What I Have Learned from Mary

When the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary, she was a young girl living in a tiny village, probably around 12 or 13 years old. She had no reason to believe her life would differ from that of any other girl living in Nazareth at that time. She expected to marry, have children, and care for a modest home. Some 33 years later she was sitting in a upper room in Jerusalem, participating with Peter and the other apostles in the organization of a new church based on the divinity of her own son, on his teachings, miracles, death, and resurrection. 

The message of the angel and her reaction to it would change her life and the world forever. In lesser but in some respects just as important ways, our reactions to the circumstances, the missions given to us, will also change lives. As I study Mary and the way she faced her challenges, I have learned much to help me face mine.

Mary was likely by herself, perhaps watching the family goats, or fetching water from the well, when the strange person appeared and hailed her as “highly favored” and “blessed among women” (Luke 1:28). Remember, she was about 13 years old[1]and had probably seldom met a stranger, let alone one that would single her out as someone special. She is understandably “troubled” or startled, and wonders about such a greeting.[2]Then the angel explains she will have a child who will be the “son of the Highest,” who will “reign over the house of Jacob” and whose “kingdom [shall have] no end” (Luke 1:31-33).

Pretty overwhelming stuff this, for a young village girl. But she doesn’t question these prophecies at all. Perhaps she remembers her own heritage of David’s line, and the yearning of her people for a Messiah who will save her people from being ruled by idol worshipping foreigners. Perhaps the prophecy makes perfect sense to her. Some woman will certainly bear this promised savior.

But her mind goes immediately to the practical. She is in fact in some respects “married,” her family and Joseph’s family have signed the paperwork which connects the two young people as a married couple. However, the second part of the marriage has not been completed. When she is a little older, her husband Joseph will take her into his household and into his bed for the first time. [3]Mary has not ever “known” a man, not even her husband Joseph, so she very practically asks, “How shall this be?” (Luke 1:35). 

When the angel explains that it just will be, through the miraculous power of the Holy Ghost, Mary does not ask any other questions. She does not, as she rightly could have, inquire how her life and her reputation will be salvaged in a culture that may punish adultery by stoning and certainly by ostracism. She does not ask whether her family will continue to care for her, whether Joseph will still protect her as his wife. Mary may be young, but she know what happens to girls who have babies without the protection of a husband.

But Mary does not ask the angel any of these questions. She simply says, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” She believes. She trusts the Lord. She recognizes the importance of the mission given to her and she believes the Lord will help her to accomplish it. She knows it won’t be easy, but she knows she will do it. She knows, as the angel told her, “with God nothing shall be impossible.”

This is the first thing I learn from Mary. Though angels have not visited me, and I am certainly not the pure and holy woman Mary was and is, I do have jobs to do here on this earth. I have missions that God is asking me to fulfill. I am to be a wife, mother, teacher, friend. I have some talents and some abilities that God wants me to consecrate to His service and to those of others. Yet often, when I feel the call, when the Holy Ghost says, “Go visit her.” Or “write about that,” I respond with, “Oh, not today. I’m tired.’ Or “What if I’m not good enough?” or “She doesn’t even like me, how can I help?” 

Instead I want to be like Mary, and meekly follow the call. To say “Be it unto me according to thy word” (Luke 1:38). And if I do, who knows what miracles may follow?

The next lesson I learn is within the story of the marvelous birth. Of course, God watches over the young mother, and Joseph does take Mary under his protection, and even takes her to Bethlehem to give birth, far from the gossiping tongues of Nazareth who may have been counting months. The Child is born, and then the shepherds come, worshipping young Mary’s newborn son. They say that angels came to them as they watched the sheep, angels proclaiming, “a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” They say the angels gave them directions leading them to the manger holding Mary’s baby, and the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest!”

Young Mary listens quietly to the shepherds. Though the shepherds return home, loudly “glorifying and praising God,” Mary quietly considers their words; she “ponder[s] them in her heart.” She is thinking through the implications of these angelic messengers. She is remembering the message of Gabriel and adding this testimony to his.

