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Connect....Build......Love

8/31/2014

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PictureGrace gives duct-taped glasses a whole new look
  “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”    Stephen R. Covey  

Brilliant. YES.   Insightful.  YES.  Simple………..maybe not so much, at least not initially.    To keep the main thing the main thing one has to determine what the main thing is.  What is the main thing?

 

Thanks to sizable grant obtained by our brilliant, fearless leader (Amie Campbell), Ogden Preparatory Academy is implementing Franklin Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People on a school wide basis; every student, kindergarten through high school freshman, will learn the 7 Habits.  Because “we can’t take kids where we haven’t gone” ( Justin Ropelato, another brilliant, fearless leader), the entire faculty is being Franklin Covey trained.

 

I’ve had Franklin Covey training before—in fact, I’ve unofficially done some Franklin Covey training— and I’ve written many mission statements (dozens?) but I could not find any of them.   (They’re probably tucked away somewhere, maybe beside the receipt for the hose that has a life time guarantee that I always vow I will put somewhere I can find but never seem to be able to encounter when the hose springs a leak which it inevitably does….)  Recognizing that sincere introspection is not a bad thing and intense self-scrutiny can be a really good thing, I began once again to ponder my life’s mission.

 

Hum……….What is my life’s mission?  Clearly I want to return, with my family, to live with my Heavenly Father.   While this is true, it is not very Teresa-specific.   “We detect rather than invent our missions in life.”  (Victor Frankl, also brilliant and fearless)  What is my unique errand? Taking into consideration the gifts God has given me, what task am I best suited to tackle?   

 

I won’t bore you with the various mental paths I cerebrally trod on the way to detecting my mission statement.   (I am already at great risk of boring you as I start the fifth paragraph on this topic….)  Suffice it to say that I realized that my greatest joy comes as I connect with others, my greatest satisfaction occurs when I feel I have built others, and my greatest conviction is that pure love is the key to all that is good.    A mission statement is born!   My mission is to connect and built through love.  

 

Brilliant?   For me, yes.  Insightful?  For me, powerfully so.  Simple?  Now, yes.  It helps me keep the main thing, the main thing.    This week, as I drove from house to house, visiting members of Team:PRIMARY,  I felt a lot better about the peaches that were falling unpicked from the trees in my garden when I remembered that my mission is to connect with and build up people, not bottle fruit.    Likewise, thinking about my mission statement freed me from “there-is-a-puddle-of-gunk-at-the-bottom-of-my-frig-and-my-laundry-is-not-put-away” guilt as I strolled through the NFL store with Miles, admiring my son as he admired Green Bay Packers paraphernalia.  Put first things first, right?

 

“Put first things first” is one of the 7 Habits.   Another is “Sharpen the Saw”, a habit that advises people to do things that renew them personally.   Telling stories fills my bucket, so to speak.  In the spirit of saw sharpening, let the stories begin!  

 

“I’m not going to run for class president,” Miles said.  Though Grace and I both urged him to reconsider his decision, he left for school on election day firmly convinced that an election campaign was not for him….which made his announcement that he was elected to preside over his fifth grade class for the next quarter quite surprising.   In an answer to our “what happened?” query, he explained, “I just changed my mind so I thought up a speech in two seconds and gave it.”   Chick’s response, said with a smile:  “I hated kids like you when I in school.”   (Didn’t we all?  …written with a smile—sort-of!)

 

My watch is lost (not written with sort of smile) so Lance gave me a fancy jogging watch he bought somewhere.    I put it on and was puzzled by the display’s unnatural angle.   To read the time I had to twist my arm 45 degrees away from my body’s core.  Odd.  Odd.  Odd…….until I realized that jogging watches, like can openers, school desks, and scissors, are right handed.     When I put the watch on my other wrist, the time displayed conveniently with a mere glance.

 

The flowers sent to me a school attracted a lot more than a mere glance; every eye in my second period classroom was riveted on the gorgeous bouquet the secretary delivered on August 26th.  August 26th?  The card read “20 years ago today I first met my beautiful wife.  My shoe size is 10.  You are not half bad for a teacher.”   Lance, the darling man to whom I am married, remembered that August 26th was the date of our first date.    (I would write something here like “if only he would remember to put his socks in the dirty clothes” but that would be totally UNCOOL.)  The note was full of inside jokes (which I will explain if you care to ask), the class was full of ooh’s and ahh’s, and my eyes were full of tears (as were the secretary’s and those of the teacher who shares my room).    TOTALLY COOL!

