I only met him once.  He got up in church that Sunday a few months ago to bear his testimony.  His words touched me and impressed me.  The strength of his testimony, his complete sureness of it, was just wonderful.  His words were not particularly loud -- he actually spoke in a very reverent tone -- but they were so powerful!   He said that he prayed to be blessed with the same blessing that was granted to Helaman -- the ability to bring his men back home alive.   As he spoke, I thought, "This is his farewell testimony," and then immediately felt horrified that I could think such a thing.  After the meeting, I went up to him.  I wanted to hug him -- his words had meant so much to me.  But I had never even met him before, and it did not seem appropriate. So I shook his hand and thanked him for both his testimony and for his service to our country.  Meeting him made the war a personal thing to me.  Until then, I had not known anyone who was actually serving in the military in Afghanistan, someone who was putting himself in harm's way every day so that I could contine to live in a free country.  All of this ran through my mind today when I heard that he had been shot down and killed.  His parents, my Bishop and his wife, are leaving tomorrow to go to Dover, to recover his remains.  I cannot begin to imagine their grief, the horror of having to do that.  It feels like a very personal loss to me, yet I only met him once.  Thank you so much, Scott Pace!  Thank you for serving in the military of the United States of America.  Thank you for your testimony and spiritual strength.  And, most of all, thank you for touching my heart.  I know that there are many, MANY people who are mourning your loss today.  I know that they will never forget you.  I want you to know that I will never forget you, either, even though I only met you once.

Nobody can tell me that God is not aware of us.

This morning, I was rushing out the door to go to work. I was feeling kind of down and wished I could just stay home. I walked outside and turned to lock the front door behind me. There was a very cool breeze and I was immediately aware of how wonderful it felt. I walked around the side of the garage and literally stopped in my tracks. "Wow!" I gasped. There was a beautiful rainbow, a complete arc, right above my car in the driveway. My mood completely changed. I grabbed my cell phone and began taking photos. I felt like the rainbow was a sign from God, a promise that things will get better. Just as I finished taking several pictures, it began to rain. Giant, wet, soft, cool raindrops. The sky was blue, yet it was raining. It was so gentle. I stood there, luxuriating in it. Roger drove up. He asked me if I was OK. I told him I'd been feeling so bad but when I came outside and looked up, I felt like God was talking to me. "Looked up?" he asked. "Yes," I said, "Isn't it beautiful?" He looked up and saw the rainbow. Amazingly, he had not even seen it as he drove home from the hospital. He hugged me and said, "Everything will be alright, Sweetie." "I know," I said. In less than 2 minutes, the rain had stopped, and all traces of the rainbow were gone. It had come and gone so quickly, but it was exactly what I needed. Almost if it had happened just for me.

Nobody can tell me that God is not aware of us. He answers our prayers. He blesses us. And, sometimes, when we really need it, he sends something to get our attention and remind us that He is there. I will always be grateful!

A couple of years after my Grandma died, I was reading a book put out by one of the scrapbook paper companies, in which they had published the winner and the ten finalists of their latest scrapbook contest. Apparently, every year they had this contest and the winner won $10,000.00. The ten finalists each won $100.00. The winner's scrapbook was published in it's entirety, and the finalist's books were each featured, in this yearly book. I was immediately taken with the idea of making a book about my Grandma to enter in the contest. The prize money was not important to me. What I wanted was to have my book published. I felt like it would be a way to preserve my Grandma's story and history. I feel like I know her better than a lot of people did but, since I have no children, her story would die with me. I desperately wanted others to know her, to appreciate her, and to remember her. I put my heart and soul into making that book.

To this day, it is the scrapbook that means the most to me. I told about Grandma's family, her courtship and marriage to my Grandpa, her job, things she'd taught me, things we'd done together, the surprise party we all threw for her 80th birthday. I ended it all by telling about watching her deteriorate and die from the complications of breast cancer. It was gut-wrenching. It was joyful. It was emotional. I carefully made color photocopies of all of the pages and bound them to send them in with my entry form. The company who was sponsoring the contest would look at all of the photocopied entries, then contact the ten finalists and the big winner. I waited impatiently for the date that the winners would be announced. I felt certain that my book would be one of the ones that would be published.