Twelve years later, Mary again is described as thoughtful. The family has journeyed to Jerusalem to worship at the Temple at the feast, probably of Passover. As Mary and Joseph start the return journey, they realize the young boy Jesus is not with their party and return to search for him. They find him in the temple, conversing with and even teaching the learned men. When asked why he stayed behind, Jesus answers, “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” (Luke 2:49). Then, he does come home with Mary and Joseph and continue to be a dutiful son, but Mary adds this experience and her Son’s confidence in His mission to the other evidences of his divinity. She ponders them all;  she “kept all these sayings in her heart” (Luke 2:51).

I want to be more like Mary. I want to ponder in my heart the miraculous events of my life, the times that God has shown his power in my behalf--the small tender mercies and the larger miracles. They are many and they are significant. I need to consider their meaning in my life and in my particular mission.

Finally, I think of Mary standing at the cross, at the feet of her son as he goes through the most agonizing of deaths. She could have been like other disciples, hiding in a room somewhere, frightened of being captured and killed as well. She could have watched from a nearby hill, perhaps with other disciples. But no. Mary stands steadfast, with her son in death as she was at his birth. She is there to offer what support she can.

No doubt she wondered how this agonizing death could come to the one the angel Gabriel promised would be king of kings, the son of Highest, who should rule over the house of Jacob without end. She couldn’t understand this end to the child whom angels proclaimed a Savior, Christ the Lord. This man who had clearly “been about His Father’s business,” how could the Father let him die in this way? The son, who turned water to wine at her request, whom she knew could heal the sick and raise the dead, was he really born to die such an ignominious death? I can understand how faith could waver at this point, how a mother might be angry with God for letting this happen.

But Mary did not lose faith. She had pondered in her heart all the witnesses of her Son’s divinity. She knew if God was letting this happen it was probably part of His Plan. So she stayed by her Son, comforting him with her faith and her presence, attending to what needs she could.

And because of Mary’s faith, she was there, to know of her Son’s resurrection, to see the unfolding of His glorious gospel to fill the earth

I want to be like Mary. Even when things do not seem to be going according to my plan, the plan that seemed to be the right one to me, I want to be steadfast in faith, and wait bravely for God’s plan to unfold.

So this is what I have learned from studying Mary. I want to respond willingly and completely to follow God’s commandments. I want to ponder in my heart the evidences of God’s love and grow in knowledge and faith. I want to be steadfast, standing with God, even when things do not seem to be going well. I want to have the faith that will allow me to grow and learn so I can know my Lord, and His glorious plan for me. 

---

[1]Camille Fronk Olson, Women of the New Testament

[2]Olson, Women of the New Testament

[3]Olson, Women of the New Testament, p. 

Scary Newsflashes, The Iraq Invasion, and Chagall’s Peace Window

It seems like every 10 minutes I get “news flashes” on my phone. Government scandals, opioid epidemics, shootings, plane crashes, famines. Each time I pick up to see the flash, my heart does a little skip. What craziness is happening now? And what are we going to do about it? What can I do?

Lately I’ve been thinking about an especially frightening time, mainly because a colleague reminded of an approaching anniversary. In March 2003, just a little over a year after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center, I attended a professional conference for college writing teachers in New York City, not far from the scene of the attack. The terrifying images were still fresh in everyone’s minds:  of terrorist-flown planes crashing into the towering skyscrapers, of desperate people jumping, of rubble-strewn city streets and bewildered New Yorkers in heels and suits trying to walk home. America felt vulnerable in a way it never had before. As the country moved toward war in Iraq, New York City seemed to be a prime target for terrorists once again.  But the conference had been planned for years, the location could not be changed, so we carried on. 

Or at least some of us did. Many chose not to attend the annual conference that year, including some of my colleagues at my university. “My husband won’t let me go. Too dangerous!” one said. Another said, “I don’t know if it really is dangerous, but I feel nervous about it. I’ll just skip this year.

