From the Vault - God Knows Me

If I published this story before, I apologize. I looked, I can't see it. I know I've told it a million times, but it is important. This is the original one I wrote in 2005

God Knows Me

April 2005

I am a Child of God. My Heavenly Father loves me, and I love him. I can pray to Him any time, any place. Heavenly Father knows my unique thoughts and desires, and he blesses me as I seek for His love and help.  In paraphrasing the Primary Theme, I’ve stated my testimony of the tender mercies of God towards me. He has pointed out His interest in me through many blessings over the years, but I’ve only just begun to realize and notice them.

My third child, E, had just been born and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, tired and confused. There were days when I wondered if I was losing my mind. It had been a hard year and three children made the summer just that much harder. It was at this time that I was called by Bishop David Richards to be the pianist for the Relief Society. I accepted the calling and was sustained in sacrament meeting the next day. 

When I went into his office with my family to be set apart for the calling, I hadn’t told the bishop or anyone else that I felt like I was losing my mind. I’d thought it lots and I’d prayed for help, but I hadn’t said anything. 

So after quickly setting me apart as the pianist, Bishop Richards continued on with a blessing; a blessing to help me as I raised our family. In it, I was assured that I would be alright. I was blessed that my mind would be clear and that I would be able to do all that was necessary to make our home a special, loving place in which to raise the children we were bringing to earth. 

As Bishop Richards said these things, I felt the Holy Ghost impress upon me that Heavenly Father knew my trials, worries and concerns. He knew how alone and incapable I felt. He knew that I needed reassurance and comfort and he sent it to me through the prayer and blessing of a prepared Bishop.

Two children later, I was feeling better about my parenting skills, either that or I’d just faced reality and realized that I was going to only be able to do so much during the next few years, so I’d better focus mostly on things that were either important and necessary for our eternal progression or for my mental health. I was finding a little more time to accomplish some of the tasks that I’d been hoping to finish for years. One of those was to find a nativity set.

My mother has a beautiful nativity set. During the 1970’s, also remembered among the LDS Relief Society Sisters as the years of ceramic projects, she made a gorgeous off-white set. The set contains about 14 pieces. I remember loving that set as a child. We weren’t very often allowed to touch it during the first few years and often it was set up on the piano. Other years it was under the tree. Wherever it was, it always said Christmas to me.

After my marriage to Tad, I desired a nativity set like my mother’s. It needed to be white and I wanted figures that were about 6 inches tall. I was rather picky about it. Not just anything was going to fit the bill. I looked all over for years. Once I saw one that I liked at a friend’s home, but when I discovered that it came from Deseret Book and cost a fortune, we lived in Houston far from the church book stores and on a budget, I gave up pursuing it.

We moved to Boise, Idaho. Children came. Time passed and I didn’t have a nativity. I looked around and finally determined that Deseret Book was the only place I could get what I wanted. So I decided that I would get one by asking my family to help me pay for it. For Christmas I requested gift certificates from everyone. Our extended family complied and I had nearly enough, so in January 2002 I went and ordered the nativity that I thought that I wanted. 

They didn’t have one on display, but there was one on the internet. The internet had no picture, but it was rather expensive and porcelain, so I thought that it was what I wanted. I ordered it. I waited for weeks and finally it came in to the store and I picked it up. 

To my dismay, it wasn’t what I’d always wanted. It was the Hummel nativity. Cute in every way and nothing like what I’d dreamed of having on my piano. I cried as I unpacked the three inch colorful pieces. I never told anyone how disappointed I was, but I really felt like I’d made a huge mistake and wished that I’d never bought the nativity at all. I didn’t even open the crèche when it arrived a week later. That was stupid. What I would have done if it was broken? I don’t know, but I just couldn’t face opening the box. So I lived with that nativity and felt less than thrilled when I put it up the first year. I wasn’t happy with my circumstances, but I was putting up with them and decided that I had a nativity set and would try to enjoy it.

