Life went on hold in a good way last week when my granddaughter was born three weeks before the anticipated date. Kennady Suzanna is beautiful (and I'm not just saying this because I'm her grandmamma). I am not one to hold other people's babies and ooh and aah over them just to be polite--but something happens when I am holding Kennady and I am unable to stop staring at her. Also, I'm finding that becoming a grandmamma I'm not embarrassed about many of the inconsequential blunders of life any more. For instance, sometimes after holding her, then being compelled to give her up for awhile, I would find myself still swaying side to side. Even in public settings. No problem people. You can stare at the crazy lady talking nonsense to a sleeping child or getting excited over flower head-bands, but just know her arms are happy.
I may have to write a grandmother into my next book.

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Driving with my eyes shut is not the best choice I've made. My family, when preparing to take a trip to grandma’s, despite carefully prepared lists, and advance preparation, often would be in a frenzy in the last minutes of getting out the door. Therefore, it became a habit that the prayer for a ‘safe trip’ was usually offered as we drove down the road. Someone other than dad (who was usually driving) would say the prayer and we’d all bow our heads. One time though, I drove first and my husband, Mark, began the prayer. Then, in the midst of asking that ‘no harm or accident would befall us.’ (just how does an accident befall?) he felt a strong impression: “Look at Susan.” He looked up to where I was driving, hands on the wheel at 10 and 2, driving down the freeway, but with my head bowed and my eyes closed. “Susan,” he said calmly, but insistently, “you can open your eyes.” Great faith is commendable, but sometimes we have to do our part.

This morning Mark and I took a hike up a local canyon. It was a beautiful sunny day with blue skies and a few high wispy clouds. We were caught up in the beauty of the pines, aspens, and the steep climb and we lost track of the weather. Nearly three hours up the mountain we suddenly realized that a storm had blown in that had been hidden behind the ridge to our left. We were half a mile from the mountain lake we were aiming for, but decided we needed to head back quickly. We descended as rapidly as we could, chased by thunder while darkness closed in. “Say a prayer,” Mark called backwards. Recognizing that we were going to get wet, I prayed that we wouldn’t slip on steep muddy trails, or that neither of us would twist an ankle on the loose rocks. But it was up to us to maintain as prudent a pace as we could. Faith did not license recklessness.

During our descent, which was condensed into an hour, Mark recalled the story of the 10 lepers. Most of us are aware of the lesson of being thankful—but there is no indication that the other nine were not thankful. After their joyful rushing to share their health with loved ones, they probably said prayers of gratitude. Perhaps they offered sacrifices at the temple. They may have even sought out Jesus later in hopes of thanking him. Yet only one went back immediately to thank him. I thought about how we now give thanks as soon as we arrive at grandma’s rather than waiting for evening prayers.

But then a deeper layer of faith occurred to me. I had been waiting to see if we made it down the mountain without a mishap before I offered a prayer of thanks. Conditional gratitude? What depth of faith was that? I wasn’t asking that I could drive with my eyes closed, but I was waiting to see if I was protected to my satisfaction. I mentioned how in my book about Hezekiah, Eliakim, after hearing a prophecy given by Isaiah, wherein that night they would be rescued, gave immediate thanks, even though the prophecy had not yet been fulfilled. So I said another prayer, thanking my father in heaven for his protecting aid as we descended, as well as a second prayer when we arrived wet, but safe, back at the car.

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Today I read this little story. It is one of finding hope where there is none. Finding beauty amid the stones of prison. Finding companionship and unity in a world torn apart. Finding love when surrounded by hate.

During the Holocaust, some Jewish women who were interned in Terezin compiled a cookbook from memory. The Terezin prisoners recalled and wrote down their recipes for chocolate torte, breast of goose, plum strudel, and other traditional dishes while surviving on potato scraps. Their effort was a kind of spiritual revolt, an act of resistance against brutality, calling to mind the everyday world they had known and presided over. These half-forgotten recipes, scribbled on scraps of paper, became the texts that helped them to transcend their situation. Decades later, their book found its way to the daughter of one of the authors who had died in the camps. The book was published as In Memory's Kitchen in 1996 by Cara de Silva.

When times seem dark, it is imperative, especially for homemakers, that we bring sunlight in. Create cookbooks from memory. Or as my mother did, candy from frosting and oatmeal. My children still remember the hikes and picnics, the blanket forts, the special cake we made on rainy days, the bedtime ritual of my reading great books to them, the hummus and chips shared in the car on trips, and model rockets launched in parks. It's not what we don't have, but that we spend time together.

