Fighting the Good Fight

From time to time most of us have probably heard snatches of the theme song from the Rocky Balboa movies inside our hearts and heads. Perhaps we've envisioned favorite scenes from these movies. The first two films in this particular series were released when I was a teenager. (Yes, gasp, I'm that old . . . sigh . . .)
They were so popular, that is possibly why I've occasionally borrowed strength from the storyline(s).

Many of us love underdog stories. We love it when the beleaguered protagonist manages to overcome tremendous obstacles to succeed. Cheering the hero on gives us hope that we will be able to do likewise when we face challenges of our own.

There have been numerous days when I have felt very much like the character, Rocky, after a fierce battle in the ring. My body and I have gone the rounds on many occasions, thanks in part to the Type 1 diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis that I deal with on a daily basis. One lovely day, I actually resembled Rocky after a nasty fight when I experienced an extremely bad episode with hives. My face looked so awful, little children cried. Fortunately this adventure took place when I was out of town, so the only people who witnessed this event were close family members. They were so alarmed, they didn't mock me until much later, after I survived that hazardous incident.

Emotionally, there have been days when I have very much felt like I have hit the mat inside Rocky's turbulent ring. Heartbreaking trials, like the death of a loved one, rip you apart like nothing else. It is tempting to not move, to remain face-down on the mat and ignore the audience that is trying to cheer you on. After all, they're not the ones dealing with overwhelming pain. They don't understand how hard and horrible it is--or so we reason with ourselves as we delve into self-pity mode. We convince ourselves that if we stand back up, life is just going to knock us down again. Then that annoying little theme song resurfaces. We've all heard it. Dadada . . . dadada . . . dadada . . . dadada.

I will admit there are times when I've tried to block that silly song, but to no avail. Eventually, one of my toes takes on a life of its own and begins to tap in time to the silent music. When that happens, I know it's only a matter of time before the rest of my body will begin to join in. Suddenly, I'm up on my knees. Then I stagger to my feet . . . and often get hit so hard, I find myself back in a prone position on the mat, whimpering.

The process of rising to meet my challenger head on often takes a long time. But there is something inside of me that usually doesn't let me give up. Like Rocky, I slowly rise to my feet, and beg for more. "C'mon, Life! Is that that best you can do? Is that all you've got? Bring it! You heard me . . . c'mon . . . take your best shot! That didn't hurt . . . okay . . . maybe it did . . . but I'm not giving up! Do you hear me? I'm not going away! No matter how many times you knock me down, I'll get back up! Because that's the kind of person I am! I wasn't sent to this earth to fail!!! I will eventually win this match!

That is my hope in mortal mode--that I will continue to be as stubborn as Rocky. It is my prayer that I will always remember how important it is to never give up. Our Elder Brother is the supreme example of how to face difficult times. He has given us all of the hope in the world--but it is up to us how we fight our individual battles. May we always rise to the occasion. ;)  

Pecking Order

When I was almost five years old, my family moved to a 13-acre piece of land that my father had inherited from his family. My parents had made arrangements to have a beautiful brick home constructed in the middle of the property and as soon as it was finished, we moved in. Shortly after arriving, we began collecting  animals. Eventually we ended up with dogs, cats, chickens, geese, one milk cow, three Shetland ponies, a horse, and 16 dairy goats. It was all very character building and we gleaned important lessons from our experiences with these animals.

My father was a pharmacist in a town located about 30 minutes away, so most of the chores fell to my mother, my brother, and myself, since we were the oldest. Our two younger sisters helped as they could, developing a great love for animals that continues to this day. Dad pitched in whenever possible, but he usually left for work early in the morning and returned home exhausted each night. (We didn't know it at the time, but he was also dealing with a health condition known as Narcolepsy, so his physical strength was limited.) As such, the rest of us rolled up our sleeves and did our best to tackle the landscaping and gardening adventures, as well as animal care.

