Tradition!

I have always loved musical productions. I suppose I inherited this trait from both of my parents, who also enjoyed this type of entertainment. They were both musically inclined and as a family, we often performed together, singing some of our favorite ditties from productions like "The Sound of Music," "Mary Poppins," "Lost Horizons," etc. "Fiddler on the Roof," has always been one of my favorites. I especially love the song, "Tradition!" My dad would often mimic Tevye, singing that song at the top of his talented lungs.

There is wisdom in the lyrics of that tune. For me it is summed up as follows:

" . . . how do we keep our balance? That I can tell you in one word: Tradition!"

I believe that concept with my entire heart. Traditions are sooo important. These are the family beliefs and customs that help us maintain our identity, and pass on important cultural treasures. We celebrated many important events during my formative years, something I have tried to pass on to my own children. One of those yearly milestones took place yesterday: St. Patrick's Day!

It would take me several years to catch on that I have a rich Irish heritage. (Yep, I'm a mutt--I'm also Scottish, English, Danish, and in recent years we learned that we possess Jewish and Native American bloodlines in our leafy family tree.) Before I understood that my mother's paternal line came from Ireland, I grew up thinking that everyone commemorated St. Paddy's Day with the traditional corned beef and cabbage feast, and by wearing that all-important color, green. For the longest time I thought we wore that color to keep from getting pinched. The fun leprechaun doll that an uncle had brought home for me from Ireland was a cool gift and a reminder of the folklore of the little people. I think I was about ten years old when I finally caught on that our Sibbett line was of Irish descent. When that finally clicked for me, this holiday took on a whole new meaning.

I've always loved history and I began devouring books about Ireland. I also began listening more closely when our Sibbett clan gathered together for reunions, weddings, and the like, gleaning important tidbits about our Irish ancestors. They were hardworking, fun-loving people who were passionate about life, loyal to their beliefs, and among the first to offer a hand when help was needed. Those traits were manifested in the way my Grandpa Sibbett lived his life. His example has touched my heart in numerous ways and I have tried to honor his memory by building on the foundation he set for those of us who would follow.

It does my heart good to see those same traits surface in my offspring--and to know that important holiday traditions that have been passed down from generation to generation will continue. Yesterday, after my husband and I had enjoyed a traditional Irish feast, we heard from one of our sons, He called to share what my young granddaughter had to say about the corned beef and cabbage he had prepared for their dinner that day:

"Daddy, I love this cow!" =)

We enjoyed a good laugh over her interpretation of corned beef. It's tradition--we Irish types tend to find humor in things others miss. It's part of our heritage, and something I will always treasure.

Writing--a Healing Balm

I'm an odd duck in the creative writing world. For starters, I had never planned on becoming a writer. I've always been an avid reader and have enjoyed books for years. They are indeed among my treasures.

I was an honor student in high school and enjoyed advanced English courses that made my friends wince. They always thought I was weird for taking classes like that, but it was something I relished. So much so, by the time I became a college student, I majored in English, with plans to teach high school English, French, and drama.

Halfway through my college goals, I met a nice young man named Kennon, and we were married a few months later. Instead of becoming a teacher, I focused on surviving the recent diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes, and being a wife, and eventually, a mother. All plans of becoming a teacher faded to the background.

After my husband and I had been married for about a year and a half, my father passed away in a tragic manner. This is when I entered the world of writing. During the nights when I couldn't sleep, I would sit in the kitchen and write out everything I was feeling. Then I would shred those pages . . . and I experienced a bit of peace. I didn't realize I was taking care of my own therapy. ;)  It was one of the ways that I survived the trauma that went along with losing my dad.

I became hooked on writing--I just felt better when I sat down and wrote things out. Eventually I began writing the story of a young woman who was trying to come to terms with her father's death. It was my story, but I changed a lot of the details to make it a lighter version.

I've never forgotten the peace of heart I experienced the night I typed the final sentence in what would become my first manuscript. Writing had helped me find a pathway to healing.