I decided to go. I’m optimistic by nature and figured everything would be OK, I guess. Also, this was New York City! I love to visit New York—I love the bustle and the excitement, the museums, the theater, and the sense of being at the center of the world. I didn’t want to pass up the chance to go.

So I went. Between conference sessions, I walked the streets, ate cheesecake, shopped on Fifth Avenue, danced in the aisle at Mama Mia, and ogled Raphael’s Madonna at the Metropolitan Museum. Everywhere I went,  on every corner, I passed soldiers dressed in camo, vigilantly watching, holding M-16s.  

Then, on March 20, right in the midst of our three-day conference, the US invaded Iraq with a “shock and awe” campaign of aerial bombardment. The televisions in the hotel elevators were tuned to the coverage of the war. We mild-mannered writing teachers on our way to sessions on how to encourage more specific thesis statements--we stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, watching bombs and blood and mayhem on the screen above our heads.

In the halls, conference-goers debated the war. Was the war at all justified? Was it a terrible mistake? What is our responsibility for action? They were good people whom I admired.  They were intensely concerned with doing what was right. 

I listened and tried to understand. I felt woefully inadequate to make a judgement. 

So, as my colleagues co-opted writing sessions to denounce the war and plan protest marches, I wondered-- what can I do?

This is what I did.

I walked through the streets of New York toward the United Nations Building, a vague effort at supporting peaceful solutions to world problems. I threaded my way through the ring of media vans surrounding the building: NBC, CNN, BBC, AP, Reuters. Passing through a series of tents, I stood in line to pass through the many security check points. 

Once inside I wandered past closed rooms where peace and war and life and death were discussed. I had no real direction, I just wandered through the public spaces.

Then I happened to stop before Marc Chagall’s Peace Window, created in 1964. It is a striking sight: 15 feet wide and 12 feet high, with small figures floating in a vast sea of blue. On the left of a central tree, humans and animals drift aimlessly. On the right side of the tree, a group of people holding a lighted menorah move from a walled city in the distance to gather at the base of Christ on the cross. A snake nestles in the root of the central tree, but a bunch of red roses blooms from the top. Above the tree an angel reaches out the tablets of the Ten Commandments. 

To the right of the tree, a woman, larger than the other figures, is bowed in grief. Below the tree a small naked baby waves at me cheerfully.

Marc Chagall, the creator of the Peace Window, knew much of crisis and war and violence. A Russian Jew, he suffered through violent pogroms as a child. During the Russian revolution he knew the hunger and danger that followed. He was living in Germany as Hitler waged war again Europe and the Jews, but was able to escape to the United States through occupied France. Chagall’s beloved wife Bella died during the war years, and he grieved greatly over her loss, the near complete annihilation of his home town in Russia, and the unthinkable destruction of his people. 

And yet, this beautiful Peace Window, expressing faith and hope in the midst of grief. And yet, that little baby at the bottom of the window, waving out joyfully.

I looked at that baby--at all the images floating in the sea of blue, the grieving woman, the menorah of light, the Christ on the cross—I stood there thinking of this troubled world and the crisis we now faced and, silently, I prayed.

I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Some people call us Mormons. As a devout Christian, I believe that we were sent to this mortal world to experience both joy and sorrow. I believe that sorrow is sometimes the natural consequence of living in mortality, such as illness and pain and death. And I believe that often sorrow comes about through bad choices: our own and those of others—and that is where bullying and murder and war come in. 

I believe that God will not intervene in the choices we make. He will not force His people to do what is right. But He did atone for all the sins of the world, and He will help us through every terrible thing that we face, if we come to him, like Chagall’s masses on the right of the window. 

So I stood there and I prayed. I prayed for the leaders of the world, I prayed for those who would fight and those who would suffer. I prayed for peace, if not the peace that is the absence of war, then the peace we can feel in our hearts.

When I walked back through the streets of New York, past the armed soldiers, back to the contentious debates and the blaring TVs in the elevators-- I was still worried, still wondering what was the right response. But, there in the UN, in front of Chagall’s Peace Window, I had found a kind of peace.

And today, when I pick up my phone to see that latest news flash, I hope to hold that peace within me.

