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Light the World

11/27/2016

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Thousands of lights,
Thousands of people,
Nine of us,
And a parade.
 
It was another of my “life is the stories you can tell” schemes.           
 
“I signed us up as volunteers for Ogden City’s Light Parade,” I told the family.   “We get free sweatshirts and it will be fun.”      Turns out, I was right.   The sweatshirts were free and the event fun. 
 
As (almost) always happens when I initiate a “life is the stories you can tell” event, I question my sanity.   “Why did I do this,” I wonder.   “It would be so much easier to stay at home…..SO MUCH EASIER!”   Locating gloves (and boots and hats and coats), fielding food requests (What are we having for dinner?), juggling schedules (Can I please go bowling with my friends?), and finding energy to animate everyone (myself included)…..it becomes almost overwhelming.    Thoughts like “What was I thinking?”, “I am a crazy woman!”, and “I wish I had never thought of this…” swirl in my cerebrum.      
 
Every year, on the first Saturday after the year’s first Thanksgiving Day,   Ogden City sponsors an Electric Light Parade.    The parade starts after the sun sets, features over 50 floats decorated with festive Christmas lights, and ends in Ogden’s Christmas Village where Santa triggers the “on” switch and illuminates the town.    As official, orange-vest clad and orange-flag carrying volunteers, our job was to walk the parade route beside our assigned float, keeping the float on the street and the children off of it.  
 
Our volunteer training session (all 13 minutes of it) started at 3:00.   The parade started at 5:30.    We entertained ourselves with people (Lance makes friends with everyone), pictures (see below), and pizza (that’s what’s for dinner..).  
 
Lance called Dominos. “Dominos delivers.”   It turns out they don’t.    They would not deliver unless given a specific street address; “the southwest corner of 21st and Washington” was not enough for them.   “It’s our policy not to deliver unless given a specific street address because it is not safe for our drivers,” Lance was told.   Lance looked at the two police cars parked in the intersection beside him and said “Okay”.   Pizza Hut, on the other hand, does deliver.    YUM!
 
We found our assigned floats and befriended them.   Miles, who was too young to officially volunteer, volunteered to walk with David because David walked with the Chick-Fil-A float.    In return for his efforts, he garnered five coupons for a free peppermint milkshake at Chick-Fil-A.    David earned his sweatshirt (in addition to 8 milkshake coupons) as he valiantly (and somewhat successfully) kept hordes of children from mobbing the Chick-Fil-A cow.   No one mobbed my float; I escorted three Truly Nolan Pest Control vehicles.    Grace and her friend Rebecca led their float, dancing the entire parade route to the repeating tune of “All I Want for Christmas Is You”.     Lance emceed his float as he walked the route, pausing every 100 meters or so to address the crowd.  “Give it up for the WSU Latin Council,” he’d say.   And they did, clapping obediently and enthusiastically.     
 
At parade’s end we handed over our orange vests and flags, kept our green hoodies, and returned home, stopping at Chick-Fil-A on the way to redeem 9 coupons for free peppermint milkshakes.    As my family sipped appreciatively and chattered excitedly I answered my own question.   “Why do I did I do this?”    For this….for excited chatter, for shared experiences, for memories that will last much longer than milkshakes, for stories to tell for generations to come, for the light I see in their eyes.
 
It was a great parade of lights and it ushered in a great season of lights; electric lights, candle lights, and Christ’s light.  “Since a new star first appeared above Bethlehem, Christmas has been a season of light, reminding us that Jesus Christ is the light of the world. Together, we can celebrate His birth by making the world a brighter place. All we have to do is follow Him—His life, His example, and His teachings. In doing so, we can help #LIGHTtheWORLD.”  (lds.org)
 
“Light the World” is a must-watch video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJmAV0gTp_Q, 2:37) with a must-do message.   Watch it.  Do it.   This Christmas season, LIGHT THE WORLD.   In 25 days.   In 25 ways.
​


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Cute cousins cuddling
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One of Lance's many talents is pushing buttons....
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Pizza Hut delivers...
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Orange is the new black
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Get on the stick!
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...and we eat!
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"Give it up for WSU Hispanic Council"
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Chick and his girls (Extreme Sports float)
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Tanah and her guys (Star Wars float)
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Me and my men (Truly Nolan float)
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Truly Nolan car
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Were the children mobbing the Chick-fil-A float or the two cute men escorting it?
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Lanae and Hooray!
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Stacie's Gift

11/20/2016

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“John Bytheway helps me,” Stacie Facebook messaged me.   “My mind goes crazy at night.   I really wanted to go listen to him….November 12th he will be in Layton.    It’s his ‘When Life Gets Hard’ conference.    If you would like to or have time to go, let me know….”
 