The date of the announcement came. To my dismay, I did not receive a phone call or an e-mail. A few days later, the company posted the winners on their website. My name was not there. I was devastated. I cried and cried. I felt like I had let my Grandma down. I felt like I'd lost her all over again. I e-mailed the sponsors and asked if they could just give me some feedback. Why had they not chosen my book? How many entries had their been? What were they looking for? The answers came back: There had been only 100 entries. My book had not been chosen because they "Did not feel that the story was emotional enough." I couldn't believe it! The story of my Grandma raising me all alone and then dying of cancer right in front of me was not emotional enough??? What kind of cold, calloused individuals were these people??? I also felt ashamed that, with only 100 entries, I had a 1 out of 10 chance to be in the book and I didn't make it. I have not purchased scrapbook materials from that company since.

This year, ten years after my Grandma's death, I entered my scrapbook about her in our local county fair. It won first prize in the scrapbook division. Today I got a check from the fair for $7.00--my prize money. It made me chuckle when I opened the envelope. The money still doesn't matter. What matters to me is that someone, or some people, read my book and thought it was good.

My Grandma's stories probably will die when I do. That is sad. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to live as a memorial to her. All of the good things about me I owe to the gospel of Jesus Christ and to my Grandma. She taught me to sew, crochet, lead music, teach children, sing alto, pray, serve, love beauty, make lovely things from the cast-offs of others, love reading, and express my creativity. She was not perfect. Neither am I. But I try each day to make her proud of me and to honor her.

I love you, Grandma!

Happy Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Roger and I are going to have a very 'low key' day together. This is partly due to the fact that we do not have a lot of days to go traveling anywhere and partly due to the fact that Thanksgiving is a little bittersweet for us because Roger's mom passed away on Thanksgiving four years ago. Obviously, Thanksgiving falls on a different date each year, but I choose to especially think of her on Thanksgiving. Despite the fact that it will be a pretty relaxed holiday for us, I still have much to be thankful for and do not want to neglect to express my gratitude to my Heavenly Father.
I am so thankful for the gospel in my life! I do not understand how people who go to other churches are satisfied with so little of the truth, but it makes me even more grateful for the abundance of the gospel that has been restored to the earth and is available to all who wish to partake of it. I am thankful for the scriptures, for a living prophet, for a loving God who answers prayers.
I am so very thankful for Roger. I never, in my wildest dreams, could have imagined what it would be like to be married to someone who loves me so much and is so supportive and caring. I have never felt safer with anybody in my life. I do not have to go through trials and difficulties alone anymore. I know that he believes in me. I know that he wants to hear me say 'I love you' as much as I want to say it. He wants me to touch him and kiss him as much as I want to do those things. To be married is one thing. To be married to someone who is so perfect for me and so wonderful to me is a completely different thing. I never thought I'd have the first, but I certainly did not dream that I'd be so blessed to have the second.
This year has been one of health and work difficulties. Of the many lessons I have learned, one that has been very hard, but very important, is to realize who my true friends are. It is a very sad thing to realize that, when the chips are down, many of those that seemed like friends, just disappear. But it has made me all the more thankful for those who remained and were not afraid to stand by me.
I am thankful for many little pleasures in my life: for cats that rub up against me and purr and want my affection, for good sleep, for the joy that music brings to me, for the ability and opportunity to create beautiful things, for wonderful sensory experiences like having my hair brushed or my nails filed or my back scratched, for colors and textures and smells and tastes, for laughter, for travel, for adventures.
I am certainly far from worthy of all of the many blessings that Heavenly Father has bestowed upon me, but I am very, very grateful!
Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

Veteran's Day 2011

This is Veteran's Day weekend and I am very grateful for, and very proud of, the Veterans in my family and in Roger's family who fought to protect the rights and freedoms that we all enjoy. In my family are:
Jay P. Sorensen, who was at Pearl Harbor the day it was attacked. Uncle Jay was my Grandma's oldest brother.
Rex D. Sorensen and Glenn Sorensen, Grandma's other two brothers, and Rose Sorensen Mackley. Aunt Rose was Grandma's youngest sister and she was a WAC. Uncle Rex served in the Pacific and Uncle Glenn helped to decode enemy communiques.
Robert M. Roberts and James R. Roberts, my dad and my uncle. My dad was in the Navy.
In Roger's family are:
Benjamin Wallace Price, Roger's dad, who served in Europe during WWII, and Robert L. Price, Roger's brother, who was in the Navy.
And, even though he was 'technically' not related to me, I am very grateful for Richard J. Pettit, who served in Europe during WWII and was a prisoner of war for several years.
When I see the flag of our country, I think of these people who gave so much to keep it flying over a free nation. I pray that God will continue to Bless America and that the citizens of this country will be wise and grateful.