Why I am Glad I am Just the Age I am: Birthday Reflections

When my mother was in her mid 80s, I remember her sitting in her chair in the TV room, knitting while my Dad lay on the couch, watching a basketball game. As I sat with them on an evening visit, she said unexpectedly, “I wish I were 70 again!” My Dad’s interest left the game and turned to her, “Why do you say that, Leah? If you are going to wish to be a different age, why not 30, or 40, or even 25, when you were young and strong?”

Mama went on with her knitting steadily, maybe stopping a minute to count stitches. Then she continued. “No, 70. That was just about the perfect age. The children were raised and well settled in life, I didn’t need to go to work, and I was still healthy enough to do pretty much whatever I wanted to.” 

At the time, I thought this was pretty funny, that my mom would see 70 as the ideal age. In my early 50s at the time, I thought 70 was very advanced in age, and certainly not much better than 80. 

But now, at 68, I see it. My sister, 10 years older than I, reminded me of how our mother would say this. And now she repeated it: “Remember what mama said. You are approaching the perfect age.”

So here are reasons why I am glad I am just the age I am:

1.    As Mama pointed out, I’m old enough not to have to go to work. I get to spend my time doing pretty much whatever I want to do. And if the weather is bad, I can just stay home until the roads are cleared.

2.    At the same time, I am young enough that I’m still healthy. I can walk and hike and clean my house and garden. I can travel and I can play with my grandchildren. I can go to the gym every day and lift weights. Pretty much, I feel as active as ever.

3.    But I appreciate my health more, knowing that it may not last. As I run up the stairs I’m thankful for my knees because I know they won’t always work this well. As I race to catch a bus I rejoice that I can. 

4.    I am even more thankful for my husband. Someone once told me that in midlife everyone gets a little frustrated with their spouses, but if you wait a few years they begin to look better. It’s true: foibles and shortcomings have become endearing. Strengths and kindnesses are even better appreciated, especially when I look around at so many of my friends who have lost their husbands already.

5.    My children are adults, well settled in life. I don’t feel responsible for them, so I can enjoy them as friends. We can chat on the phone and laugh over funny stories. They even give me advice which makes my life better. It’s also kind of nice to be old enough they are beginning to feel like they need to look after me a little. It’s a nice payback, when they give me a new electronic device and say, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll set it up for you!”

6.    I have friends I cherish—friends who have known me for decades and yet still like me. We have seen each other through hard times and good times. We care deeply for each other and help each other through whatever we face.

7.    I also have friends much younger than I. They probably see me as old, but I feel like I am just their age, maybe because I hold that age within me. Having younger friends makes me feel young.

8.    I’m thankful for a challenging career and for all I learned from that satisfying work. I’m especially thankful for former students and colleagues who have stayed friends. 

9.    I have the perspective of years. I know that hard things will pass.

10.  And I know the importance of savoring the good moments.

11.  I have tested the promises of the Savior and know He really does help us get through hard times.

12.  I know that, with the Savior’s help, the hard times are what made the best parts of me.

13.  At this point, I’m willing to recognize what I do well and understand my responsibility to foster and share those talents.

14.  I also don’t compare myself with others so much. I’ve lived long enough to know that we all have different strengths. I am glad for others’ strengths; I am blessed by them. I am glad for my own strengths; I can bless others with them. It’s a great system.

15.  I also see clearly where I need to improve, and I am grateful to have time to do that—all eternity in fact.

I am just the right age--and probably this is true at every age-- to flourish and learn, still young in the eternal sense, but growing. 

Keep Trying -- or Maybe Not

When my mom was about 9 years old in the early 1920s, she decided she would bake a cake while her grandma and mother were out of the house. The only problem was that at that time they still had a wood-burning stove, and she didn’t know quite how to maintain a proper baking temperature. When she opened the oven door after the right amount of time, she would tell me, her planned surprise cake was an ooey gooey mess. She was so embarrassed to have wasted all the precious ingredients that she hurriedly dug a hole in the back yard and buried all the evidence.

