and neither of our guides spoke English.  I was able to hone my translation skills--I don't know how professional translators do it, though.  By the end of each day I was so tired of talking--repeating Spanish dialogue into English and English questions/comments into Spanish--that I just let everyone look helplessly at one another while I lapsed into a comma.  We trekked up mountains, hunted for pictoglyphs, rode horses, climbed up stream beds, and hunted for condors and parrots in the skies above us.  Dinner was at 9:30 or 10 pm each night (the customary Argentine time to eat).  By the time the appetizer was eaten, we had usually lost at least one child to sleep and before the main course was cleared away, all three were usually in bed--passed out.  The scenery was breath-taking.  The daily trips exhausting.  There were days of heat and dust and rain and cold.  BUT by the end of the trip, the rest of the family was at least trying to converse with our guides in Spanish.  I lost 3 kilos (7 pounds) and heard Brent, Meg, La and Nate speaking Spanish--in my opinion, every cent we spent on the trip was worth it.  

 

I hope that all is well with your family.  We are doing fine.  We miss the United States, but there are things that we are coming to love here that we will miss when we leave.

Pray for the Soldiers Who Fight For Us

 

At Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington DC recently the Sergeant Major of the Army, Jack Tilley, was with a group of people visiting the wounded soldiers. He saw a Special Forces soldier who had lost his right hand and suffered severe wounds of his face
and side of his body. The SMA wanted to honor him and show him respect without offending, but what can you say or do in such a situation that will encourage and uplift?

 

How do you shake the right hand of a soldier who has none? He decided to act as though the hand was not missing and gripped the soldier’s wrist while speaking words of comfort and encouragement to him. But there was another man in that group of visitors who had even brought his wife with him to visit the wounded who knew exactly what to do. This man reverently took the soldier's stump of a hand in both of his hands, bowed at the bedside and prayed for him. When he finished the prayer he stood up, bent over the soldier and kissed him on the head and told him that he loved him.

What a powerful expression of love for one of our wounded heroes! And what a beautiful Christ-like example! What kind of a man would do such a thing?
It was the wounded man’s Commander-in-Chief, George W. Bush, President of the United States.

This story was told by Sergeant Major Mark Tilley, at a Soldiers Breakfast
held at Red Rock, AL, and recorded by Chaplain James
Henderson, stationed there.
You may want to pass it on...the press won't.

Thanksgiving in Kansas 2002

 

                    Libby and Dallan Hendry

Journal Thanksgiving in Kansas  9 Dec 2002

Dear Dad and Cindy:

 

Thank you so much for the Christmas gift.  It came as such a surprise amidst the bills and flyers and doctor statements.  I liked your direction for Christmas eve to read Luke 2 and sing Away in a Manger.  Megan and I think that's a wonderful idea. 

 

Our Thanksgiving was quiet and satisfying.  Brent's sister, Kathy, drove to Topeka from Colorado Springs with her three children.  We drove over to Dallan and Libby's home on Thursday.  Everyone brought or cooked exactly what they wanted to eat.  There were no sweet potatoes.  The rolls were a freezer-to-oven variety.  I made a cranberry jello salad with nuts and whipped cream, so no one opened the traditional can of cranberry sauce.  Libby made a wonderful hot dip that she served in a hollowed out round loaf of pumpernickel bread.  Instead of any lettuce salad, I brought a relish tray filled with green pepper strips, baby carrots, celery pieces, orange sweet pickles (they were a great hit!), sweet spiced crab apples and LOTS of black olives.  No dill pickles.  No green olives.  LOTS of dip.  There were 6 kinds of pie provided by Libby and Kathy.  The turkey was juicy and tender--nice.  My only complaint was that Dallan boiled up all the gizzard, giblets and guck that they wrap in paper and stuff inside the turkey for you to take out of the turkey and throw away--and then he cut it up and PUT IT IN THE DRESSING . . . ugh.  So I didn't eat any dressing this year. 

 

Best things about Thanksgiving?  Six teenager cousins together--no diapers, no strollers.  Time for me to hear Brent talk about his family/growing up with his parents and his sister and no interruptions.  On Friday everyone came to Kansas City to see the lights the city puts up every year in a certain part of downtown.  They had lunch at the house and then came home to tacos/taco salad.  Dallan stayed home with me--he's not much of a walker lately.  Nathan and his cousin Kyle also stayed home for the 4 or 5 hours everyone was gone.  It would have been great to say that the two of them became better friends or better acquainted or ever better able to recognize the likes/dislikes of the other; any of these, however, would not be telling the truth.  What happened was that that they remained glued to the Nintendo for the entire time.  I think that they made use of several game cartridges.  They did change from sitting up cross-legged to sprawling on the floor to sitting up with one leg tucked under them and the other stretched across the hallway.  I know this because I checked on them several times.  Anyway . . . The lights downtown were beautiful, the weather was mild, the cousins had a good time with each other, Brent got to see his sister, and the whole thing was laid back and relaxing.  It has been such a blessing being close by Libby and Dallan so that we could get to know them better.