Another Christmas came and went with my little Hummel nativity and my brave face for the world. Finally one day in September 2004, I felt like I should do a search on the Deseret Book internet site. There, amazingly, was ONE 14 piece nativity set at the Boise Deseret Book store. The only draw back was the cost, nearly $300. 

Well I considered it, I stewed over it, I put myself through several weeks of turmoil, and then finally on day in October 2004 I mentioned it to Tad. He immediately said, “Go get it.” Now that is out of character for Tad; generally purchases of over a $100 are a big deal and we discuss them endlessly. I tried to explain how much it would cost, and all he answered was, “You’ve been looking for it for years. If you found it, go buy it.” Well I was rather shocked. 

But I wasn’t ready to go and get the nativity yet. For some reason I felt unworthy or maybe worried that I’d mess up again, so I put it off. After another week or so of mental debate, I went into the store, after cutting out a 20% off coupon in hopes that they might let me use the coupon toward this huge purchase. 

Once I got into the store, the clerk said, “I’m not sure if we still have that, but I’ll look and yes you can use the coupon.” It took awhile, but back she came with a large white box holding my new nativity set. 

As I left the store, having spent less than I’d planned, I felt the spirit confirming that Heavenly Father knew that this was important to me. We both understood that the nativity was not the point. Instead the vital thing was that I needed to know that my Father in Heaven knew me and my desires and He wanted me to realize how much He loves me and wants to bless me. And most of all He wanted and still wants me to turn to Him for help and counsel and comfort.

Don't Bury Yourself in the Dust of Time

Yesterday was a day for hearing stories of conversion to the gospel of Christ. It started as I read a conference talk by Sister Cheryl Esplin about Filling Our Homes with Light. I was expecting to hear about teaching my children or filling my lamp, but what I really found the spirit saying was share your conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ story. And go and get others to do it too.

I think I have a lot of those stories of testimony, because I can't remember the moment that I was converted, but I do remember a turning point story that I will share one day. And I keep sharing stories that I find help me. Maybe they will help someone else too. I would like that, but mostly it is about me, but not today.

In any case, the day continued with a fireside/panel discussion given by our Stake Presidency and their wives to the youth in our area. During this discussion the first counselor and his wife shared the turning points in their lives where they made the choice that sent them down a path of discipleship.

I had previously heard President F's story, but despite working with his wonderful wife for a year in nursery, I didn't know much about her life growing up. What a sweet testimony they both shared about finding the feelings of "home" in the Church.

All of this made me think about life stories, conversion stories and lessons that we could pass on to our children.

Several weeks ago, I learned that my son asked my father to write down lessons he had learned in his life, because, my missionary son suspects that he will want to refer to them as he gets back from his mission and continues on with life.

Another thought came from all the life sketches of my ancestors. Several years ago, I collected all that I could find and put them together in a book. I love them all. They help me understand who I am. But one is my favorite. 

Most of them were either written by someone else rather than the person, or written in third person with very little personality. I know the bare facts. I don't know the feelings.

One of those is Caleb Baldwin. Caleb Baldwin was there at the beginnings of the Mormon Church. He was converted to the Church in 1830 being baptized by Parley P Pratt and confirmed by Oliver Cowdery. He hosted John Murdock, the father of the twins later adopted by Joseph and Emma Smith, in his home as the Caleb and John built the church in Warrenville, Ohio. He lived in Far West. He hung out with Joseph Smith. I never knew any of this until familysearch.org pointed it out to me one day a few months ago, and I went on a search.

“He has shone himself appointed as a preacher of the gospil on all accatins [occasions]. He is a worthy brother.” said his missionary companion Levi Jackson. 

He was a great man, who lived an amazing part of American history. But while Caleb Baldwin "played an active role in some of its most significant events (LIKE LIBERTY JAIL!!!). And while as a scribe he possessed an able pen (AT LIBERTY JAIL!!!), he failed to keep a record of his involvement during the early years of the Restoration." according to Justin Bray, his autobiographer. (Parenthetical additions are all me.)