I always thought this was a cute story, but today I totally understand. 

First some background. 

One of my favorite things to do is to watch those baking videos on Facebook—you know the ones where the ingredients magically appear in the glass bowl, and then with a snap of the fingers they are mixed, and then a few seconds later the delicious concoction is on a plate and a fork full is held up to the camera looking absolutely irresistible.

Well, one video I have watched over and over is for Absolutely Amazing Chocolate Cake. It looked not only fabulous but totally doable. So last week when I was asked to bring a cake to a funeral lunch I thought this was the perfect moment to make the Absolutely Amazing Chocolate Cake. 

The layers baked up well and smelled divine, though they looked a tad lopsided. I waited the requisite 15 minutes and then tipped them out of the pans. That is, I tipped part of each layer out of the pan—part was loath to leave its comfy residence in the baking pan. 

No problem. I pieced the layers together, let them cool completely, and commenced assembly of the layers. Once stacked, the lopsidedness was even more pronounced. I’m not sure what I did to the frosting, but, rather than holding the layers together, it was more like a lubricant inducing a tectonic shift. 

In despair, I watched my beautiful layer cake slide slowly but surely toward the side. 

Then I called my son and asked him to pick up a cake from Costco for the funeral.

Our family ate my cake the next day, which actually did taste amazing. So this week, with a birthday dinner planned for Sunday, I decided I would perfect my Amazing Chocolate Cake. My amazing baker friend told me how to trim the layers and freeze them before assembly, so the structure would be more sturdy. I also learned to line the baking pans with parchment to ease getting them out.

This morning I carefully prepared my pans with parchment paper and mixed up the yummy batter. I measured out the batter into each of three pans. The recipe said to put about 3 cups of batter in each pan, but, hey, I had extra, so I just divvied it out equally among the pans. 

Midway through the baking time I smelled burning chocolate. I peeked in the oven to find all three pans were overflowing onto the racks and the bottom of the oven, bubbling over like three volcanoes of molten lava, flowing relentlessly toward the burners.

By the time I took the pans out, the house was filled with smoke so thick that vision was obscured.  Paul appeared, crying out, “What happened? Is the house on fire?” 

Then he rushed about opening windows and turning on fans. I stared at the remains of my totally amazing cake. The layers had totally collapsed, admittedly in a rather amazing way. 

Ever the optimist, I told Paul they could still be rescued with frosting. Then I tasted the cake. Amazing chocolate flavor,  with deep nuances of smoke. 

Wisely, Paul insisted we take the cake immediately out to the trash.

Looks like a Costco birthday cake after all. 

But you know, I think I’ll try again. I know how to fix this—just 3 cups of batter per pan! Parchment paper!  Trimming and freezing to avoid the lopsided layers!

As Abraham Lincoln said, “I’m doing the best I can, the best way I know how, and I will continue to do so.” I can just keep trying, and maybe my best will get better. 

Or maybe I should just admit that we all have different talents and leave the cake baking to Costco and my amazing neighbor.

Christmas Babies

This Christmastime I’m thinking a lot about helpless little babies.  We have a new baby in our family, and sometimes when I hold little Lucia, I think of how not long ago she was in the spirit world, a conscious being, making decisions for herself. She made the decision to come to earth, to be given a body, and to try to follow God’s plan. At the Council in Heaven, when she learned of this wonderful plan, she, along with all of us, shouted for joy at this chance to obtain a body. 

But then she was born, and this body she had yearned for is tiny and helpless. Her head bobbles about, her tiny little fingers are useless. She can’t do anything for herself but eat and cry. Sometimes I hold her and tell her it’s OK. She will learn and grow and someday return to live in heaven again.

I think of that other baby. There in Bethlehem, over 2000 years ago, heaven and earth came together as the son of God, the creator of the world, the great Jehovah of the Old Testament, was born a tiny little baby to a frightened young mother in a humble stable. Like Lucia, He was confined to a weak and powerless body, his head bobbling, his fingers useless. He did this for us, to fulfill a plan made before the beginning of the world. He came to teach us. He came to save us. 