We raised the dairy goats in part because my father had learned there was a great need for goat's milk in the area. Several babies were allergic to formula and goat's milk was a crucial part of their diet. Deciding we could help with this problem, our parents started with one goat. We gradually increased our small herd, raising Nubians, Toggenburgs, and Saanens. We quickly learned that each goat possessed a colorful personality and we grew to love most of them. A couple of the Toggenbergs were a tad bit ornery but we soon mastered the art of staying out of their reach. The others were a lot of fun and we came to think of them as extended family members. Daisy pranced around like a princess, since she was the first goat purchased. Bianca developed a great love of beets; her white face always revealed whenever she had raided my mother's garden. Prometheus was a soft-hearted tease, so on and so forth.

Though the goats were often our favorite, I learned a great deal more from the chickens. One of the chores I was assigned was to gather the eggs each day. I loved this job--to me it was like a treasure hunt. I didn't enjoy cleaning the eggs as much as finding them, but I relished the time I spent searching in the egg boxes, and in every nook and cranny of the chicken coop. Our chickens were quite productive and I usually found a small bucket's worth of eggs each day.

The more time I spent with the chickens, the more aware I became of a bothersome tendency. I noticed that most of the chickens seemed to pick on one poor member of the flock who for whatever reason, stood out. Each day their selected victim looked worse. Feathers were disappearing. Wounds from sharp beaks became more apparent. Then one day I saw that blood had been drawn. Troubled by this behavior, I reported it to my parents. I was informed that this was typical conduct for chickens, but my parents did their best to intervene. The decrepit looking chicken was isolated from the others. Dad brought home a salve from the drugstore that we smeared all over the bloodied wounds. It was all to no avail. The poor chicken died despite our best efforts.

I'll admit I wasn't very proud of our chickens after this event. The sad thing was, after we removed the one they had hurt so much, they found another target and that chicken soon looked as bad as the first. Though we tried everything we could think of to prevent this from happening, nothing worked. The chickens couldn't be trained to be nice to each other.

I've often reflected on that incident. Sadly, I have observed that same behavior in some of the people that I have known. Why is it that we tend to pick on those who are somewhat different? Instead of trying to help those who are struggling, we sometimes do just the opposite, causing them more pain.

None of us are perfect--we've all made mistakes in this area, I'm sure. But wouldn't it make for a better world if instead of being critical and judgmental, we stopped to consider that maybe we don't know all of the facts in a given situation? Maybe we should try to view each other as the Savior tried to teach--with love and understanding, realizing that we truly don't know someone else until we have literally walked a mile in their set of troubled shoes.

Never Forget

From the earliest time I can remember, Memorial Day has been an important time for our family. We lived fairly close to my father's family and so we would start the weekend by helping my widowed grandmother decorate the graves of her husband and only daughter. Since my paternal grandfather had served in World War I (my father was born late in life to his parents, so we are directly tied to an older generation) I felt a certain amount of pride in seeing the small American flag that was placed by my grandfather's grave marker.

Most years we were reminded that it was my paternal grandfather who initiated the effort to beautify the Lewisville Cemetery. When a baby girl born to my grandparents died shortly after her birth, my heartbroken grandfather took one look at the barren pioneer cemetery and decided it needed some work. Weeds and brush were cleared from the area. Grass, pine trees, and beautiful flowering crab trees were planted. To this day, that small cemetery is one of the prettiest around, thanks in part to my grandfather's determination to make his daughter's final resting place a haven on earth.

Each year, after decorating the graves of family members on my father's side of the family tree, our clan then headed to Star Valley, Wyoming, to help my mother's family do the same thing. My maternal grandmother made up beautiful baskets of flowers, using varied blooms from her flower beds, and the local nursery. We then traveled to the Thayne Cemetery to honor the memory of those who had gone on before us. Included among those family members is one of my mother's brothers, who died in a tragic accident when he was seven years old.

