Teachers and Friends
I started Kindergarten in Orem. Sometime in October, our family moved to a little house in Salem. That's where I met my bestfriend, Judy. She was tall, much taller than me, which isn't hard to believe. I will never forget the first time I met her. She had red velvet oxford shoes with green socks, and a skirt that was multi-colored with black netting over it. UGH!!! This gal needed help with her wardrobe choices. I can't believe I can remember that when I was only four years old.
My teacher was Mrs. Davis. We each had a mat, so we could take a little rest after lunch. Mine was blue on one side, red on the other. The school lunch ladies were very nice. On Fridays the cooks served bread baked in apple juice cans to make the bread round, chili and wonderful, sugary doughnuts. For snack, we had a little glass of pineapple or grapefruit juice and a piece of the round bread with butter. I loved it! For my birthday, our class had delicious sugar cookies spread with orange frosting with black faces.
My first grade teacher was Mrs. Hanks, and no she was not a relative. In the second grade, my teacher was Mrs. Nelson, and third grade, Mrs. Massey. I remember enjoying school for the most part. I found spelling easy and English was usually easy. I loved learning the times tables, not division so much. I enjoyed reading, but I would much rather be playing outdoors than reading a book. I struggled with science and social studies at times. Yet, I liked history. I went through school with the same 31 or 32 kids until the 7th grade.
At school, we played softball, jump the rope, dodgeball and some of the boys played basketball. I loved softball. I wasn't very good as a batter, but I could catch the ball pretty well, and I usually was the pitcher on our team. Another one of my favorite activities was dance. Every year end, our school would have a big Spring Festival, where each class would perform a special dance. We also would dance during the winter for P.E. classes, when it was cold and snowy outside. We did lots of square dancing. My favorite dances were the polka, fox trot and waltzes.
The school year I was in the fourth grade, my teacher was Mr Aiken, an ex-football coach, with a bad temper. He would throw whatever he had in his hand in that moment at whatever boy was acting up. Chalk, erasers, books flew across the room accompanied by yelling. I didn't like school that year.
My fifth grade teacher was Mr. Darling, and he was a very short, gentle man. Several of my classmates were as tall or taller than Mr. Darling. I really enjoyed that school year. I enoyed learning fractions, yet I struggled with percents. I still do. Go figure. Mr. Darling combed his hair very strangely to cover up the fact that he was going bald. The boys made fun of him behind his back.
There was a Catholic family that moved about a block away from us. They had no father, and 7 children. I felt very sorry for them because the kids were teased mercilessly. After Christmas, a whole bunch of us around several blocks would gather up all the Christmas trees no longer being used, build a great big bonfire and roast marshmellows and serve hot chocolate. The Catholic kids wanted to join us, and several of my classmates and some of the older kids wouldn't let them. In fact, they called them bad names, pushed them down and chased them into their own yard. I remember being sick and going home. Those poor kids had rocks thrown at them, pushed down in the snow, their faces rubbed in the snow, called bad names day after day, just because they were Catholic. They only stayed in Salem about three months.
Mr. Thomas, my sixth grade teacher was a dignified, well respected man, who I enjoyed as a teacher. It was during that year, that my family left the dominant religion of the town, in April. As I mentioned, I loved to dance and every year end each class would get a dance ready for the Spring Festival. I had always been quite popular in school, and had no problem getting a dance partner. This year was different. None of the boys would dance with me, because I was no longer a member of their church. Finally, one of the boys stepped forward and said he would dance with me. His name was Boyd. Now Boyd and I had a history of teasing each other like crazy. He wore his hair in a buzz cut and I had very long hair that I usually wore in a ponytail. He called me "Butch" and I called him "Pigtails". I have always been very proud and thankful for Boyd and his kindness.
There were several of us girls, Judy, Gaylen, Janet, Camille and sometimes Jeanene, who would hang out together, fight over each other, play dolls and have sleep overs. On Friday nights, several of us girls would sleep at Judy's and watch "Nightmare movie", which came on at 10:30 PM. Her family room was down stairs, so we would pick our spots where we would lay out our sleeping bags, eat popcorn and "watch?" the scary movie. I said "watch?" because I never saw anything with my tightly closed eyes and my fingers in my ears, so I couldn't hear anything either. We were so crazy, we couldn't wait to do it again. Judy is the only one of these friends that I have stayed in contact with since I left Salem the year I went into the seventh grade.