And when He was born--when the word was made flesh, when the promise of the great council was fulfilled--the angels in heaven sang. “For unto you is born this day. . . a Savior, which is Christ the Lord . . . Glory to God in the highest.” (Luke 2:10) Little Lucia--and all of us--were likely among them.  

This little baby Jesus grew—“waxed strong”—and became our great example. As a mortal himself, he was able to teach us how to live as mortals. He taught us to love one another, to pray for our enemies, to bless them that despitefully use us. But more than teaching us, he showed us how to serve. He helped the hungry, the blind, the paralytic, those who mourned. 

And for this we sing Glory to God. Through all his actions, he showed us how to look around us and do what we can to help one another.  As little Lucia grows, she will learn to follow Jesus’s example, to strive to heal the wounded and the weary around us, to help those who cannot see his light. She will bring joy to others as she serves, and through her service she will be changed in her heart, become better, more holy.

But Jesus the Christ is more than just a good example. There have been many wise teachers and good examples in the world. Though Jesus was born as a helpless baby, He was not truly mortal.  He was and is the Son of God and filled with God’s power. He not only helped those who were blind, he gave them sight; he not only soothed the paralytic, he bade him walk, he not only comforted the grieving family, he returned the daughter to life. Through Christ’s Power, he was able to not only help others in their need, but to take away their suffering.

When I look to the future of our tiny innocent Lucia, I want to see only joy and happiness. But because I know we were all sent to earth to be tested, I know that she will also face sorrow. Someday she will go to nursery and some other kid will take away her toy. Someday on the school playground, some mean kids will make her cry. At some future time, some boy will doubtless break her heart. And because we all live in a mortal world, she will face sickness and sorrow and even death.

 But Christ knows the sorrows Lucia will face. Alma taught that, through the atonement, Christ  “will take upon him [our] infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy . . ., that he may know . . .how to succor his people according to their infirmities.(Alma 7:12.)

Jesus Christ knows our hearts and our sorrows, for he has suffered our sufferings. Because he has felt what we feel, he knows just how to help us. And He doesn’t wait until the end of our life to help us—he, through his great atoning sacrifice, knows just how to help us all along the way. He is with Lucia to help her all through her mortal journey; He is with each one of us, yearning to help us every day.

No wonder we sing Glory to God.

Perhaps the greatest reason to praise God at Christmas time is that He was born to die that all of us might live forever. He has made a way for us to return to live with Him and Heavenly Father forever.

When Lucia-- and all of us-- shouted for joy at the Heavenly Council,  she knew she needed to come to earth so she could receive a body.  She knew she needed to learn and grow, so she could become more like her Father in Heaven and her older brother Jesus Christ. Her goal was to live in such a way that she could return, clean and pure, to live with them again.  

She knew it would be hard, but I don’t think she knew just how hard. I don’t think any of us knew.  I think maybe it was like when I went away to college and I had visions of getting straight A’s and dating a football star. I didn’t know how hard it would be.

Because we live in a mortal world, because we are mortals, we mess up. Even when we know Christ’s teachings, even when we try to follow his example, we make mistakes, sometimes we even willfully choose not to do what He would have us do. Sometimes we leave the path. We don’t stay as pure and clean as Lucia is right now.

But Heavenly Father and Jesus knew we would be weak and make mistakes. They also knew that we couldn’t return to live with them unless we were sinless. So they designed Christ’s great atoning sacrifice.

Lucia and you and I—whatever mistakes we make, we can be made clean, sinless. The scriptures teach “Though thy sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow” (Isaiah 1:18). Through our repentance and Christ’s atonement, our sins are taken away. Every day we can pray to be forgiven; each week we can take the Sacrament, repent, and become clean. Because of Christ, whatever sins we may commit, we can become as pure as a newborn babe--as pure as little Lucia is now--ready to return to live with our beloved Father in Heaven.  

And for this we sing, Glory to God.