 

Also totally cool was hearing John say “Thank you for playing an active role in NASA product development.”   Who would have thought this little dairy farmer’s daughter would ever play an active role in anything that had anything to do with NASA?    [Sad but true disclaimer:  It sound much more important than it is.  NASA develops educational materials and federal mandates require the presence of a public educator on the product review committee.  I am a token teacher.  It makes for a great story though.]

 

In search of a great story I signed up to be an Ogden City Ambassador.   Ogden, in an effort to impress the throngs they anticipated would invade the city in conjunction with the Ogden Temple Open House, organized a volunteer corps whose task was greet and guide the visitors.   Fun, right?   …..Associating with people from all over Utah, offering advice, welcoming guests…Who knows who I’d meet or what adventures I would have….    What I was hoping for was a story; what I got was a lot of papers graded.   During my four hour shift I spoke with one family from Stansbury Park, welcomed about 20 people from Ogden to Ogden, and chatted, in Spanish, with a worker from Win-Co.   I invited him to tour the temple; he invited me to teach him English.   End of conversation.   End of story.

 

There is no end in sight to stories about Miles’ and football.   After 3 years of incessant, dogged, relentless pesting, we finally let Miles sign up to play little league football.   He is the 26th biggest player on his team of 26.    Most of the team has played before.    Due to his inexperience (certainly not due to his size), his coaches put him on the offensive line.    The same incessant, dogged, relentless effort that got him the opportunity to play football has earned him a spot on the defensive line where he manages to hold his own and has even forced a couple of quarterback sacks.   “I hit them in stomach, below the shoulder pads,” he said, explaining his strategy.    Their stomach is about where his head would reach if they were standing side by side.    Who says linemen have to be big?

 

Who says letters have to be long?   For those of you who think this letter has gone on too long, the end is near.   Thanks for connecting with me.   Let’s build together.   I would love that.

 

Teresa


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Miles sporting Packer paraphernalia
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Anyone have $100?
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Runner's watch in right hand position
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Runner's watch in left hand position
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TOTALLY COOL!
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Miles helps Tanah.....
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...take the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.
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Hislop, #58, takes his place on the line.
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The 26th biggest kid on the team.........
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...takes him down!
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Miles Hislop. [This photo and the two above it courteously taken and shared by Gabby Simonson.]
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He Made Me Beautiful

8/17/2014

6 Comments

 
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The self-improvement class’s topic was personal grooming.  Well-intended instructors showed us how to apply make-up and enhance our natural features.   The unintended outcome was that I felt ugly.  Butt ugly.   Their comments about eye brow plucking particularly played on my insecurities.     I had never plucked my eyebrows in my life; no wonder no one wanted to date or marry me!

By the time I had walked the mile and a half that separated the class from my home, I was fully convinced my face resembled that of a Neanderthal, complete with jutting chin, giant nose, and, of course, bushy eyebrows.   Upon entering the house, I caught a glimpse of a woman in the mirror and it took me a moment to recognize myself.   I was sincerely surprised; I really wasn’t nearly as ugly as I had envisioned.  Much to my honest amazement, my eyebrows really weren’t that bushy, despite the fact they had never been plucked.

The road to my ugly self-perception was a long and somewhat painful one.   During high school I warmed the bench at school dances and was rarely invited to date.    Convinced things would change in college, I went to BYU with high social hopes, only to discover some things never change.    Five university years and two mission years later I graduated with a bachelor’s degree and without a wedding ring.     My social life as a single young adult in Ogden was more of the same; I was a wall flower at dances and a finder-of-my-own-entertainment on weekends.    Having long ago given up on any illusions of attractiveness, I knew my only hope was a good personality and so I focused entirely on developing that.   I couldn’t change my face, by darn, but I could become kind, genuine, and interesting, right?!?

Enter Lance.

I was twenty-nine and ugly.   He was twenty-eight and attractive.    In fact, the first thing I thought when I saw him for the first time, was “He will never ask me out again; he is much too preppy for me.”  Rich, dark hair stylishly gelled, sporty leather shoes, a faded denim shirt (very “in” at the time)—to me he was the exact incarnate example of the type of men who never asked me out.

“You are beautiful,” he said to me on our first date.

And he asked me out again.    And he said again (and again), “You are beautiful.”

Nearly twenty years later he is still saying it.   “You are beautiful” he tells me.   He really believes it.  And, now, so do I.