Another dear friend was the only other kid on our whole block, who was a Navajo Native American, named Vaughn Lee. We were in different grades, even though I was four days older than him. Actually, Vaugn Lee pretty much lived at our house. He helped us with all of our chores; feeding the chickens and goats, gathering the eggs, [that was Sharla's job, I was terrified of the roosters], cleaning the house, weeding the garden and whatever else needed to be done. We went to the same church. Walked together every morning to the same school. Went trick-or-treating together on Halloween, were in the same Christmas plays, spent hours every summer sitting in the orchard eating green apples, and walking along the canal bank looking for toads. Vaughn Lee was very much apart of our lives. When Sharla and I left that church, went to EskDale for school the following school year, and my family moved to EskDale the year after that, we somehow lost track of Vaughn Lee. I have thought about him through the years, and wished I had kept in contact with him. I would love to tell him how much his friendship meant to me.
Winnipeg, Manitoba
John has to take so many hours of continuing education a year to maintain his veterinary license and his embryo transfer license. He does this by attending AETA and CETA conferences in the different locations they are offered. This year the conference is in Winnipeg, Manitoba.
I haven't always accompanied these trips with John. But in the last few years, we decided that if we can afford it, and I can make room in my schedule, why not? Every year I meet more of the other wives and it has been immensly rewarding. This year is no exception.
The conference had planned an evening of loading us in buses and taking us out in the country to the Hitching Post Ranch, where they served us a wonderful roast beef dinner. We sat a table with four other couples and our dear friend, Bob Curtright. Bob started a conversation about a christian book he had finished, and everyone at the table had read the book. The rest of the evening our dinner conversations were sharing about the goodness of God and what He is doing in our lives. It was an amazing evening.
Yesterday several of us women had signed up to do a tour of Winnipeg. We strolled through a gorgeous Old English garden, taking pictures of the variety of flowers. There was also a bronze sculpture garden. The artist, Leo Rei, main subjects were various animals and nude young ladies. He was a very talented artist, because his subjects looked very lifelike.
The women's tour also included spending time at "The Forks" where the Assiniboine River and the Red River converge and become the Red River which eventually empties into the Atlantic Ocean. Even though this city is flat, it is quite a charming city in it's own way. The rest of Manitoba is a lake. Literally. Lake Winnipeg and Lake Manitoba are huge lakes covering the rest of Manitoba. Years ago, Winnipeg was a thriving hub for commerce, where the material goods from the east would be exchanged for the goods from the west. There are a number of old buildings that stored these goods, the city is now renovating. Several of these buildings are now colleges, dormitories, pubs, restaurants, hair salons, TV stations, theatre stages, and mom and pop shops. Usually when I came with John, I would spend a great deal of time by myself either reading or watching TV while he was in classes all day. One year, I decided to join one of the tours the conference offers, and I have been very glad. It gives me a chance to meet the other women and to get a feel for the city.
Saturday evening we spent with Bob Cutright. We toured through the beautiful Manitoba Legislative building. Walked over the Assiniboine River bridge and ate in a wonderful restaurant. Sunday morning, John and I strolled the beautiful Assiniboine River Walkway, to the "The Forks". He hadn't been there yet. We saw where the two rivers converge. It was really quite chilly that morning, indicating that fall has arrived. Later that day we flew to Denver for a three hour layover, then to Las Vegas, drove another four and half hours and arrived home at 3:00 Monday morning. Next year the conference is in Reno, Nevada.
Slow Recovery
After a tornado or a hurricane has struck and there is debris everywhere, with buildings torn to pieces, cars turned upside down, nothing is where or how it was before, nor will it ever be the same again. The recovery is a long, slow process. So it is when a terrible storm hits within a family, or a person's life. Although the recovery and healing process is long and slow, it doesn't mean there is no hope. There is always hope when we put our trust in God.
My family went through a series of tough challenges one right after the other, when I was eight. I talked about them in my last blog. When my family was reunited, life was not the same, nor would it be again.
Mom was physically and emotionally fragile for months. Several friends were there for her, but some people were like "Job's" friends, and after they left, Mom would be undone. My parents were painfully finding out who were their true friends.
One of my mother's friends, knitted the cutest little mittens to cover Loretta's hands when Mom took her out in public, thinking it would be best for everyone. When Mom started to put the mittens on, she heard an audible voice say
"Do not cover her hands. She is not a handicap."