Share sunshine. Share your ideas.

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My Aunt Norene is one of the people in my life that seemed like a constant. More real in my memories than you’d expect from someone who for most of my life lived so far away. I grew up in Pocatello. My Aunt Norene and her six girls were in Seattle. When I was five I went with my dad and Grandma Hatch to visit for a week. Aunt Norene was married to Uncle Vail then. They had a white house on a hill that had a ‘den’ down the hall. Very modern—like the Brady Bunch. That visit has left pieces of memories like slides: my aunt’s organized laundry system, being tucked into a box during hide ‘n seek, learning “Mademoiselle went down to the well, to wash her face and dry it well. To comb back her hair and brush her teeth, to say her prayers, and go to sleep.” The tap water tasted terrible and I didn’t like milk. My aunt told me those were the choices and I would have to decide. She was no nonsense that way. But I always felt that she loved me.
A few years later I returned with both parents and my two sisters, one older, one younger. It was a family vacation that left the younger children at grandparents. This time I noticed things like intersections with five streets merging. And a lighthouse that we visited on a beach somewhere. I also learned about snails and slugs firsthand. It was the year my dad went snake hunting with uncle and there was a fire in the warehouse behind their house that night. Aunty was very take-charge getting the children out of the way while our dads backed station-wagons down the steep narrow drive.
Sometimes in the summer my cousins would arrive to visit us. I have no idea how we found room for everyone. As the years went by the merging families would total sixteen children and four adults. Mostly we slept outside in the backyard. Once or twice we met at grandpa’s house. One time was when my aunt Ruth got married. Joni, Terry, Tanja, me, Natalee, and Jana sang “The men in my little girl’s life” with verses like: “Then came pony-tails and jeans, my little girl was in her teens.” And many years later we all gathered there for Grandpa and Grandma’s fiftieth anniversary. Mostly I remember Aunt Norene organizing in the kitchen or visiting with people. She would throw an arm around their shoulders and I figured she was best friends with everyone.
When Aunt Norene married Dudley it was one of the best decisions of her life. The years have begun to merge: family reunions, building the lodge in Victor, visits to their home in Nampa, and finally their last visit to my home in Spanish Fork. We stayed up late talking. We were all adults now, but Aunty was, as always, confident, and full of energy, encouragement, straight talk, and love.
The last time I saw her was that same summer in Boise. My dad was convinced that with his Diabetes he would be dying within a year. He would say, “This will be my last reunion.” No one imagined that he would not be the first of his siblings to go. Aunt Norene was as busy as ever moving from one group to another. She took time to locate and give me a cold water soaked hankie to tie around my neck to help me stay cool.
Aunt Norene was diagnosed with kidney cancer on January 20, 2010. The cancer started in her left kidney, but spread to her lungs and lymph nodes. Then the doctors discovered that she had a tumor in her brain as well. The tumor was removed on February 22nd and the surgeon reported that this surgery was very successful, but she was not regaining strength. They put her on oxygen, increasing daily. The cancer in her lungs began to spread and by March 1 we all knew her days were short. There were updates on a website, messages posted there, phone calls made, emails, and everyone trying to connect.
I was told she had heard about my book and wanted to read it. I mailed her one, wishing her a happy birthday she would not be around to celebrate.
She passed away March 2nd and the funeral is planned for Saturday.
I hope I can take from knowing her the things I remember: the enthusiasm for every moment, the kind encouraging words for others, the dependable friend. If I can be just a piece of who she was I will be grateful.

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I love the feedback I am getting from my book. My daughter is reading it aloud every night to my unborn granddaughter. Just think, the voice is her mother’s but the words are mine and the scriptures.

My father, who rarely is able to say to his children how pleased he is with them (I think it’s just too intimate an experience for him), has written to me to say how much he is enjoying my book.

My father-in-law who rarely if ever reads a book, has read it cover to cover. He talked to Mark about it on the phone for over ½ an hour. He wrote a cousin about it and she has ordered one He got her so enthused with it, that before she has even received her copy she had another friend ordering one also.

My sister has a friend who has requested a signed copy. (It’s her favorite bible story.) And another sister is traveling through canyons and snow for over an hour with her six children to come to my book signing. These acts and so many others cause me to feel blessed. And loved. And thankful.

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