 

I have overspent for Christmas again this year.  I find a little each month and then November comes and WHAM-O! Brent gets involved.  When he is the bread winner, I have a hard time saying "no."  Meg and La will be ready for school as far as computers go.  Nathan is taken care of, too.  The house gets new carpet.  I get one of those nice purses with a duck on it--the kind that they keep behind the counter that has to be unlocked before you can get a good look at it.  Brent is going to read this, so I can't tell you what Santa is going to bring him.

 

This has been a good growing time for us.  We are learning better that we do not have to know the end from the beginning.  Brent used to laugh when I would complain that I wanted a letter or a telegram each morning telling me what to do each day--but now he is wishing for the exact same thing.  There are so many options that could play out so many different ways.  It is impossible to prepare for each and every one--like trying to walk every path at the same time, it would tear Brent and the family to pieces.  The only solution is to do as Elder Packer counseled:  unpack where ever we are, live each day to its fullest, and wait for further orders. 

 

It Doesn't Matter and Recap

 

 

It Doesn’t Matter

Original 17 May 1987

 

She nurtured me through cradle time,

I babbled—she replied.

She held me in her arms and rocked

To soothe me when I cried.

 

She fed and bathed and dressed me warm,

She watched me stand and fall;

And as I learned to say her name,

She came when I would call.

 

It doesn’t matter who she is—

Queen or president.

What matters is my memory of the

Mother heaven sent.

 

He held me nights when I was sick

And blessed me to be strong.

As audience, he listened to my

Simple, piano songs.

 

He lead us in a family prayer

Both morning and at night—

And when I made mistakes

He lead me gently with his light.

 

It doesn’t matter who he is—

King or president.

What matters is my memory of the

Father heaven sent.

 

She drove me to activities.

She taught in Primary.

She helped me to love books and took me

To the library.

 

She sewed my costumes for the plays

She came to sit and watch.

She gave me time when she had none-

I’ll never know how much.

 

It doesn’t matter who she is—

Queen or president.

What matters is my memory of the

Mother heaven sent.

 

From carpet tubes, he made lights for

A dance he chaperoned.

I learned to shun the practices

That he did not condone.

 

He wrote me letters when I left

To try a college life.

He sent me love and courage to help

Conquer fear and strife.

 

It doesn’t matter who he is—

King or president.

What matters is my memory of the

Father heaven sent.

 

She came to see me graduate.

She sewed my wedding dress.

When Meg was born, she came to love

And clean a baby’s mess.

 

She sings with me.  We play our flutes.

We talk of future fears.

She brings me gifts and tender care

And comforts, still, my tears.

 

It doesn’t matter who she is—

Queen or president.

What matters is my memory of the

Mother heaven sent.

 

He offers timely, sound advise

And gives a father’s blessing—

And he listens calmly when his

Patience I am testing.

 

He brags about my children and

About the things I do.

He loves me lots, I hope he knows

How much I love him, too.

 

It doesn’t matter who she is—

Queen or president.

What matters is my memory of the

Mother heaven sent.

 

It Doesn’t Matter Recap (after 2007 and before 2020)

 

Today I think about the children

Heaven sent to me—

How we read books and cared for pets and

Climbed up tall, tall trees.

 

Do they recall the walks we took? and

scriptures that we read?

And how each night I heard them talk as

     They were tucked in bed?

 

It doesn’t matter who I am, Queen or President –

What matters are the memories of the children heaven sent.

 

When they stand before the Lord

And all their lives review –

Will I, as mother, be revealed

As one who loved them true?

 

Will they be glad they knew me?

     Did they want to be near me?

Because within my eyes they saw

     Their own divinity?

 

It doesn’t matter who I am, Queen or President –

What matters are the memories of the children heaven sent.

 

 

 

Geneology of Mother's Mothers

 

 

 

 

 Lauren Nichole Hendry Garcia  1985-

Megan Christina Hendry Rytting   1983-
 

                    Carolyn Eva Wagstaff Hendry   1959-

 

             Nancy Kathleen Burton Wagstaff   1935-1997

                Ellen Kathleen Powell Burton  1901-1988                 

                                         As I knew her.