As we worked together to place colorful flowers on each grave, stories were shared about our ancestors. It was a time of remembering and strengthening family ties as we gathered with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents to pay homage to the varied members of our family, like the courageous great-grandmother who left her home in Scotland and came to America with her daughter, seeking religious freedom. We were reminded of the great-uncle who rode with the Pony Express, and how he fought off thieves who tried to rob him. A distant cousin sacrificed his life serving his country in the military--an aunt bravely faced a turbulent battle with cancer, a loving grandmother passed quietly from this life after setting an example of quiet courage in facing life trials.

After stories were shared and the beautiful flower arrangements were in place, we then returned to our grandparent's home for a delicious picnic lunch. It was a weekend filled with tradition that I looked forward to each spring.

Shortly before my maternal grandmother passed away, my mother made a promise that she would see to it that the family graves would continue to be decorated each Memorial Day. She has kept that promise. Year after year we have made the journey we simply call, the Memorial Day Jaunt, or Loop. We travel to Lewisville, Idaho and begin by decorating the graves on my dad's side of the family. My father's grave lies near those of his parents, sister, and brother. His grandparents and aunts and uncles are also buried in this same small cemetery. We spend several minutes cleaning, decorating, and remembering beloved family members. Then we journey on to Wyoming to tackle this same task with my mother's family. It is an important tradition, and one I hope will continue.

When we remember those who have gone on before, it helps to shape our own lives. As we reflect on their sacrifices and example, though not perfect, it often inspires us to persevere and continually strive to bring honor to our family name. Though our trials differ from theirs, we remember their determination and courage, and perhaps learn from their mistakes.

These stories and traditions are crucial to pass onto future generations. It saddens me when I see a tendency for Memorial Day to become nothing more than a time of frivolous fun. When ancestors are forgotten and family stories fade from memory, we lose an important heritage. May we each make an effort to remember those who have paved the way for us--knowing their sacrifices have made it possible for us to enjoy the freedoms we sometimes take for granted.  

Being Positive in a Negative World

We live during a challenging time. (Something I'm sure most people have believed during every era of the world's history.) In our day, we don't have to worry about running from dinosaurs, booking passage on the Ark, surviving the Black Plague, or the Crusades, the Inquisition, etc. but we face our own set of trials. That is part of why we're here--to prove ourselves during entertaining moments.

That being said, I believe that one of our biggest obstacles is overcoming negativity. Part of the problem is it's everywhere--on the news, the internet, even in our interactions with each other. This day of instant communication is wonderful--for the most part--but it seems to be a two-edged sword. People often say whatever is on their mind and share it in a very public fashion. It makes keeping in touch easier and fun--but at times it can also be a source of discord.

I've noticed that on the news channels, for instance, 98% of the stories shared are quite depressing. There are so many murders, deaths, and heart-wrenching tales it makes you want to sit in a corner and cry. It also leaves you with the impression that only bad things are taking place. It totally makes my day when stations attempt to share at least one positive news event. It's a nice reminder that despite all of the negative items occurring, there are still good people in the world, and happy times taking place.

There are many heart-warming events being shared in public formats online. I enjoy it when people share touching stories, cool pictures, and clean, funny jokes or adventures. I don't appreciate doom and gloom comments, slams against other people, or negative rants.

I've said this before, but we've become a generation of critics. It seems that no matter what anyone does, someone is right there to offer a critique, and usually in a very public fashion. These are not self-esteem boosts. And despite what the adversary would have us believe, it doesn't serve a noble purpose to tear people down.

We are all human, and we all make mistakes. We say and do silly things on occasion. It's wonderful when others give us the benefit of the doubt and an encouraging pat on the back--not a shove into the mud.

During this crazy time we live in, there are a lot of trials taking place. Natural disasters are happening with increased frequency. The economy is anything but stable. Consumer goods are constantly going up in price while wages fail to match. There are a lot of health concerns, physical trials, and people being mean to each other. In short, most of us aren't smiling as much as we once did.