Mom was so shaken, she stayed home. She never used those mittens. She didn't need to. Loretta showed every one that she is outgoing, friendly, spunky, charming and independent. She taught herself how to do everything the rest of us can do, even play the piano and crochet.
Being strong believers in God, my parents sought His help continually. God was rearranging their values and and where they set their priorities. Dad was insistent in getting out of debt. Material things such as trucks, campers, boats, the latest entertainment equipment was no longer important. Our television went out and we never replaced it.
Tithing was emphasized, even when we kids earned a little money, we payed our tithes.
Dad and Mom built a new home, paying for it as much as they could, as they built it. By the time I was eleven years old, my parents were completely debt free.
During this time, Dad was dissatisfied with his relationship with God and the denomination where both he and Mom had been raised. In fact, Dad quit going to church for two years, leaving Mom to take us kids by herself. One November day, Mom attended another ministry with an elderly lady, who had been asking Mom to come with her for months. Since Dad was working that evening, Mom took Sharla with her, and I babysat the other children. By this time we had a little brother, Cleon.
Dad had a week of vacation, in February, so my parents loaded us five kids in the car and we drove to the desert to visit a Christian community for a week. There had been much discussion about this community from the other members of the new ministry. The houses were simple wooden structures with outhouses behind each one. There was a dormitory for the students that were attending the school without their parents.
I had a dream that when we visited this place, we drove to a brown building, knocked on a door and a lady with a white cap on her head, dressed in a white blouse and blue jumper, opened the door. This is exactly what happened when we got there. This woman was Aileen, who was to be my mother-in-law.
We left the denomination where both my parents had been raised since birth, which was another life-altering decision, and got baptized on April 18th into the ministry that we have been involved with for almost 50 years.
All summer I begged my parents to let me go to school at EskDale. Finally, she tearfully let me and Sharla leave home and live in the dormitory at EskDale, which is three hours away from home. I loved it, but I think it was really hard for Sharla. She was only in the fourth grade. I was in the 7th grade.
A year later, Dad received a phone call from the Bishop, asking if he could move his family to the desert, because they needed a gardener. So, in the summer when I was 12, almost thirteen, we moved to the desert as a family. By this time, our family had another little girl, Maureen. We had five girls and one boy.
We left our beautiful new home and moved to a much smaller home/shack, with no running water and no indoor plumbing. The nearest bathroom was a half a block away. Dad installed indoor plumbing as soon as he could. To say that living in the desert was different than our previous environment is a gross understatement. The wind blew constantly, leaving dust not only settled on everything in the house, but in our teeth, hair, eyes and ears.
Then there was the huge change in lifestyle. We were connecting our family with other families. Learning to share not only meals, work schedules, schools, finances, but also the integral part of building relationships with others. Learning to trust and love others, believing the best of people and their intentions, and putting their needs above your own. Needless to say this is a life-long process, but we had begun the journey.
Looking back, one can see that the Lord was definitely leading and guiding our family. Was it easy? No way! Would we do it again? Absolutely! It isn't the material things of earth that make us happy and fulfilled. It's knowing Who God is, and seeking to be in His presence and following His plan for our lives, where we will find true joy and peace. This is ultimately what my parents want as an inheritance for their children. It is the inheritance John and I want for our children and our grandchildren. That is why I am sharing our stories.
Life Altering Situations
Today is 9/11. For many people and for our nation as a whole the events that happened 11 years ago were life altering. Many people lost loved ones and our nation was rocked to the core of who we are because of the attack on our soil on 9/11/2001.
Some of us have things happen in our lives that are that life altering. It feels like a tornado hits and we are lifted up, spun around, dropped to the ground and laid flat. When this happens there is always the aftermath; which includes the clean up and recovery. We examine the damage, what's left to rebuild with, if anything, and start the restoration process.
My mother had our baby sister lying on her lap wrapped in a pink blanket. They had been released from the hospital that morning. My two little sisters, Anita not quite 3, Sharla not quite 6 and me, 8 years old, were gathered around them to be introduced to our little sister for the first time. Poking out from the blanket was all of this dark hair and this darling little face with the most beautiful dark eyes fringed with long eyelashes and dark eyebrows. She was gorgeous. But wait! Mom was saying that something was wrong with her. I felt my heart begin to race, I got sick to my stomach, and I wanted to run. NO! I didn't want to know about this. I had no idea what I didn't want to know about, but I knew deep down it wasn't going to be easy.