 

              Ellen Kathleen Powell Burton  1901-1988 

                                    As a young woman

                        Margaret Elizabeth Burt Powell  1880-1953

 

Journal Brent's Back, Pain, Nursery, "eggies"

 

Journal  Brent’s back, pain, Nursery, “eggies”   15 February 2024

 

Brent went this morning for an epidural shot in his lower back.  I waited for him as they took him in.  We were there by 9am and left before 11am, everything being successfully completed.  He was still woozy, but his restless leg problem set in and he was in such agony just sitting still that they walked him out and I met them in the parking lot.  Tonight he won’t be able to take his Clonazepam (which calms the nerves in his legs so he can sleep) because, after the anesthesia used this morning, he would be put into such a deep sleep that he might not be able to breathe—in other words—he might not wake up.  I’m not looking forward to sleeping with him tonight because when his leg muscles spasm, it causes a lot of pain.

     He’s been in his Lazy Boy (an extra large and comfortable) recliner all day.  So far, it’s almost 10pm, he has been free from pain.  I’ve been with him, bringing him electrolyte water and spare snacks.  That’s about all that I can do for him.  I’m so proud of him.  Over the last month, he’s lost about 25 pounds. 

 

                    Stones are amethysts.

      While we’ve been sitting together today, Brent has brought out some of the jewelry that he got from his dad.  Dallan was as avid a collector of fun stuff he found at antique shops.  

    One of the brooches that Brent came home with turns out to be made by a Swedish silversmith.  His name was Aarvo Saarela.  He began making jewelry in his garage with his wife.  His signature initials on the brooch includes the first initial of his wife.  He lived about 48 km from Stockholm—long and cold winters.  Here are the silversmith marks on the back of the brooch.  Brent had a great time deciphering the different symbols.  I like that we know the history of the piece. Close up of the silver marks:    AMS  C (three crowns) S L9  JP

  AMS: Artists' initials:  C: Enkōping  three crowns: Sweden  S: Silver  L9: 1961    JP: ?

                                                        

*********

THIS IS FROM A LETTER I WROTE Megan Shurtz (a Leader in Nursery in Jupiter, FL Ward). December 2007—BUT NEVER SENT

Dear Megan,

     I have been reviewing the list of children who are in the nursery or will be coming in this year.  I spoke with Brent about the children who will stay in the class after the 1^st of January—he just let me talk—and I remembered the song you sang with your daughter Olivia and a few others who gathered around you.  It was about some “eggies” in a nest.  You were so very intent as you focused on the young people close to you.  You were sitting in a tiny chair, your whole body curved protectively around the nest that your hands made.  The first part of the song your hands cupping one over the other—at the end, when you uncovered the play dough eggs, joy shown out from.

     I was a brilliant, palpable beaming—the same that surrounds our Prophet . . . the same that must also encircle our Lord.

     You spoke later of Olivia's officious care of the play dough that you’d made at home and given to her.  She would get it out and play with it, then carefully put back into its container and away in the refrigerator.  Then, she would open the refrigerator and get the play dough out to use again.

     In my mind’s eye, I saw her face, serious and enthralled at the freedom and responsibility you had given to her.  It was as if I saw her—20 years from now—bowing over her hands, cupped one over the other, holding 3 “eggies” and singing with magic that same nesting song to the wide-eyed young people gathered around her.

     My son Nathan has worried for you.  As he saw you, so uncomfortable and sore, sitting a tiny nursery chair—he kept patting me softly on the arm.

     “Mom, is she OK?  She looks as if se were going to cry.”    

     Decades ago I had a new-born, and was called to be president of a Primary of about 100 children.  I had just finished my Master’s degree and Brent had a year of law school left.

     When my mother found out, she was appalled.  “What can your Bishop be thinking?  He knows what’s going on in your life!”

     During the time I was president of the Primary, I felt the mantel of responsibility and revelation settle lightly upon my shoulders.  For the first time in my life, I was able to learn and remember the name of each Primary member.

     I also learned the power of teaching by doing.  When I told the story of Christ restoring the sight of a blind man, I had a student come up, cover his eyes with his hands, and then I took mu and spread it upon the fingers that hid his eyes.  He leaned over a basin and rinsed his hands—his eyes uncovered now, he could see!

     When we talked about Christ feeding the 5,000, I brought a round, un-sliced loaf of bread and, as I spoke, I moved through the Primary room—tearing off and handling each child a small piece.

     I also learned to find individual time for each child as they entered the room.  I shook each one’s hand and told him or her that I was so glad they had come to Primary.

     What was my Bishop thinking of?  The Lord knew that I needed to learn how to teach my own children.  He knew my situation and allowed me that time of service as an apprentice to the children in that Primary.

     I do not envy your required load.  I would almost embrace you and apologize for the sacrifice asked of you.  I know that there are young boys and girls who need to see you and feel from you how important they are—and learn from you what testimony is.

     I am grateful that I can be a part of the Nursery during your time of leadership.  I see you tenderly holding them as you did those play dough eggs—focused and brilliant and kind.

     Really, really.    Carolyn