Years ago, when I was a young, silly, high school sophomore, two older girls approached me and made the comment, "You are always smiling. I'll bet you can't go five minutes without smiling." They were right. I tried really hard to frown during those five minutes, and couldn't do it. They laughed and moved on, but their observation stayed with me for many years. What they didn't know was that year was one of the most difficult I had ever faced in my young life. There weren't many reasons to smile. For starters, my father's health was a mess, and my home-life was anything but normal. Also, my maternal grandmother passed away earlier that year. I was her oldest granddaughter and we had been very close--losing her devastated me. One of my closest friends was diagnosed with lupus a couple of months later and she had been critically ill for weeks, since both kidneys were shutting down. She spent much of that year in a hospital in Salt Lake as a result. And on top of everything else, one night when I was walking across the park from my home, I was attacked. Though we never did find out who was responsible for that horrible event (the police did their best, but there wasn't enough evidence to figure things out) I did manage to get away unscathed, for the most part. To this day if I am approached from behind, I jump ten feet into the air, so there were lingering effects, and I was terrified to go anywhere by myself at night for a long time, but aside from all of that and few bruises, I escaped unharmed.

Looking back, I can see how watched over I really was. But at the time I didn't understand that concept. I actually felt quite picked on. So . . . why was I able to find reasons to smile after enduring such a tough year? It boiled down to one thing: that was also the year I gained my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. A year-long quest led me to the spiritual glue that would hold me in place despite the emotional typhoon that was my life. That inner peace made all the difference in the world. Understanding that I was a child of God and that He loved me was huge. Realizing that all of the hard, horrible trials actually served a purpose was life changing. Knowing that despite everything, truth and beauty still existed inspired me to be a better person, and to strive to do good things with my life.

It began with smiling. Each day I would take a deep breath and, at times, force a smile. Though my life continued to be anything but normal, I could face each day as it came with the knowledge that my actions mattered. The choices I made were important, and it was crucial to do my best to help those around me, to follow the example set by our Elder Brother. He did His best to point the way to finding joy during times of trial. He taught us important lessons, like losing ourselves in service to other people is the best way to find true happiness.

So in this day of hurrying, frowning, meanness, and discord, I have a suggestion--reach out to others in a positive fashion. Do something nice for someone else--even if it's simply offering a sincere smile. Will it make a difference? I believe it will. We may not see in this lifetime the end result of our small acts of service, but they will inspire a ripple effect. (If you're wondering what that is, throw a small rock into a lake or pond sometime and watch what happens.) One small act of service can do more good than you will ever know. And just think--if everyone did one small act of service every day--it could eventually change the world. We can make lemons into lemonade, just as my mother taught me years ago. And to my way of thinking, lemonade is far more tasty than the bitterness of negativity soup.

Truth VS. Falsehood

Yesterday in the teen Sunday School class that I teach, we discussed the importance of being able to distinguish truth from error or falsehood. I consider this an important skill to possess in today's crazy world. There are so many messages that bombard us on a daily basis from a myriad of sources: TV, newspapers, magazines, books, internet posts, social media discussions, etc. It seems like everywhere we turn, we run into opinions, conflicting information, and reports that are confusing at best, and overwhelming at worst. I suspect it has ever been the case.

We all know that there has been a battle raging from the beginning that pits good against evil. There is indeed, opposition in all things. As such, we must constantly be on guard against deceptions and lies that are spread by the adversary. Since these confusing tidbits can come in so many forms, and even from those we trust, it is crucial to develop the ability to discern the truth for ourselves.

I learned at an early age that it was important to check things out before blindly going along with the crowd. I shared two experiences with my class yesterday that convinced me that I needed to develop the ability to recognize truth--that falsehoods can lead to trouble. The experiences are as follows:

When I was about seven years old, the elementary students in our area were transferred to a brand new school. We were very excited since it was a state of the art building, complete with a wonderful playground. One of the main attractions was a large, wooden teeter-totter. It quickly became all the rage to sit on one end of this teeter-totter while fellow students ran to the other end and pushed down, raising the opposite end high into the air. After giving a signal, everyone would let go and the other end would come down with a bang, giving the lucky rider an exciting rush. I was told that it was better than riding on the back seat of a school bus, which everyone knew was an awesome experience.