Mom uncovered our little sister's hands and feet. She had only one finger on each hand and one toe on each foot. At first I was shocked and horrified, because I had never seen anything like this before. That only lasted a moment or two, just to be replaced with a fierce protectiveness. Nobody was going to harm my baby sister. She may look different, but she is still my sister. Mom explained to us that day that God has chosen our family to raise a special little one who may have a birth defect, but that Loretta had a special spirit.
Loretta was born exactly two weeks after the only Grandpa I ever knew had died suddenly of a heart attack. Grandpa Heber George was my Dad's dad. The events that happened within Dad's family with the will and with Dad's siblings were extremely difficult. Then when Loretta was born with a birth defect, it seemed to make some small-minded people think my parents committed some horrendous sin to have this happen to them. They even had the audacity to express it when they came to see Loretta. My mother, already grieving and suffering from post-partum depression and possibly some guilt that maybe this was her fault in some way, sunk lower and lower into a deep, dark depression. Many nights Mom would come wake me up in the middle of the night and say "We need to pray" and so I would groggily get out of bed and we would kneel together and pray.
I tried to keep the house clean, so that Mom wouldn't have to worry about that. The phone ringing would terrify Mom as well as any other loud noises, so I was constantly trying to keep Sharla and Anita quiet. Mom wasn't eating or sleeping, and finally, the day Loretta turned three months old, she called her doctor and told him she was losing her mind. He suggested going to the hospital, and Mom was there for two months. They had a name back then for Mom's condition. They said she had a nervous breakdown. The two younger girls went to my aunt's house, about 30 miles away. Sharla and I stayed with my Grandma Hannah, the grandma that had recently lost her husband, since she lived in the same town we did, and we could keep going to school. Our lives were in an uproar to say the least.
I always loved going to Grandma Hannah's house. It was an old house with a big front porch. Her kitchen always smelled so good because Grandma was always making pies. She had one of those big, black coal and wood burning stoves. Off from the kitchen on the right was the bathroom. She had a big, four claw bathtub. I loved that tub. Grandma's house was full of the cutest knick-knacks. I would ask her where she got this one from, and where did she get that one from. Off from the kitchen to the left was a big family room, with the TV and big couches. From the family room, to the left was a bed room, and straight from the family room opened up the "Fancy Living room". That living room was only for "guests". Off from the "Fancy living room" was Grandma's bedroom.
One night while my Grandma was out, my uncle and I were on the couch watching a western. He had just returned from the Korean war. I loved westerns; Bonanza, Gunsmoke, Cheyenne, etc. I was innocently nestled up next to him. A few years before I had played doctor with my cousin and we both got in a lot of trouble when we got caught. I had recently been baptized as a believer in Jesus Christ and I had taken that step very seriously. I had quit sucking my thumb, which was a big deal, and I had repented for playing doctor, which was another big deal. Horrifically my uncle took advantage of my innocence and sexually molested me. Tears started rolling down my face, and the next thing I know, he was telling me that this is to be our little secret, and I better not tell anyone, or people would think I was a bad little girl. I ran to bed and wished I could lock the bedroom door. I felt defiled, dirty, shamed, but mostly, like I had let the Lord down. The last thing I said before I finally went to sleep that night, was "Oh God, I hope you can forgive me".
Grandma's house was no longer safe. I don't know how much longer Sharla and I were at Grandma's, but I know I hated my uncle and I would not be in the same room with him again. Sometime after that happened, Dad came and took us girls home and he had a baby sitter come sit with us after school. She was a sixteen year old named Janet. One day, I ran home from school, to find my uncle kissing my baby sitter on the couch. I ran to the goat barn, hid in the haystack until dark. Several times when I got home from school my uncle would be at our house and every time I would hide in the haystack.
Of course, I never told anyone what my uncle had done. I buried that dark secret deep inside for a number of years. Just because I had buried it, doesn't mean it wasn't bearing fruit. I thought I was not worthy of God's love. Shame and humiliation were my constant companions. I didn't know it on a conscious level, but I was suffering also from abandonment. Why wasn't someone there to protect me? I felt that God had abandoned me. Another question that always haunted me was "What's wrong with you, Joie?"
Years later, when I was a senior in high school, I finally told my mother what had happened. She told me that while she was in the hospital, she had the premonition that Dad needed to get us girls out of Grandma's house and quick. She tried to get Dad to hurry, but he had a hard time finding a babysitter. By the time he found Janet, and had moved us out, it was too late.