And what do we--Lucia and all of us-- need to do to receive this wonderful gift? Come unto Christ. Reach out to him, love him, trust him. Talk to him in prayer: share our joys and sorrows with Him. Be grateful. Watch for his help. Learn of him by studying his word.  Love and serve each other. Repent when we make mistakes.

That’s all.  Just do our best. He will help us and sustain us all along the way. 

   

That silent night so long ago, Jesus Christ, was born a tiny baby to be our example and friend, our Savior and Redeemer. He came to heal and save little baby Lucia. He came to heal and save each one of us.  

Now at Christmastime, and always, let us rejoice for the matchless gift of God’s divine son. Let us sing again with the angels, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”(Luke 2:14) 

The Year I Ruined Christmas

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBwELzvnrQg

One Christmas time, not long before the big day, when my five children were all still living at home, teenagers mostly, I was madly dashing from one task to another. I think maybe we were having guests that night. I was madly decorating, cleaning, washing clothes, baking, cooking, shopping, wrapping—you know the routine, I’m sure.

Of course, I had given the kids chores too—but it was maybe the first day of Christmas holidays and they were joking and singing and carrying on, happy as can be, but not making headway on their tasks. 

I went on--scrubbing bathrooms, mopping the floor, vacuuming—getting more and more angry at those selfish kids. 

Finally, I called them all to the kitchen for a serious Talk. They gathered around the island still happy and smiling—then I started in.

“Do you think it is fair that I have to do all the work? Do you think it is right that I am working so hard to make a happy Christmas for you while you are just fooling around?”

My voice raised high and higher until I screamed, “I do everything for you so you will be happy at Christmas, and you don’t even appreciate it!”

And then I burst into tears.

Suddenly the smiles and laughter were gone. Confused, the children looked at each other and then at their feet. My youngest’s face began to crumple.

Sobbing, I moved to the family room and sank onto the couch All five gathered around me in the family room. All was silent while I tried to compose myself.

Then my son David, about 14 at the time, a kindly soul and one who can always see comic potential, sat down beside me on the couch and softly patted my shoulder. He comforted me in the kindest tones, “There, there, Mom. Don’t worry. It’s OK.”

I took my head out of my hands and looked at his sweet face.

David continued, kindly and sweetly, simply explaining the obvious, “You don’t need to worry about ruining Christmas.”

I began to tentatively smile. Then he continued, still in the sweetest, most kind tones, “You’ve already ruined Christmas.”

Then I looked around at everyone’s stricken faces, those faces that moments before had been laughing and joking in celebration.

And I started to laugh. 

Because, guess what? They were https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBwELzvnrQghaving a happy Christmas. Until I started yelling and crying.

Soon we were all laughing, because it was funny. I had worked myself into a tizzy to make a happy Christmas, worked so hard I yelled at them and blamed them and yes—ruined Christmas. In an effort to make a perfect Christmas, I ruined it.

And you know what else was funny? 

I didn’t really ruin Christmas. We went on to have a happy time together. And many more happy Christmases since. Because one meltdown does not a Christmas ruin.

But the kids now say, like it’s a family tradition, "When are you going to ruin Christmas, Mom? 

I didn’t totally give up on Christmas meltdowns. But often, when I’m close to one, I remember the year I ruined Christmas and stop to think. I wonder, is whatever I am stressing about really worth ruining Christmas over? And the answer, of course, is no.

So lately the kids have been saying, “Mom hasn’t even ruined Christmas yet. Gosh, Mom. Don’t you have any sense of tradition?”

Matryoshka Dolls and Mother Legacies

Matryoshka dolls, or Russian nesting dolls, are hollow wooden figures fitting one within the other, the smaller into the larger, until the largest holds all the smaller ones. A few weeks ago my daughter presented me with a set of Matryoshka dolls which she had painted herself, each doll representing a generation of women in my family. The largest doll was my grandmother, within her my mother, then myself, then my daughter Mary, and within Mary, the tiniest one—the one representing the little baby girl Mary was currently carrying literally inside herself. 