 I watched this joyride take place several times, and everyone seemed to think it was a wondrous thing. Someone I considered a friend told me that I should try it. "You'll love it. It will be so fun." As I continued to watch, feeling a strange sense of unease, I decided this new-found trend wasn't for me. That was when my "friend" tried a different tactic. She called me a chicken, and not only once, but several times, effectively wounding my pride. Finally, I caved and made my way to the line of students who were eagerly waiting their turn. This was my chance to prove how brave I was. When the time came, I sat down on the end of the teeter-totter, and experienced an intense wave of unease. It just felt wrong, but before I could climb off, I was lifted high into the air by my fellow students.

When they released the teeter-totter, I plummeted down. Since I was smaller than most of the other students, I hit the ground hard, so hard that the two boards that were bolted together, came apart--just long enough to permit my small hands to slip between the boards. Without warning, I was trapped and in a lot of pain. As everyone stared, horrified at the blood that started to seep from my smashed fingers, the bell rang, and they all ran back inside the building, leaving me alone in my misery. Have you ever noticed that is how the adversary works? He entices us to go along with the crowd, to fall for the current trends, whether they are harmful or not. He doesn't care what happens to us, and he loves it when we are left in a mess, usually alone and in a lot of pain.

The truth was, the teeter-totter adventure was more dangerous than anyone thought, and I was in serious trouble. Fortunately, my teacher happened to be my aunt, and she noticed right away that I was missing. When she asked my classmates where I was, not one person revealed that I was trapped in the teeter-totter. Worried, she came looking for me, and discovered the mess I was in. After realizing she would need help to remove me from the boards of the teeter-totter, she ran back to the school and quickly located the janitor. Several minutes later, the teeter-totter was dismantled and I was freed from my wooden prison. I was lucky--the damage to my hands wasn't permanent. Miraculously, none of my fingers were broken--just cut and bruised.

Now after that experience, you would think I had learned my lesson about the danger of following the crowd, or listening to people I had assumed were my friends. It took one more painful experience for that concept to finally sink in. About a year later, the same good "friend" who had taunted me into trying the teeter-totter ride told me a beauty secret. My mother later let me know that it was probably said out of spite or jealousy. I had been born with lots of thick, dark hair, and possessed long, thick eyelashes. My "friend" possessed a pixie cut of her wispy blonde hair. One day, this friend informed me that if I pulled out all of my eyelashes, they would grow back in thicker than they were. She told me that our mothers wouldn't tell us this information since they didn't want us to be as pretty as they were. In my defense, (yes, I sponged this information) I remembered seeing my mother pluck around her eyes with tweezers. I thought that she had been pulling out her eyelashes. I should've gone home and asked her about it, and I would've learned that she had been shaping her eyebrows--that it had nothing to do with her eyelashes. Instead, I believed this friend of mine, and once again, despite the uneasy feeling I experienced, I followed her advice.

I'll never forget the horrified look on my mother's face that afternoon when I arrived home from school with bald eyes. She nearly passed out from shock. As you may have all guessed, what my friend told me was indeed a falsehood. My eyelashes were never the same. A few grew back in, but nothing like what I had possessed before.

This was a hard way to learn that not everything I would hear was truth. Until that point in time, I pretty much believed what I was told, since I trusted everyone. It's sad when that childhood trust is shattered. But I'm grateful for the lessons that I learned--that earlier pain prevented me from falling into future traps. From that point on, I carefully weighed what people told me, and also what I read. As I matured, I learned to trust in the impressions that came. Calm, peaceful feelings were to be trusted. Uneasy, confusing feelings were a warning. A warm sensation inside my heart helped me to distinguish truth from error.