I don't know if Mom ever told my Dad, I know I never did.
When I received the Baptism of the Holy Spirit when I was pregnant with Ben, my second child, my uncle was one of the people that God worked on my heart to forgive. I thought forgiveness meant that I was to condone what he had done, and there was no way I was going to do that. I went on a journey of finding out what forgiveness really meant. It took me a couple of years before I felt like I had forgiven him. My uncle died of a sudden heart attack at the age of 44. By the time he died, I felt like I had already released him and forgiven him. I was so very thankful that God had worked that into my heart before my uncle had passed away.
Those few months of losing my Grandpa, Loretta's birth, my mother's hospitalization, and my uncle's sexual abuse, were life-altering for me on many, many levels. I was shaken and rocked to the core of who I was by these events.
It's only been because of the blood of Jesus, and the power of the Holy Spirit, that I have received a great deal of healing and restoration. I praise God every day for the healing and restoration He has worked in my life. He truly is our loving, gracious, compassionate Father who loves us deeply.
It took me a long time to learn that about our Father. But I will save some of those stories for another blog.
Tractors
My Dad has always had a garden. At least, as far back as I can remember. Being the oldest, I learned to drive a tractor at the age of 7. Now, if you know me, you know that I am not a very big person. At the age of 7, I could not sit on the seat of the tractor and push the clutch in, and the brake in at same time. I literally leaned against the seat to accomplish those tasks.
I will never forget the first time Dad wanted me to plow close to the carrots to get the weeds out. He showed me what to do, and I was being very careful, but somehow I spent so much time looking behind me, that I wasn't watching where I was going, and I plowed up the whole row of carrots. Dad kicked my behind and sent me back to the house. I learned a lesson. You can't drive a tractor by looking behind you. It wasn't the last time I drove either. Dad had me back on that mechanical horse, and I eventually learned to be a very good driver.
Driving on flat ground is very different than chugging up a hill. One day my Dad wanted my sister Sharla, and me to meet him in another garden, which was about 5 miles away. Sharla was riding her bike, while I drove the tractor. By this time, I am probably 10 years old, and Sharla is 8. We were doing fine, until we started climbing up hill. I had the tractor in the highest gear, which was third. The hills were more steep now, and I needed to gear down into second or first gear, because the tractor was lugging. I pushed the clutch in to switch gears and I started to roll down the hill. Sharla was behind me totally unaware that I was yelling at her to get out of my way. She always was hard of hearing. My legs were too short to adequately push the clutch and the brake at the same time. The only thing I could do, is let the tractor roll down the hill, until I could get it to a place where I could back up on level ground. By this time, I am almost in a panic. Begging God to help me, I finally got Sharla's attention and she moved out of the way of the tractor, which by this time was rolling down the hill quite rapidly. The other factor that terrified me, was the canal. It hadn't been that long ago that we crossed the canal bridge. I was praying like crazy that He would show me what to do. Finally, the only level ground that I could back up on, was right by the edge of the canal. I was able to stop the tractor, push in the clutch and switch gears.
It was some time before I could get my hands and legs to quit shaking and my heart to get out of my throat. Sharla, still unaware of the danger she had been in, was chasing chipmunks. Looking into the water of the canal, which was at my right, I thanked the Lord over and over again, that all had ended well.
A few years ago, my Dad suffered a heart attack and had to have six by-pass surgery. I spent some time writing my Dad a letter, telling him basically everything I would say at his funeral. I told him this story and that I had forgiven him, because in all reality, this was one assignment that I was ill-equipped to handle. But then again, my Heavenly Father had intervened when I needed Him.
Ben
It's Ben's birthday today. He is our oldest son and our second child.
His dad had left our home with a big truck loaded with cows in the back, to take to the Utah State Fair to show. This was the second year the EskDale Dairy had shown cows at the Utah State Fair. Frankly, John had no clue what he was doing, but that didn't matter, he would soon learn. Once he wanted to do something, he did it, learning along the way.
I noticed that I was wetting my pants. Weird. Wait a minute, this isn't supposed to be happening yet, I still had three more weeks before my baby was due. Sure enough, my water was leaking. Back in those days, we didn't have our own vehicles. We had a car pool. I had to find out who was going to town that day. Great! Vernon had a trip to get some parts for the shop, I could hitch a ride with him. The only problem; he was going to stay with his sister that night, and then drive to Salt Lake the next day.