And I have to agree. Nobody knew this. I asked my mom. I asked my aunt (who has the records and reads them.) Nothing, Na da. Seriously this whole piece of our family history was gone, because he didn't leave anything.

But my great, great grandma Phoebe Emma Moore Nixon (the woman standing in the picture below) left some personality and a personal record. In three short pages, she packed a story of faith and testimony from her mother, Helen, many memories of life in Randolph and Garden City Utah, attitude about Iona, Idaho, her later years in Evanston, Wyoming, and an overall enjoyable glimpse into her life. 

I love her. I am so glad she took some time, probably felt a little silly, and wrote herself onto a piece of paper back in 1951 at the age of 78. And I am so glad my grandmother Marguerite Kennedy had the good sense to collect the pages and keep them in a drawer so she had it to share with me 40 years later.

Now back to the story from Sister Esplin. The striking part of that talk is about her great aunt, Elizabeth Staheli Walker. Elizabeth, in her life history tells an experience of her childhood "for her children and their children after she is gone." 

Elizabeth's life (1831-1915) spanned about the same period as Phoebe's mother Helen's did (1835-1928) and just like Helen, Elizabeth had a story that strengthen her faith and cemented her conversion. 

Years after Elizabeth Walker's experience happened she 'received a powerful impression. She said, 'The thought came to me as plain … as if someone had said to me, … ‘Do not bury your testimony in the ground.’”'

And that is what I have to say today. DO NOT BURY YOUR TESTIMONY OR YOUR LIFE EXPERIENCES IN THE GROUND!

People want to hear them. They can be disjointed. They can be in a million little pieces. They can be just about anything that shows you. Just get them, get yourself, recorded. 

Thanks for indulging my soapbox. WRITE YOUR EXPERIENCES!!!

Center on Christ

I grew up in a tough place. The climate was severe. Hot summers. Cold winters, and wind - Life draining wind all the time.

The Rock Springs, Wyoming economy seemed (and still seems) to be in a continual boom/bust cycle. The major careers in the area revolved and still revolve around resource extraction, also known as coal and trona mining. (Oil and natural gas extraction caused another boom starting in about 2000, after I was gone.)

The Blair brothers opened the first coal mine in Rock Springs in 1868 just before the arrival of the Union Pacific Railroad line. At one point Rock Springs and the surrounding Sweetwater County hosted 130 operating mines.

Coal mining fueled the railroads and the local economy, but took a hit in the 1890 depression. But mining rallied again in 1920, allowing men to make a larger wage of $8/ day in the mines bringing out coal. According to a Wyoming history essay $8 was the equivalent of $91/day in 2012. The Great Depression hit the area again, but due to neighbors helping neighbors, many weathered that storm and came out the other side.

Of course, Rock Springs was not always a neighborly place to live. For a rather small and desolate place, Rock Springs attracted all types of people. Robert Leroy Parker aka Butch Cassidy worked on several of the ranches that surround the town and he spent a brief time as a butcher in town, hence the nickname Butch. He left without causing problems in the little town.

Yet Butch was just a small note in the 1880 history of the town. The big news, that I was even taught in fourth grade, involved the Chinese Massacre. For a town that often seemed to embody cultural diversity, the Massacre was a huge black spot.

It happened on September 2, 1885. White miners attacked the Chinese miners who had been brought in by the railroad to help work the mines. When the conflict ended, twenty-eight Chinese were dead, fifteen were wounded, and hundreds more had fled the town. Most of the whites who caused the problem left soon after. And fortunately not all the Chinese fled, because Rock Springs boasted some of the best Chinese food anywhere thanks to their descendants a hundred years later.

In the 1950's when trains switched to diesel and cars took over the roads, the coal industry took a huge hit, but at that same time the largest known deposit of  trona was discovered. Out of work coal miners easily switched over to working in the trona mines east of Green River.