I still follow this formula whenever I question something I've read or heard. It has saved me a lot of grief through the years, especially when popular opinion tries to force itself upon me. If it feels wrong--it is. It's truly as simple as that. Our Father knew we would live in a confusing time, and He has provided a way for us to travel through this mortal journey with inspired guidance, if we will only listen to that Still Small Voice. 

Balancing Act

Recently the diabetic specialist I had been seeing on a regular basis decided to retire. I was told that a new specialist would take her place. However, after the new doctor tried things out at that diabetic clinic for a month, she quit. It was then I decided to take matters into my own hands and find myself a new doctor, one that was hopefully a little closer to home.This task proved to be rather complicated as I had to consider the limitations of our insurance (it will only cover certain, PPO approved physicians,) and the fact that I am an odd duck--a Type 1 diabetic on an insulin pump. As such, I had to find someone who was comfortable handling an insulin pump patient. (Most diabetics are Type 2 and control things with diet, exercise, oral meds, etc.)

I searched the internet for a physician that would satisfy everyone's requirements. After a few days of sorting through endless lists, I narrowed it down to an individual that seemed to stand out. He was on our insurance roster as an approved doctor--and when I called to talk to the nice receptionist, she assured me that he was taking new patients and he had worked with other insulin pump dependent diabetics. Also, he was a D.O.--the type of doctor my youngest son is seeking to become.(Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine.) From what I've learned through experience, and what my son has taught me, D.O.'s tend to be very patient friendly. Also, they are trained to use the best of Western and Eastern medicine. This is extremely cool. =)

Deciding I had struck pay-dirt, I told the receptionist that I would like to lock this doctor in as my new diabetic specialist. That's when I was told that this particular doctor likes to look through files and decide which patients he is willing to add to his clientele. Ah. This was new. Not only was I evaluating him, but he would be going through the same process with me. Interesting.

The next day I received a phone call and was informed that I had been accepted as a patient. I did the dance of joy, hoping this was a good change. About a week later, my husband and I drove to Logan and met up with my new specialist. It was a good experience, even though my A1C test was a little higher than it should've been. (The test that reveals the average blood sugar level for the past 3 months.) Because of that, I was told that I needed to meet with the office dietician--a bright young man that the nurses and my new doctor highly recommended. I still pouted. I mean, seriously? I've been a Type 1 diabetic since I was the tender age of 19. After ten years . . . (Kidding. My 30-year-old son informed me last year that I can no longer be 29. Sigh . . .) okay . . . after 33 years, I think I know what I'm doing . . . most of the time. ;) I knew my blood sugar levels had been bouncing for a couple of months. It's the time of year when my RA (Rheumatoid Arthritis) acts up (compliments of the wacky weather) and with the inflammation comes increased blood sugar levels. It's just how my silly body rolls. Everything (and I do mean everything) affects blood sugar levels. Pain, heat, cold, illnesses, exercise, carbs consumed, etc. It proves to be quite the balancing act, and something I live with every day. True character building moments. Back to my story:

After silently protesting, I decided to be a sport. I reasoned that this was a new start . . . a big change. And maybe the dietician could help me get things balanced. On the other hand . . . I've been counting carbs for years--what more was there to learn? I soon found out. About two weeks later, I met with the dietician. I had been asked to keep track of everything during the preceding two weeks: Basal rates, insulin boluses, meals consumed, exercise, the works. I found the old charting graphs I had used when I first became a pump patient and after making copies, I used them to record all of this lovely information.

My mother went with me to this appointment. She was curious about what this new dietician could possibly teach me about diabetes, something we've already established that I've lived with for a gracious long time. An hour and a half later, my mind was reeling with new information. It turns out that things have changed . . . a lot within the past five years. I left the clinic that day so excited, I could barely contain myself. And as everyone had said, the dietician was awesome. He was upbeat, encouraging, and didn't put me on a guilt trip over days when my levels were less than impressive. Instead, he praised my efforts and then used entertaining props to help me understand what my silly body is doing these days.