In the years since that time, I have often turned to writing things out when I'm upset. These emotions are usually expressed in poetry, songs, and stories. I find that I do my best writing when something is bothering me. I suspect there are many others out there who can relate to this.

A relative of mine who went into psychology told me years ago that writing out what we're feeling is considered a healing form of therapy. We've always been encouraged to keep a journal, and I suspect that is in part to help us work through the challenges and difficulties that come into our lives. I find that it's good to go back and read past journal entries when life takes a painful twist. I usually find something that gives me a boost and the courage to keep moving forward.

I think writing is something we can all benefit from, whether it's reading someone else's work, or composing our own. And I'm convinced that some of the best writing is contained in what we refer to as the standard works. There are times when an inspiring scripture will bring me peace of mind not found in any other book.

People have been writing since the beginning of time. I think it's something that is instilled within most of our hearts--a desire to somehow translate life experiences into words that not only help us deal with challenging trials, but may offer hope to someone else who is looking for a glimmer of light in a darkened world.

Carry a Torch

What is the main thing that people look for when darkness plagues? The obvious answer would be "light." Light can dispel fear, doubt, and often sorrow. For me, having adequate light spares me from stubbing/breaking toes, tripping over items not easily seen without illumination, and when I'm alone, it keeps the boogeyman away. =)

I'm a "light" person. Not necessary in the weight category, but when it comes to dark times, like the midnight shifts my husband sometimes works, I prefer to have a nightlight blazing in the hallway. It may sound silly, but it comforts me. Though my husband often teases me, this tendency helps me feel like I'm not quite alone.

I suspect that most of us are "light" people. We prefer a comforting glow in the darkness. Perhaps that's why we cheer for those who tend to be torchbearers.

What is a "torchbearer," you may ask? According to an online dictionary, a torchbearer is:
1: One who carries a torch. (I am often amazed by some definitions.)
2. One who imparts knowledge, truth, or inspiration to others. (I prefer definition number two.)

I also did a bit of research regarding the history of torchbearers. As you may have suspected, most of what I found was linked to the Olympic games. Fire, in ancient times, was considered to have sacred qualities. During the first Olympic games, a so-called eternal flame was maintained during the competitions. Today, the Olympic games are heralded by torch-runners who bear the Olympic flame from Greece to wherever the games are held. It's a time-honored tradition that can be inspiring, depending on one's frame of mind.

Here is something to ponder--what does it take to be a torchbearer in today's society? As Jennie stated in her latest post on this blog, we live in a depressed era. The economy, state of the world, acts of violence, tragic events, etc. have created dark moments. There is a great need for torchbearers--those who courageously attempt to carry the light of inspiration, truth, and knowledge. The light they carry will help illuminate darkened corners where discouragement and despair tend to thrive.

It's not easy, being a torchbearer. The current negative trend often squelches flames that otherwise would burn quite brightly. Some are quick to judge and condemn those who dare to carry a positive message. Still, there are brave souls who persist, determined to bear their flame despite this challenge. They endure exhaustion, brutal elements, and taunting as they hold their torches high, intent on passing that light to others.

The torchbearers of our day are to be commended. The light they share will go a long way toward dispersing gloomy moments. They will bring hope to those who have temporarily lost their inner flame. Their example will encourage others to make similar attempts. They are the unsung heroes during a time that honors villains, and though these valiant torchbearers often serve without acclamation, there will come a day when the light they carry will eventually illuminate a darkened world. 

Each Life that Touches Ours for Good

Periodically we find ourselves touched in a major way by the example of someone else. These are people who radiate the joy that comes from living a Christ-like life. I recently attended the funeral of a woman who fits this description. One of my husband's cousins, this humble, bubbly lady was a wonderful example to all of us. It was said of her that she never said anything negative about anyone else, and I know this to be true. Louise had a way of edifying others in a quiet, unassuming fashion, typical of those who are true disciples of our beloved Savior.