Believing that I am attractive has changed me.    Whether or not I am truly pretty is irrelevant.   Because he believes I am beautiful, I believe it too and I take that belief with me wherever I go.   I carry myself differently and interact differently with others.   I speak with the mechanic more confidently, smile at the bank teller with greater surety, and walk into a room of strangers with increased ease; my voice is warmer, my handshake firmer, my stride less hesitant.   No longer caught in my self-made web of insecurity, I am freer to give, to share, to listen and to love    Lance’s belief in my beauty has made me a more beautiful person.  

Recently I was assembling a scrapbook about our Cancun adventure.  I came across some very ugly pictures of a woman about my age and height and it took me a minute to recognize myself.   I was sincerely surprised; I was much more unattractive than I had envisioned.   And then I dismissed the photos.   I know I am beautiful; Lance has made me so.

Who will you make beautiful?

 

Love,
Teresa



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He makes me feel beautiful.....
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...and, rather I really am beautiful or not is largely irrelevant.
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We are (beautiful) family!
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Me and the cows.....not so beautiful...........
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Who is this ugly woman?
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...and this one? EEK!
6 Comments

August 10th, 2014

8/10/2014

1 Comment

 
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I awoke at 2:00 Monday morning to the sound of falling rain.   “God hates me,” I thought.  

For weeks I have been concerned about getting our pigs to the fair.   In years past we have loaded them onto the trailer the night before in order to give ourselves plenty of time for the loading process.    It is not easy to convince a pig to walk up a ramp into a trailer and, unlike sheep and cattle, pigs must be convinced; they cannot be bullied.    Just in case it took all night to get them on, I gave myself all night.

 

This year, however, weight weighed on my mind.  A pig, stressed by unfamiliar surroundings, can lose 10 pounds in a trailer.  Grace’s pig did not have 10 pounds to lose.   To minimize the impact, we needed to load the pigs early in the morning and have them at the fairgrounds by 5:30 a.m.

 

To increase our chances of getting the pigs on the trailer, we built a chute to funnel them from the pen to the trailer door, figuring that it would be easier to convince them to enter the trailer if there were no other place for them to go.

 

Even if the chute/funnel system worked, however, my worries were not over.   Somehow I still had to get the truck and trailer out of the garden and up onto the road.   As you may or may not remember, Dad’s truck is a gutless wonder.  (http://www.lifeisthestoriesyoucantell.com/life-is-the-stories-you-can-tell/archives/01-2014, scroll down to “Soggy Bread”)   I love the big Chevy beast, I really do.   It has hauled more animals and more hay and more camping equipment for me than Dad ever dreamed it would when he bought it.   The fact that it has served me incredibly well does not change the fact that it has no power; slopes slow it and slickness stops it.   My garden path is both sloped and slick; more than once I have had to call a neighbor to pull Dad’s truck up and out of my garden.   Tuesday morning the darling diesel not only had to drive up the garden path, it also had to pull a four  horse trailer loaded with 1200 pounds of pork up the hill.  Would it do it?   Who knew?   I certainly had ample reason for worry.

 

When the sound of rain awakened me Monday morning I knew I was stuck; stuck in the mud with a gutless truck and a loaded trailer.   How would I get to the fair in time for the mandatory 6:00 a.m. weigh in?    There was no way on this side of the Mississippi or the other that that dear Chevy would be able to get itself, much less the trailer, up our garden path.   Heavens, when it is wet the clay soil morphs to mud so snot-slick that I cannot even push a wheelbarrow up the slope.

 

“God hates me.”    

 

Driven from bed by the thoughts of being unable to drive, I got up and had a little conversation with my Maker.    He made it very clear to me that He does not hate me…which I appreciated very much.

 

Did I mention that I cannot back a trailer?


Did I mention that I have an amazing bishop?

 

Bishop Bradford is an incredible man.   Not only can he back a double horse trailer through a winding alley at 35 mph, he can show up at my home cheerfully at 4:45 a.m……AND, as an added bonus, he has a four wheel drive truck.

 

The rain stopped, the soil never saturated, and the Bishop showed up at my house Monday evening to back the trailer down my garden path which he did after he backed it into Wilkinson’s barnyard and helped us load. 

 

Tuesday morning, before morning actually dawned (4:45), Bishop was at our house, cheerfully.   We successfully convinced the pigs to enter the trailer—though it took putting a bucket over Big B’s head to get him in.    Attempting to get it off his head, he backed rapidly away from the bucket….and up the ramp into the trailer.