Later that night, I had to call my oldest son, who is becoming a dietician, and shared my new-found enthusiasm. He understood everything I had learned and told me that it has been amazing what has been discovered about diabetes in recent times. He was excited that I had stumbled onto a doctor and a dietician that make a great team. Though the past few weeks have been challenging (we're in the process of changing basal rates--the insulin levels that drip in continuously from my insulin pump) to get things to balance out, I know it will all be worth it. Eventually, we'll have things stream-lined and I will likely be in better shape than I've been in for a long time.

So I'm realizing . . . again . . . that change is important. It's how we learn, grow, and better ourselves in this crazy world. We weren't meant to exist in a state of constant bliss in an environment that stays the same. We need to be flexible enough to "ride the waves," as they come into our lives and glean those things that will make a positive difference. Though I tend to fall off my "surfboard" . . . a lot (yep, I am a descendant of the dude who fell off the Mayflower--John Howland) I'm learning how crucial it is to keep trying, knowing that someday, the balance I'm seeking will be attained and I will be a better person as a result.

Book Reviews: "We Are Strong" & "I Am Strong! I Am Smart!"

Lately it seems like we are inundated with numerous negative messages. They are featured on the news, in various social media outlets, and hidden in lyrics, movies, and books. Sadly, those hurtful phrases often come from the people around us. It is rare to find items that boost self-esteem--inspiring words that remind us who we really are and why we're here in mortal mode. That is why I'm excited to share the following information.

I was recently asked to review two books written by one talented woman: Fay A. Klinger. Both books contain significant, upbeat messages that can touch hearts in a good and positive way. The first book, "We Are Strong," is written specifically for women and their daughters, and granddaughters, and it would be a useful tool for young women and their leaders.

In this book, Fay skillfully weaves the Young Women values with stories and experiences that help the reader understand the importance of believing in our divine nature. Current challenges such as bullying and recovery from abusive situations are highlighted in a sensitive manner. Helpful suggestions are offered that will aid in healing from these all-too-common threats to our society. In my opinion, this is an important book that mothers and daughters should read together.

Here is a sample paragraph:

"No matter how routine or mundane our tasks may be as mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, Relief Society leaders, and Young Women leaders, we must never forget to see each other, our daughters, and the young women of the Church from an eternal perspective. Our primary role is to nurture and teach. We cannot be neutral in that role. We must be actively engaged. As we are more inclined to magnify the positive rather than point out the negative, our influence will ease the trials these women and girls endure--rejection, loneliness, self-doubt, exhaustion, temptation--and give them the confidence to be the daughters God intends them to be."

This is a book that can change lives and promote self-esteem in a time when our spiritual armor is being dented from all sides. It is an inspiring work that every woman and girl can benefit from--I cannot stress this enough. On a scale of 1 to 5 stars, I'm giving it a 5 star rating because I believe in its timely and important message of hope and healing.

The second book contains a similar theme, but the target audience is younger readers, although I believe people of all ages will enjoy the content. Beautifully illustrated, "I Am Strong! I Am Smart!" also stresses the importance of believing in ourselves. Sharing the story of a young girl and the influence of her loving grandmother during a difficult time, this book makes it clear that we need to ignore negative insults and develop a strong sense of self-worth. After the grandmother teaches this crucial concept, she suffers a slight stroke, and it is the granddaughter's turn to remind the older woman of her own importance in this challenging world.

These two books would be a welcome addition to any home library. Here are links to Amazon if you are interested in purchasing either book:

 http://www.amazon.com/Fay-A.-Klingler/e/B001JOZJU2

https://www.facebook.com/FayKlingler

And here is a link to a short video clip about "I Am Strong! I Am Smart!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLbi8fakYoU&feature=youtu.be

And here is the link to Fay's website:

http://www.fayklingler.com/