A year ago, our family attended a funeral for someone else who lived a similar life. One of my great-aunts, Mary was another inspiring example. She loved serving others and was always making a fuss over her neighbors, family members, and total strangers. At her funeral, a story was shared about the time a new neighbor came by for a visit. In a typical fashion, my gentle aunt invited this man into her humble home to share a freshly baked loaf of bread and homemade jam. As she and my uncle sat visiting with this new neighbor, they eventually asked what it was he did for a living. This man had purchased a large ranch in the mountain valley where my aunt and uncle lived, and they had assumed he was a rancher like most in the area. Instead, their new neighbor revealed that he was an actor and had made several movies. My aunt kindly remarked that while she had never heard of any of those movies, she was certain he did a fine job and would succeed in his chosen vocation. Their new neighbor: Richard Gere.

As several stories were shared about my aunt's Christ-like tendencies, one of my sons commented that her example made him want to live a better life. Many of us came away from Louise's funeral feeling the same way.

Funerals for these type of people are often like graduation ceremonies. Though we miss them greatly, there is a feeling of joy that can be sensed through the Spirit. I experienced this sensation the first time during my maternal grandfather's funeral. My Grandpa Sibbett was one of my heroes. He was always doing things for other people, possessed a great sense of humor, and survived numerous adventures in life, including the death of his father when he was in the eight grade. At that time, he quit school to help support his family. A hard worker, my grandfather never lost his zest for life, maintaining a positive attitude regardless of the challenge. This would eventually include the death of one of his sons at the tender age of seven.

I remember going places with my grandfather when I was quite young. People would look at me and smile and ask if I was Glenn Sibbett's granddaughter. When I would nod accordingly, they would tell me what a great man he was--something that made me want to live up to his reputation. That feeling was magnified during his funeral. Though I was sorrowing over his passing, I couldn't ignore the strong feeling of joy that was present as well, an indication that he had truly graduated from this life in a pleasing manner to God.

The inspiring example of these loved ones gives us an indication of what is truly important in this mortal life. Fame and fortune do not matter. Fancy homes and cars mean nothing. When it's all said and done, it comes down to how we treat each other, and the type of service we render throughout our lives.

The lyrics to a well-known hymn have been going through my head this past week. They pretty much sum up what I'm trying to share in today's post:

Each life that touches ours for good reflects thine own great mercy Lord
Thou sendest blessings from above thru words and deeds of those who love.

What greater gift dost thou bestow, what greater goodness can we know
Than Christ-like friends, whose gentle ways, strengthen our faith, enrich our days.

For worthy friends whose lives proclaim devotion to the Savior's name
Who bless our lives with peace and love, we praise thy goodness, Lord above.

Caroling for Christmas

I apologize for not blogging much lately. I've been recovering from a minor medical procedure--but I'm pretty much on the mend now. In fact I'm beginning to feel better than I have in quite some time. This is good. As such, I take laptop in hand to bring a holiday blog post your way. =D

In light of recent events. I thought it might be appropriate to dust off a Christmas memory from several years ago. It was a time in our family when things seemed a bit bleak. Although we had experienced a lot of tender mercies, our family was still grieving over the loss of our father. As many of you know, he suffered from a rare medical condition, and during a moment when he was very much not himself, he took his own life.

As a result, moments like the holiday season were often painful reminders of who was missing in our clan.  Healing had begun, but our hearts were still very tender. And that year, my brother, who had served a valiant mission in Canada, had returned home. We wanted that Christmas to be a special time, and yet it was still a challenge to feel the Christmas Spirit.

That year, while my mother searched for a job as a dental assistant, she had accepted employment as a CNA at a local nursing home. The lonely plight of some of the residents of that facility inspired her to come up with a plan to help us all feel better.

The afternoon of Christmas Eve, we gathered together to make Christmas cookies. At first we thought we were making them for our family to enjoy. Then our mother explained that we would be taking them in to the nursing home residents. She went on to say that we would also be singing Christmas carols to these people. For a moment, we all looked at each other in shock. Singing had always been something special in our family. For years we had performed together on various programs with our father, who had possessed a beautiful, deep bass voice. Since his death, the music inside of us had withered.