Stacie’s life had been hard.   Though she was supported by devoted parents and a sister who loved her, her path had not been an easy one.   Abused as a child, her first marriage was also an abusive one.    Physical and emotional pain led to an addiction to pain killers that led to further complications.    Soon after she won her battle against addiction, cancer attacked.    Only 38 years old, once again she found herself encompassed by pain.
 
“Let’s do it,” I responded.
 
“Ok.  Are you sure?” she replied immediately.
 
“Absolutely.”
 
Though I could not see her words gush, I could feel them.    “You just made my entire day,” she typed.  “I’m super excited.  I totally need that.”
 
“Thanks for being so magnificent,” she said in a separate entry.  “I’m so excited.”
 
That was October 9, 2016.   On October 13 she emailed me the tickets and Facebooked me an update on her health.  “Keep me up dated,” I requested to which she promised, “I will.”
 
And that was the last I heard from her….which actually was not too surprising at first.    Over the years, Stacie has reached out to me when she needed me but the need has been sporadic.     We’ve always reconnected with love and good feelings but sometimes months (and months) pass between connections.
 
I began to wonder, however, when November 11th came and I had not heard from her.   I knew she was excited to listen to John Bytheway  (many, MANY people are), I knew she was excited to spend time with me (there are people who like that too, though not as many as want to spend time with John), and I knew, or thought I knew, that she would reach out to me to confirm our plans.
 
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” I wrote in an early morning Facebook message.  “What time shall I pick you up?”
 
Though we did not frequently communicate, her response to my infrequent communications had always been immediate.   My wonder turned to concern when afternoon came but no response came from Stacie.   I called her.  “The person you have called is unavailable,” I was told, “and the mailbox is full.”   I texted.   Still no response.
 
To celebrate our wedding anniversary (22 years—most of them happy!), Lance and I attended Syracuse High School’s performance of “The Pirate Queen”.    Standing our kitchen, after the performance, I engaged in a small, internal skirmish.    Should I drive to Stacie’s house or not?
 
Facts:
  • The next day was the John Bytheway conference I was supposed to attend with Stacie.
  • I had not yet heard back from her.
  • It was 10:00 at night.
  • I am NOT a night person.  My preferred bed time is 9:00 p.m.  At 9:30 p.m. I turn into a pumpkin and by 10:00 p.m.  the pumpkin-me often turns to stone.   Night time is not my favorite time.  
  • Morning is not Stacie’s favorite time.   

Fueled by kind thoughts about Stacie—she would appreciated a night visit more than a morning one—and the pragmatic reality that a 10:00 p.m.  Friday night visit would probably disrupt her household less than an 8:00 a.m. Saturday morning visit, I climbed by into my truck and drove to Stacie’s house.  
 
No lights on, no car in the driveway…but there was a faint blue glow coming from an upstairs window.
 
I rang the doorbell.    The dogs barked but no one came.   “Understandable,” I thought.   “If someone were at my door at this hour, I would disregard it at first, hoping the sound I heard was not really for me.”
 
I rang the doorbell again.   More barking.  
 
Determined to make contact, I knocked.   Loudly.  
 
Eventually I heard someone descending the stairs to the entry way.   The door opened and Stacie’s husband, Dan, filled the doorway.
 
“I am so sorry for disturbing you at this time of night,” I apologized quickly. “It’s just that Stacie and I are supposed to go to a conference tomorrow morning and I have not heard back from her and I am getting a little worried….  Is she okay?” I ended lamely.
 
“I am so sorry to tell you this,” he said kindly.   “Stacie passed away two weeks ago.’

He continued talking but I stopped hearing.    Shock.   Disbelief.   Tears.     Memories…...
 
I remember the blood specks (really little specks, tiny actually) left in the snow, blood that came from cuts in her hands caused by crawling up a snow covered ridge on her hands and knees because she refused to wear snow shoes and I (her high school science teacher at the time) refused to let her stay in the lodge.    She learned she could do hard things and I learned that hard love is real love.
 
