Guard Him, Joseph

Still lingering around my piano, is the vision and echo of family members quietly singing, "Guard Him, Joseph", a beautiful Christmas duet written by Sally DeFord.  I hear soft guitar and the words of "Away in a Manger", while the young twirl and play; and on the kitchen table rest homemade snow globes, a pot of chicken soup and family Christmas memories.

http://www.defordmusic.com/

Memory Table

Buying a kitchen table years ago, was a major decision.  I knew that whatever I bought, it would have to last a lifetime, because I consider it a permanent fixture in my home.  It was a major financial purchase, and it needed to be just right, to fit within our limited space, yet provide the maximum comfort for our growing family.  I shopped for several weeks, and actually bought and returned two tables, until I found one I was happy with.

It was an expandable oak table on a heavy pedestal.  Now, we had a beautiful place where all of us could enjoy our meals together.  Here we sat with our children, doing homework, projects, playing games, and visiting.   It would have been interesting to record all the stories that have been told, or all the jokes we have laughed at, while eating french toast and bacon or roast beef and potatoes.

At first I worried that the surface would get damaged with sharp pencils, markers or scissors.  I wondered how to feel when I saw the first flaw.  Then, an idea occurred to me that helped me enjoy those possibilities.  I decided that each flaw or chip would heighten the memories I had, spending time with my family.  I realized that each ding, or scrape could be transformed into a specific event and memory that would become precious.  Like looking at an interesting piece of antique furniture, and imagining what kind of a life it had lived, I started looking forward to what stories my table, or for that matter, other items in my home might tell, through their imperfections.

In Memory of Jeane

On August 24, my mother-in law, passed away.   Bill and I were on a temple trip through Canada when he received the phone call from his sister.  Some people might have wondered why we had tears in our eyes, moments later, while sitting in a restaurant, as the first realization about our loss began to sink in.

As I contemplated what Jeane meant to me, a certain question kept coming to mind.  Will anyone remember me when I am gone?  It seems like a selfish question to ask at the passing of another person, but I couldn't get it out of my mind.  Will I be remembered a week after I am gone, in a month, a year, in ten years, or one hundred?

I thought of many conversations I had with my mother-in-law.  She had a way of telling stories about her own life, that taught lessons.  She also shared stories of her childhood, such as the time, as a teenager, she visited the home of a friend whose father had given her a musical instrument, called a marimba.  Jeane asked if she could try playing it.  With great natural musical ability, she played it beautifully the first time.  This was offensive to her friend, but Jeane recognized the gift she had been given, and in years to come, she would obtain and play her own marimba at many events.  Other times, she spoke about doing genealogy, reading, or writing in the middle of the night.  Her writings contained powerful concepts, such as, keeping her fingers off other people's buttons, meaning their agency.  When her life became more solitary and isolated, as her hearing and vision faded, she spoke about her prayers to find her glasses, or her purse.  She acknowledged the Lord's help with her simplest, momentary needs, as well as his help to remain grateful and happy as she endured to the end.

As I reflected on the impact these conversations have had on my life, I had a profound realization and found the answer to my question.  My life has been forever changed by knowing and spending time with Jeane.  And I will never forget her, because her life is woven into the very fabric of my own.  I have become a certain kind of person because of her influence.  My thoughts are not just my own, but are also hers, and I can no more forget her, than I can forget myself.  And her influence continues to be passed on,  into the lives of my children and grandchildren.  More powerful than our physical genes, is our spiritual heritage, which lives on in the lives of anyone we have contact with.

Oil Painting by Jeane