Need To Catch Up

It has been a long time since I posted anything. I do not have any big event or special thoughts to write about. But here are a few things I have learned lately: (By the way, these are in no particular order)
1. Shingles is AWFUL!! I had no idea how painful it is! I currently have a virus that is related to Shingles in my mouth and on my face. I look HIDEOUS, with sores all around my mouth, but that is truly the LEAST of things. The whole left side of my head is killing me, including my left ear and the left side of my face is swollen. But the very WORST part is that all the teeth on the left side of my mouth feel like they must be totally abscessed or something. They hurt SO BAD!! It is scary to feel -- I worry that, even if I get rid of the virus, my teeth will never be the same and I will be in dentures soon! The doctor says that this virus is caused by 'extreme stress.' Well, I definitely have more than enough of that but still......I have been very stressed before and this has never happened. And, this type of virus is apparently the gift that keeps on giving: once you've had it, chances are you will experience symptoms again any time you are very stressed. YUCK!
2. It is never too late to find love. Tonight, I was talking to one of Roger's lodge brothers. He is 83. He just got married, three weeks ago, to a woman who is 62. They had both been married before. Her husband died in 1991. His wife died two years ago. He said that losing his wife, after 59 years of marriage, was hell. He was devastated. He got to the point where he didn't care if he lived or died. But here he is, at 83, a newlywed and so happy! It made me feel so good to talk to him.
3. Snail Mail is important. Now, honestly, this is NOT something I have just learned recently. I have always loved to write letters and receive them. I look forward each day to going to the mailbox. There is always such possibility there. But I read a story last night about a woman who said that she was once driving along a road somewhere and she saw an elderly man, walking with a cane, slowly making his way to the mailbox at the end of the drive. When he got there, he opened the box and it was empty. She said he had the saddest look on his face. It broke her heart. She decided, then and there, to write at least one letter each and every day, and she said she has pretty much stuck to that. Now, seriously, even if she was only going 25 MPH, it would have been hard to see all of that while driving by. However, it is a very sweet story and an even better goal to have. I am not saying that I will write a letter each and every day, but I definitely want to have the goal of writing at least one or two a week.
4. I have a wonderful, wonderful husband! First, I sustained the injury at work, so for months I have been totally useless as far as doing anything around the house is concerned. He has been so patient and supportive and kind. Driving me around because it hurts my arm to do it. Accompanying me to the doctor's office time after time. Then, this weekend, I break-out with this horrible virus (see number 1, above) so that I cannot even kiss him and I look like a monster. He still tells me I am beautiful to him and hugs me and comforts me. I don't know how I got so lucky to marry Roger, but I will always be grateful and will always be trying to be a better wife to him.