Real love brought Stacie and I together again and again and again.   We came together when her first marriage became too threatening, when she shot a hole in her foot, when she caused an accident that scared her towards straight, when her teenage son was baptized, and when she was diagnosed with cancer.   And every time we came together she brought a gift.
 
Stacie loved gifts.  She especially loved giving gifts.   A pair of froggy slippers, a pink, fluffy robe, a plaque decoratively adorned with a friendship quote, a box of inspirational sayings….Stacie always brought me a gift when we connected.  “It’s nothing,” she would say as she hesitantly extended the offering accompanied by a piece of her heart.
 
She was wrong.   It was not nothing.   It was something, something very special. 
 
Stacie continues to give me gifts.  
 
I used the tickets she bought to take my son Miles to the “When Life Is Hard” conference.    Like Stacie, Miles listens to and loves John Bytheway.   We had a fabulous time at the event.   Stacie ‘s gift gave us an excellent experience , shared memories, and inspired insights.
 
One of the inspired insights Stacie’s gift gave me came from Meg Johnson, the conference’s second presenter.   Meg told a story of having an “I need chocolate therapy” day.  On her way to the mall for some shopping therapy (some days chocolate is not enough….) she grabbed two chocolate bars, one for herself and one to give away.    She prayed that God would help her find someone else who needed chocolate therapy and was directed to a wild, red-headed teen who’d had a falling out with her mother.   (Meg tells the story much better than I.)
 
Stacie’s gift and Meg’s story connected in my mind.  Meg had a great spiritual experience AND blessed the life of a teenage girl because she was willing to pray for a prompting and then follow it.  She shared a gift and got a greater gift in return.   By following Meg’s example, I can honor and extend Stacie’s gift, sharing  her love (and His) to hundreds (365 to be exact) of people.
 
Today is my birthday.   Today I start my “Stacie’s Gift” year.   Every day of my 53rd year, I will start the day with a prayer in my heart and a package of candy in my pocket.   “Lord, I have a treat,” I will say. “Please send me to someone who needs it.”    I will listen for His promptings and then follow them.
 
Stacie’s gift will continue to bless my life.   And who knows….maybe it will bless yours as well.
 
Chocolate anyone?

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Marriage Ballots

11/13/2016

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​I joined Lance in line, hoping to exercise my right to vote sooner than later.   Reports indicated the wait time approached two hours and my visual assessment revealed no end in sight.
 
“I wonder what happened to my mail-in ballot,” I mused to the woman standing behind me.   “I have been looking for it for weeks but, to the best of my knowledge, it never arrived.”
 
The conversation centered on my missing ballots for a moment or two.   Someone hypothesized that I was not on their mailing list… “No,” I responded.  “I received the mailed ballot in June for the Primaries.”  Was it Post Office incompetence?   Who knows but probably not…   I concluded the conversation with the suggestion that my occasional-mail-gathering-sometimes-less-than-careful children had probably dropped them in the driveway or something.     Oh well.
 
Lance did not join the conversation.
 
Earlier in the day Tanah texted me, “Where is my mail-in ballot?”   I told her I had never received them and she responded “Crap.  Crap.  Crap.”   The mailed ballot’s failure to reach our home cost Tanah her chance to vote.    I related that story as well.
 
Lance was silent.
 
Forty-five minutes later we were still in the same line.   We’d advanced a little but had not yet made it inside the building….and the line segment inside the building was two times longer than the line extending outside.   It was shaping up to be a long night.
 
A clean cut, conscientious man with a mail-in ballot in hand, approached and asked about the necessity of standing in the line to deposit his form.   “Go inside and ask,” we advised him.    His query catalyzed a general announcement.    “If you have a mail-in ballot,” the official’s voice boomed through the crowd, “you do NOT have to wait in line.  If you have one in your car, go get it.  If you have one at home, think  about going to get it.  You can simply walk to the front of the line and deposit it in the box.”
 
Lance broke his silence.
 
“Uh.....our ballots are in my mail box at home.”
 
SERIOUSLY?   Seriously.
 
“Why don’t you go get them?” he suggested.    Leaving him in line, I somewhat graciously (and somewhat not) went home and got my ballot.   I also got Chick’s and Tanah’s ballots.    I returned to the polling station, walked to the front of the line, dropped my ballots in the box, and decided to graciously greet my husband before leaving the building.
 