 

I put the truck into compound low and drove as quickly as I could up the garden path, giving it enough acceleration to gain maximum momentum but not enough to lose traction.    Up we went, surely, steadily..…….until the truck wheels hit the lawn.   The sprinklers had turned on during the night and the grass was wet.    First the truck lost traction then it lost momentum and then it stopped. 

 

I had been very concerned about God’s rain and had forgotten completely about my sprinklers.     As usual, it was not God who sabotaged me; it was me.  And, as usual, it was God, via His servants, who rescued me.   Bishop hooked his truck to my truck and, without so much as a single tire spin, pulled me, the truck, the four horse trailer, five swine, a couple bags of feed, and a pitch fork onto the road.

 

We made the mandatory 6:00 a.m. weigh-in with 20 minutes to spare……..and Grace’s hog made the mandatory weight with 14 pounds to spare.   BLESSED DAY!!!   Her pig gained over 2 lb/day over the last three weeks.    Thank you God and Kent’s doughnuts!

 

The fair was good to us.    Perennially red ribbon earners, the kids’ swine won blue ribbons in the market class for the first time ever.    Miles’ pig placed 6th in a class of 12; Grace’s was fourth in a class of 12; and Tanah’s placed 2nd, advancing to the star round.   [The top two hogs in each of 12 classes of 12 advance to the star round from which the Grand and Reserve Champion hog are selected.]   Her long, wide, well-muscled black pig ended up ranked 17th of 144.    Exciting.

 

In the market class, the animal is judged; how big is the ham, how long is the loin, how wide are the shoulders, etc…..   In showmanship classes, the owner’s ability to present the animal is judged; how clean is the animal, does the owner keep the animal in the judge’s line of sight, how confident is the owner, etc…..    

 

Grace excels at showmanship; she loves showing and it shows.    She broke out of the preliminary rounds, quite an accomplishment at her level of competition, and did well in the championship round though she did not place.  [They award only four places; there were over 75 kids in the division.]

 

Miles showed in the junior division (grades 3-5).   He also broke out of the preliminary round and into the finals but he did place.   When the judge shook his hand, signaling that he had won Reserve Grand Champion Junior Showman, his face almost broke, his smile was that big.   And when he put on the belt buckle he won, his back almost broke, the belt buckle was that big.

 

Saturday’s auction was big for us.   The children’s pigs sold at triple to quadruple market price which will put a tidy little sum in their bank accounts, even after money for the animal’s original purchase price and food bill is taken out.  

 

A word about the people who pay triple and quadruple market price for 4-H and FFA market animals…..I do not understand them but I am so, SO grateful for them.     The people who bought the children’s animals did it solely out of the goodness of their hearts….and it is not cheap.   They spent $800 to $900 for $250 worth of pork, certainly not a bargain by any standard.     Paul and Karen Mackley, whose sons and nephews also had livestock at the auction, bought Miles’ pig.   Why?  Paul tried to tell me that it was because Miles’ pig looked delicious but I know it was simply because he and Karen are bottom-line good people.   Gary and Elayne Sorensen sponsored Grace’s pig and got nothing but our gratitude and God’s blessings from the deal, another example of basic big heartedness.    Weber County Farm Bureau and Brinkerhoff Excavating were also Hislop hog purchasers.     We have no connections whatsoever with either business and no real prospect of ever using either of them.  Mackleys, Sorensens, Farm Bureau, Brinkerhoff Excavating….if  they get any benefit at all from buying our animals it is very indirect yet there they are, spending good money on my good kids.   Grateful.  Grateful.  GRATEFUL.

 

The Fair is not the only thing for which I am grateful this week—I am also grateful for a successful Primary Service project and Ogden River clean up, for Aliza’s and the Mellman’s visits, for Lance’s help with the Book Club meal, for Gabby who was “Mom” to Miles when he played his first wear-pads-and-helmet  football game, and for all who were with us in the Logan Temple when Chick was endowed—but the Fair is the only thing about which I am going to write this week…..which is something you can be grateful for!

 

Sure love you,
Teresa






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Getting sister ready..........
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...getting brother ready......
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...getting pigs ready......
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...on both ends.
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Miles before the show.
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Miles after the show.
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1 Comment

Who Is This Child?

8/3/2014

1 Comment

 
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“Mom, it’s raining outside so I won’t be able to set the barn posts in cement right now.  Is it okay if I clean the carpets instead?”

 

????   Is it okay?!?!?!?    Chick’s question generated a lot of possible responses in my head, most of them starting with “YES!”, though a few of them started with “Who are you and what have you done to my son?”