As I gaze at these dolls now on my mantle, I think of the way each woman carried her child and then taught and modeled how to live. Every child is a part of the mother, and every mother forever holds the child within her heart. Each mother passes to her child that which she received from her own mother—a love of music, a knack for baking, or a great sense of fun.

In this particular line, each woman passed on values of hard work, love, and faith. But also, unusual for the earlier generations, each woman had advanced education, which she used to work outside the home throughout her life.

The largest doll represents my grandmother, Leah Holt, who was born in 1890 in the small Mormon village of Spanish Fork, Utah. At that time in Spanish Fork there was no public education beyond 8^thgrade, which seemed like plenty for the needs of the little farming community. But Leah was not ready to be done with learning, and her father agreed to send her to Provo to attend Brigham Young Academy. Around 1903, Leah moved to Provo to earn a degree in stenography, with skills in shorthand, typing, and bookkeeping. 

Later Leah put those skills to good use, first when she became one of the first lady missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,  serving as secretary to the Southern States Mission president, Charles A. Callis, who presided over 250 missionaries in 10 states. Later still, when her young husband died suddenly, she worked as a bookkeeper to support her two little girls, and later on her widowed mother and her orphaned niece and nephew. She not only supported her family, she contributed to her town through her work. By the time she retired as city clerk at 70, she knew everyone in town, and everyone in town knew and loved her.

The next smaller doll represents my mother, also named Leah. Though money was tight during the Depression, my grandmother made every sacrifice to assure that her girls would go to college. They also made the trek to Provo to attend Brigham Young University. Through hard work and taking summer school, Mom managed to complete her bachelor’s degree in only three years, with a double major in English and music, certified to teach kindergarten through twelfth grade. My mom used her degree to teach a year before marriage, then, when her youngest child (me) entered school, Mom eagerly returned to work. She taught first grade from then until retirement. Some of my favorite memories are hearing the black marker squeak as Mom carefully printed charts for the next day’s lessons.

So, for me, the middle-sized Russian doll in the set, going to college and preparing for a career just seemed normal. I earned a Master’s degree in English, and while my first child was still an infant, I started teaching part-time at the university and continued to teach while raising five children, until I retired as full-time faculty.

Inside of the Russian doll representing me, you would find my daughter, Mary, who, having all her life watched her mother grade papers and plan lessons, also took education and a career as a given. She completed a PhD and took a job teaching at a university with her husband’s full support. 

Now she has her own little daughter, the tiniest Matryoshka doll. 

But I’ve come to think we need one more doll—one to hold my Grandmother doll and all the others within her, one that has influenced the entire line. I have wondered: why did Leah Holt’s farmer father, Samuel Holt, make the sacrifice to invest in educating his daughter, at a time when women were expected not to need an education, to do no more than marry, have children, and work in the home and on the farm?

I believe the answer lies with Samuel’s step-mother, Vigdis Bjornsdottir Holt. Samuel’s mother died when he was only 5, and in 1861 his father married Vigdis, a recent immigrant from Iceland. Before coming to Utah, Vigdis had journeyed from Iceland to Copenhagen to be trained as a physician and a midwife. Once settled in Spanish Fork, she served the medical needs of hundreds of families. Even after her marriage, Vigdis continued to practice medicine. Whenever called, she would mount her horse, with her medical bag strapped behind her, and ride off to help, often without pay. The townspeople lovingly called her Aunt Wickie, and she was so well respected that the local doctor would call her in to consult on difficult cases. She continued practicing until she was over 80.

I believe Samuel Holt saw in his step-mother the way education can prepare a woman to be not only an exemplary mother and homemaker, but also to serve others outside the home. That understanding led Samuel to support his young daughter Leah in getting advanced education, which led Leah to sacrifice so her daughter could attend university, which led my mother to support me in my advanced degrees, and led me to support my daughter in hers.

Which brings us back to that tiniest Matryoshka doll, who has now arrived, and whom I have nestled in my arms, wondering what lies in store for her. I feel the legacy of education, motherhood, and career-service will continue for her. After all, her name includes that of our original example, the beginning of our family legacy: Vigdis.