I found him in line, having moved forward a significant amount in the time I’d been gone but still far from the front.   

“Did you bring my ballot?” he asked me.
 
No.  No.  I did not.  I had actually thought about bringing his ballot but decided not to.   Though it made no sense to me—why he would want to stand a LONG TIME in line to cast his vote rather than submit a paper ballot—it seemed to me voting in the booth was what he wanted to do.   If he had wanted to use his mail-in option, then why did he remain in line when I left?   Why didn’t he just come with me?   Though I did not understand his reason for wanting to cast his vote in the voting booth, I accepted it.   There are lots of things he does—like throw his dirty clothes in a pile in the corner instead of in the dirty clothes basket—that I do not understand but that I have come to accept (mostly).  So, no, I did not bring his ballot.


“No,” I said.
 
“I guess you are teaching me a lesson,” he quipped.
 
No.  Not that either.   My decision not to bring the ballot was not vindictive nor did it have any educational motive.   I simply did not think he wanted it.   He would have me end the previous sentence after the fifth word, maintaining that I simply did not think.   But I did think.    A lot.   I just did not think accurately.
 
Eventually we reached the same page, so to speak, on the ballot issue.  Communication (or miscommunication as the case may be) issues overcome, we both returned home.   He filled out his ballot, returned to the polling station, and cast his paper vote and I went to a Young Women’s meeting, late but still in time to be marginally useful.   
 
We came together and we cast our ballots.   As did millions of other Americans.
 
And the ballots were counted.
 
And now it is time for our nation’s communication (or miscommunication as the case may be) issues to be overcome, for us to come together.
 
I am cautiously hopeful for America.  I really am.  I hope we will work toward unity, that we’ll be together forever, strong in diversity and powerful under God.
 
I have no hope for our marriage.  I really don’t.
 
I have not hope because I have knowledge.  I know we will continue to work toward unity (dirty clothes piles aside), that we’ll be together forever, strong in our diversity and powerful under God.
 
God will bless our marriage.

May He bless America too.

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While standing outside, waiting in line to vote, the local news had a live broadcast. Unbeknownst to us, we were on T.V. FUNNY STORY: Wanting his students to learn about elections in real time, Tuesday at school Lance assigned his students to watch the news. When they returned to school Wednesday they thought he'd assigned them to watch the news just so that they would see him on T.V.
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A Day at the Farm...

11/6/2016

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  • “Cows are SO big!”
 
“I did not know that milk comes out warm….”
 
“They use machines to milk cows?”
 
 
OPA 8th grade went on a field trip to Green Acres Dairy (owned and operated by the Gibson family for five generations) and a good time was had by all………..
 
The kids were charmed by the calves, interested in the cows, and obsessed by bovine excretion.   (Yes, cows poop and pee indiscriminately.)    They felt warm pipes carrying milk directly from the cows (105 degrees F) and the chilled pipes (36 degrees F) carrying it to the bulk tank.  
 
 On the dairy, Gibson milk 1500 head 3 to 5 times daily and, yes, they use machines.   The milking parlor operates 23 hours a day; pipes and parlor are thoroughly cleaned during the day's 24th hour.   They use chip technology that records the cow’s milk production, temperature, movement in the barn, and number of times she belches daily. (I may have made up that last one….)    The cows drink the equivalent of a bathtub full of water every a day, eat what looked like wood chips to us but was really a mixture of silage (ground, fermented corn plants), alfalfa, grass, barley, and various minerals and vitamins, and they sleep on sand.   They turn the water and food into milk, 8-10 gallons per cow per day.
 
Dairy farming is marginally profitable; corn mazes pay off.    Seeking a way to supplement income from the family farm, Gibson’s programmed their tractor’s GPS to plant a 6 acre corn maze, complete with outlines of a barn, a gazebo, and the words  “Got Milk”:   a-MAZE-ing!!!     I was blown away by the technology; the kids blew off energy running around the trails…and visiting the petting zoo….and going down the slide.
 
All in all, it was a successful day…    We saw STEM in action, city kids experienced some farm stuff,  learning was associated with fun, and we did not lose anyone in the corn maze.    Whaaa-whooo!


All student photos have been published with parental permission.


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Cow food
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Pig food
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    Teresa Hislop
    thislop@msn.com

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