 

 As he has done all summer, he got himself up and left at 6:00 that morning and, after working his 8 hour shift for the Roy City Parks Department, came home around 2:30.   And, as he has also done most of the summer, he went to work again when he got home, this time for me and, on this particular day, he steam cleaned all the carpets on the main floor.

 

 Who is this child?   Is this the same boy that, less than 6 months ago, went to sleep again after I had awakened him for school, slept until 10:30 a.m. and decided, upon awakening, that most of the school day was over so he might as well stay home?

 

Near summer’s beginning, Chick volunteered to build a hay barn for me.  He aced his college-level civil engineering classes and is confident he can build me a barn.    For the past several weeks, after weeding, mowing and/or edging for Roy City 8 hours in the July morning and early afternoon sun, he has come home and in the mid-afternoon sun, has dug 2’ post holes in our cement-like clay soil—18 of them. 

 

Who is this child?   Is this the same boy that had difficulty doing two tasks in a row last summer because, somewhere between starting and completing the first task he would get lost in a fantasy world, fighting dragons and slaying bad guys?

 

A couple weeks ago, I came home from some early errands and, seeing the truck Chick drives to work in the driveway, wondered why he was home on a weekday morning.   I found him mowing our lawn.  Why wasn’t he at work was my first question and why was he mowing the lawn the second.   His answers to my questions surprised me.

 

He’d gone to work that morning feeling ill.  Seeing his greenish look and not wanting the stomach bug that was running through our family to run through his crew, his boss sent him home.    Upon arriving home, he went to work.   I understood the reason for sending him home but the reason for mowing my lawn when he’d been sent home sick completely eluded me.

 

“Mom,” he explained, “You told me once that the best thing to do when you don’t feel good is to work your way through it—it takes your mind off how awful you feel plus you get something done—so that is what I did.”

 

Who is this child?  Is this the same boy who hid in his room during chore time, secretly reading his book?

 

“I am the official, unanimously acknowledged MVP of weeding for the entire parks crew,” Chick mentioned casually one day.     Apparently he can outweed any 5 other guys in the crew, both in quality and quantity.

 

Who is this child?   Is this the same boy who could take two hours to do dinner dishes and, when he was “done”, still leave half a dishwasher load of dirty dishes decorating the counter?

 

“Here Mom,” Chick said as he handed me the phone last Thursday.

“Hello, this is Teresa,” I said automatically, not knowing to whom I was speaking.

The person on the connection’s other end said, “Your son just made an appointment to give blood in the Sunset Stake Center at 5:00 p.m. on July 31st.   Would you like to make an appointment for 5:15?”

 

Who is this child?  Is this the same boy that I begged to do something, anything, besides read?  …join a chess club, get involved in Scouting, be on the robotics team, volunteer to take one-armed, red-headed, far-sighted, left handers golfing….anything…

 

“I cannot go!” Chick said vehemently.  “I don’t have any clean jeans.”

 

Who is this child?  Is this the same boy who, only a few months ago, sat across from me in the doctor’s office and sincerely, genuinely did not understand my objections to his wearing dirty jeans to school?

 

Who is this child?    The question is the answer.   “This” not a child; this, my first baby, is a man.

 

I am new to this.   As Chick is my oldest, I am experiencing this boy-to-man transition for the first time.  Never would I have predicted it.  Ever will it amaze me.    I seriously marvel in the miracle.    Give up your boy-card, dude!   You have become a man, a real man, a good man, a man whom I can respect, a man whom I treasure.

 

I tell these tales, not to brag (though I am....just a bit!) but to give hope to any parents out there who have children who exhibit less than stellar (or downright non-existent) work habits, off whom responsibility slides like lotioned fingers on a pickle jar lid, and/or who make choices that would baffle even the Mad Hatter.   There is hope.  Boys become men.   My guess is that girls become women also.

 

When I ordered glasses at Sam’s Club (yes, I have reached bi-focal age), Kayt asked me about Chick’s mission preparations.  I opened my mouth to answer but could only nod.   Something squeezed my throat shut, making a verbal response impossible.  I suspect it was the same something that threatened to fill my eyes with tears.  Her mention of my son sent me from completely stable to hazardly emotional in nanoseconds.   I fear that sending Chick on his mission is going to be much, much more difficult than I anticipated.

 

Love,

Teresa


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1 Comment

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    Teresa Hislop
    thislop@msn.com

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