A Tribute to one of the Greatest Men I have ever been Privledged to Know

Today, a wonderful man has fulfilled his earthly mission and returned to our Heavenly Father. This man was Richard J. Pettit. He was my Bishop, and my priesthood leader, but mostly he was my friend. I met Bishop Pettit when he was the high council leader for the Young Adults group in the Glendale Stake. He scared me at first. He had a steely gazed that, when fixed upon a person, could make their knees turn to jello. I remember him shaking someone's hand, then continuing to hold that hand in his firm grip while fixing his eyes upon them and asking, "Do you love the Lord? Do you want to serve the Lord?" Such a person was helpless when Bishop Pettit gave them an assignment. He expected nothing less than their full effort and he tended to get it. One Young Adult conference, in particular, stands out in my mind. We'd taken the boat to Catalina Island, prepared to spend 3 days in the sand and sun. When we arrived at our camp, it was a total disaster. Many of the cabins were not fit to inhabit. I do not believe the staff was even there that was supposed to provide our meals. There were only one or two bathrooms/showers that worked (for a group of probably 80 or more people). We'd arrived there late in the evening and there was little we could do in the darkness. We all ended up spending the first night on the hard, cold floor of the cafeteria. There was much "weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth!" The next morning, we all awoke to find that someone (undoubtedly Bishop Pettit, although I do not remember whether or not he actually admitted it) had put up a big poster board on the front of the cafeteria. It read, "Camp Quit-Yer-Bitching!" After a pep talk from our leader (The Bishop) we got to work cleaning cabins, cleaning up the cafeteria, etc. Long story short: it was a FABULOUS weekend, at least in my opinion. I still have pictures (somewhere) of that event. That was the weekend we heard the finger-snapping rhyme called "We are the Heavies." It was quite witty. However, for the rest of the weekend, Jill and I improved upon it and shared every updated version with anyone who would listen. At one point, as we stood snapping our fingers and reciting our latest rendition, Bishop Pettit jumped up and began snapping right along with us. He was never one to be left out of the fun. When I went on my mission, Bishop Pettit spoke at my farewell. In his talk, one thing that he said was that I was like Joseph Smith in that we both loved words and language. That meant the world to me, although I have never felt worthy of such high praise. I got one letter from Bishop Pettit on my mission. It was typewritten, filled with spelling and punctuation errors and hard to decipher. The last line was, "If you think my typing is bad, consider the alternative." That made me laugh so hard! I had seen the Bishop's handwriting a time or two. It made the stereotypical 'Doctor's Handwriting' seem like beautiful calligraphy. I doubt that even Sister Pettit could easily read his writing. When I got home from Argentina, I flew into LAX and met my family at the gate. On the way home, we were driving through downtown Los Angeles. I insisted that we stop on Wilshire Blvd at Bishop Pettit's print shop so that I could see him. I rushed inside and gave him a HUGE hug. I was SO happy to see him and he was equally glad to see me. After my mission, I was able to work closely with Bishop Pettit as the Young Adult Co-Chairman and, later, in the Singles Ward. At one point, when I was in his ward, I had a personal problem that had been bothering me for, literally, decades. At that point in my life I was actually seeing a therapist to try to deal with this issue. I had attempted to speak to many a Bishop about it previously, but once they knew what I was trying to talk about, they would always stop me and not want to listen. I was really having a very difficult time and was, at times, suicidal over this. I told my therapist that I needed to have my Bishop listen to me but that I was afraid to even try to talk to him because of my experiences with Bishops in the past. She called Bishop Pettit on the phone and told him that I needed to speak to him. She told him he needed to set aside a good amount of time, ensure that we would not be overheard, and, most importantly, LISTEN to me. I went to the Bishop's house for my appointment with him, because that is where he always met with people. He told me right up front that he'd cleared an hour for me but that he could give me even more time if I needed it. He said that not even Sister Pettit was there, thus ensuring that nobody but him would hear what I was about to say. I was so touched that he cared and that he truly wanted to listen. I poured my heart out to him. I shared with him the most painful moments of my childhood. I cried and he cried with me. He allowed me to tell him everything. He never flinched or acted like he was uncomfortable. He just kept saying, "How could I know you for all of these years and not know that you had this secret?" He apologized for not knowing and for not being able to help me sooner. He gave me the most beautiful priesthood blessing I have ever had. That night, Bishop Pettit literally saved my life. He gave a part of my life back to me that I'd been robbed of as a small child. I will never, ever forget him for that. Bishop Pettit had tremors, much like a person with Parkinson's disease might have. He'd had them the whole time I knew him. I found out that he'd been a pilot during WWII. At one point, he'd been captured by the Germans and put in a concentration camp, where he was tortured. He was there for a number of years, I believe. At one point, he tried to escape and was caught. Because of this, the torture was even worse. Sister Pettit told me once that, even in his later years after he'd retired, he still awoke during the night, having nightmares about his time in the concentration camp. He never, ever told her anything about it. He would not speak of it to anyone. He kept it all inside. He'd wanted to be a professional pilot after the war but, because of the torture, he had the tremors and was not able to qualify as a pilot. He was the only one of his squadron who came back from the war alive. Bishop Pettit gave his all to every righteous cause. I never, ever wanted the day to come when I would hear that he'd passed away, but it came today. As I sit, remembering the many wonderful lessons I learned from him and the great experiences we shared, I can only console myself with the image of him, dressed all in white, free at last from the nightmares and the tremors and the pains of old age. I picture him, greeted by the Savior that he so loved and so dutifully served throughout his life. I picture our Savior, embracing him and saying, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." I know that if anyone deserves to spend eternal life in the presence of God, it is Bishop Pettit. I only hope and pray that I can live worthy to join him there someday. Thank you for everything, Bishop Pettit. You cannot possibly know how much you have affected my life and, I dare say, the lives of so many others. I hope that you DO know how much I love you, respect you, admire you, and thank you. Till we meet again.....