Did I mention that we didn't have phones either. I had no way to let John know what was happening.
Vernon loaded our suitcases, my two year old daughter, Janille and me in the car and we left for our destination. His sister was a very gracious, petite, compassionate person, who felt my embarassment with my umm.. continual wet pants.
As planned, we got to Salt Lake the next day. Back in those days, there was an apartment in the basement of our church building, where John's dad, Brother Bob, would stay during the week, to get church business done. He drove me to the doctor's office and babysat Janille while I was in the examing room. Ben was on his way, any time in the next couple of days.
I prepared supper that evening for all of us. John was quite surprised to see us that evening around 9:00. Did I mention, we didn't have cell phones?
Sure enough, the pains started right after we went to bed. John was so tired, I think he drove me to the hospital in his sleep.
Ben arrived around 5:00 AM. He was a darling little guy, weighing 5 lbs and 9 oz. and 19 inches long. After I had Janille, I was so worn out, I couldn't lift a finger. Not so with Ben. I was charged up. I didn't sleep for hours. I had received the Baptism of the Holy Spirit about six weeks earlier and I was full of His presence, and so excited, I spoke in tongues for hours.
John was with me during the delivery and held his precious son, but had to get back to the cows and the show. I didn't see much of him at all for the next few days.
Funny thing. Ben couldn't wait until he was old enough to help his dad at the Fair. When the kids were little, I hauled them to the Fair, almost every year. Ben started showing the cows in the ring when he was around 10 years old. John started taking Ben and some of the other young guys with him, when they were around 12 or 13.
It's hard work. The schedule is rigorous; very little sleep, odd hours of eating, cleaning up cow poop, washing the animals every day, keeping them clean all day, feeding, watering, cleaning up cow poop, washing them, keeping them clean all day, feeding, water, cleaning up cow poop. Did I mention cleaning up cow poop? The boys love it!!
Now Ben's son, Christian, is helping his dad and grandpa. He's 13. We've been showing at the State Fair now for 38 years. The EskDale Dairy has made a name for themselves. We have had two All American cows, which is like having two Miss Universes, in people talk. Ben is considered one of the top fitters in the whole state of Utah. Imagine that!!!
This afternoon several of us went to the Border Inn to listen to a band sing and play. The three members of the band consisted of Michael, who played the cello, David, who played the guitar, and James, who played the harmonica and a mandolin. They were absolutely wonderful. James played the harmonica extremely well. One of the songs they played, James not only played the harmonica, he whistled the tune.
Waves of homesickness washed over me, my eyes burned with unshed tears, and I could feel my nose get red as he began to whistle. As he continued to whistle the song, the tears started to flow.
I croaked a whisper to Anita, my sister sitting next to me, "When was the last time you heard Dad whistle?" She couldn't remember and neither could I.
I stopped at Mom and Dad's on the way home tonight and asked Dad why he doesn't whistle any more.
He said "I can't, because I don't have all my teeth and it takes a lot of breath, I don't have."
We don't think of the little things our parents do, until they no longer can do them. Why didn't I think to videotape my Dad whistling, while he could?
I will never forget the last time I saw John's mother, Aileen, try to write her name. I was so dismayed to see her struggle to spell and write her name. This was the same woman who taught 1-4 grades for close to 30 years. This was the same woman who had the most beautiful hand writing one has ever seen. Now, she was struggling to print and spell her name.
I was so stricken, the next day I found all my notes and cards that Aileen has written to me and put them in a safe place. I also collected the few cards, recipes, and notes from both my grandmothers for safe keeping as well.
Tomorrow I am going to look for a few things my parents have written to me.
And I am going to have one of my children record their dad whistling, while he can.
Do you wish you could share your stories to the next generation? Have you ever wished that some of the things that you have lived through, you could share and hope that it would be a blessing or a warning to someone else? I have thought about writing a book, but it seems so daunting. However, I have had a longing, almost to the point of urgency, to communicate with my children, my grandchildren, even my siblings. To tell them my stories, or experiences to help them not only understand me better, but how awesome our God is, when we trust Him and allow Him to turn our experiences into something beautiful to show His love and glory. That is my heart's desire, as I share my life with whoever reads this blog.
So, I have lots to learn about computers, but I have plenty of family members who I can call on in my times of incompetence.
Life is a journey. It's more fun to travel with others. Let's get started!