And again because of coal the Rock Springs economy boomed when in the 1970's, workers flooded into the area to build the billion dollar Jim Bridger Power Plant which still supplies coal fired power (electricity) to parts of the northwest, including the Idaho house where I currently live.

The climate was tough. The jobs were hard. And the people were rough.

Money flowed out of the mines. Much of it into the pockets of people who ran the railroad, but because coal was vital to the rail industry, large amounts also went back to the workers. Many of the people of Rock Springs came as immigrants from Europe and Asia to work in the mines. Many had money because they were miners. Others provided services to miners. Some services legal (food, housing, education). Some not so (prostitution and drugs).

The town was in a perpetual boom/bust cycle, and so were the people.

Like I said, the people were rough. But mostly they were good. Many believed in God. Many went to church. Rock Springs had many denominations: Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Episcopal, Christian Science, Seventh Day Adventist, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, Latter-day Saints, Baptists Free Evangelical, Congregational, and Jehovah Witness.

A history of the Catholic Church in Rock Springs 

written by one of my high school English teachers, 

Gloria Tomich can be found here.

Some went to church every Sunday. Some went for Christmas and Easter. Some just claimed a religion but never really went. Some didn't claim anything and ridiculed the those who did. And probably that is what made all of them who they were. Because, despite the ever popular belief that God doesn't matter, people have to have something to hold on to. They have to root themselves in some kind of bedrock. Center themselves firmly with faith in something. Otherwise the whims of the world and that continually blasting wind will blow you away.

It took me years to come to an understanding of what exactly helped me get through my teens, in that place, with some people who were quite good, some who were quite confused, and some who were just plain evil. (I say this with the authority of a girl who went to school with multiple murders. Some were just stupid kids who walked the halls of my high school during the days and partied in the hills on the weekend. Not all of them and the passengers in their trucks made it home. Another who I sat in front of in chemistry was just a messed up, drunk and abandoned kid. Then there was the one who had us all a bit terrified that one week in winter; he was bad news.)

So what was it that helped?

Let me tell you a childhood memory. I went to elementary school back in the olden days when they  actually had swing sets, slides, and merry go rounds on the playgrounds. And not only that they put them on black top. No spongy rubber or bark for us. I loved the swings, kind of liked the slides, but spent most of fourth grade on the merry go round. Ours was red.

We of course liked to hang onto the bars and lean back with our feet on the edge. Or better yet sit on the bar with a foot hooked around the standards near the edge and essentially do a back bend. If you were really good, your long hair could drag the ground. And yes the thing was spinning the whole time.

It wasn't safe. It was crazy. But we did it. (Okay my hair never touched the ground. That was TOOOO SCARY!)

Many years later I was thinking back on that experience and the tough times that were a part of growing up in Rock Springs schools and it occurred to me that when somebody stood in the center of the merry go round (not that we did it much), it was much less likely that they would go flying off into space, crashing disastrously on the black top. And if they sat down in the center and held on focusing on staying right there. They moved very little.

For me becoming centered on Christ and His standards was the thing that kept me from flying off into the arms of disaster. Did I want to be more popular? Yes. Was I willing to stand up let go of the standards and try and hold onto with my fingertips and toes on the edge like many of my friends seemed to be doing where the wind could grab you and batter you. No. I really wasn't.

And that saved me from pain. Sure I was kind of lonely some times. And sometimes I cried. Definitely I felt left out and odd, but all of those feelings ended when I left and went to college with people who could have fun without drinking, drugging, or giving up a part of themselves for someone's momentary pleasure.

Because I stayed pretty much stuck to the center, I had none of the habits and broken relationships to move past.

So looking back, am I glad I came from such a colorful and varied place? Yes. Am I grateful for all the people I knew there, many who were kind and good examples to me and some who were kind and rotten examples? Yes.

But mostly -- I am glad that I don't have that stupid wind to fight any more.

I am stronger because of where I came from. I am stronger because of all the people who taught me good and bad. I am stronger because I had to constantly battle against the wind both figuratively and literally. I am stronger because I clung to Christ. I cling still.