A few months after his death, I had attempted singing on a Christmas program, thinking I could handle it. This was a bad choice. Ignoring a quiet prompting that warned it was too soon to try something like this, I agreed to perform on the program for a Christmas dinner. I managed to get halfway through the number, then was hit with a wave of overwhelming grief that prevented me from finishing the performance. It was a horrible experience and I hadn't been able to sing since that night. I'll admit that I silently balked at the idea of singing Christmas carols in public. But when my mother handed me a guitar as everyone else gathered plates of Christmas cookies, I didn't have the heart to say, "NO!"

We loaded up in a couple of cars and drove across town to the nursing home. On the way, I offered a silent prayer for help, uncertain that I could come through on my mother's request. When we arrived, I still felt extremely nervous, but obediently clutched my guitar and followed behind everyone else inside the building.

We began by handing out the Christmas cookies to the staff and the nursing home residents. That act alone brought smiles to lonely, suffering faces, and their reaction softened my heart. I could see that most of these people hadn't received Christmas visitors. Their joy over our arrival melted through the icy grief that had engulfed my heart. My mother signaled that it was time for a Christmas carol, and I bravely shouldered my guitar.

At first I thought that I would simply accompany my sisters, brother, and mother. But as the familiar words rang out, I found myself joining in with a soft harmony. As I sang with my family that night, a soothing peace nestled in my heart. We advanced from room to room, making certain that everyone received Christmas cookies, and one or two heartfelt carols. Tremendous healing took place that night as we witnessed a Christmas miracle we hadn't anticipated. And when we returned home, our hearts warmed from the glow of that small act of service, Christmas didn't seem quite so painful. A quiet feeling of joy replaced the grief, helping us to know that eventually, all would be well.

I've never forgotten the happiness I felt that night. It was a reminder that when we reach out to help others, our own sorrow fades. It's the best way I know to experience the true joy of Christmas.

Weathering the Storm

Sometimes it seems like life is one impressive storm after another. This week, as a huge storm (I've heard it called: Frankenstorm) approaches the eastern coast of our country, residents are doing the best that they can to batten down the hatches. Boards have been fastened over windows, services like subways, trains, and flights have been cancelled, businesses and schools have closed, and many people have been evacuated in preparation.

As I watched the news last night, various scenes flashed across the TV screen. One showed people inside of a store frantically shoving items like bottled water, canned goods, etc. into shopping carts. Another featured a stubborn resident who was refusing to leave the area, claiming he had nowhere to go and he wanted to protect his home. As such, he was busy loading up bags with sand from a nearby beach. Only time will tell if this was a wise decision.

A year after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, my husband and I spent two weeks in the area on a business trip. We saw firsthand some of the damage that can take place when a storm of this magnitude descends. Some images will always haunt me, like the flattened homes, others with numbers revealing how many were found dead and alive, and a cemetery with empty tombs--everything had washed out to sea.

It helped to see the determination to rebuild. Everywhere we looked, despite the overwhelming devastation that had taken place, people were stubbornly piecing their homes and businesses back together. Most had done this before, and they told us they would do so again if another storm came through.

Before our trip to New Orleans, I wondered why anyone would want to live in a place that is prone to massive storms. After spending two weeks exploring the area, I could see why. I fell in love with New Orleans and all it had to offer. It is a beautiful city, full of history, art, music, romance, and excellent cuisine. A seafood fan, I consumed some of the best shrimp, oysters, etc. that I've ever had the pleasure to sample during our stay in 'Nawlins. The Cajun spices appealed, although I did draw the line over the deep-fried blue crabs. Spiders are not my friends and in my opinion, those small crabs resembled deep-friend tarantulas. Just sayin' . . .

Regardless, I came away from Louisiana with a deep respect for those who have the courage to live in a storm-prone state. Their sense of culture, tradition, and endurance impressed me greatly. I have often thought of their resilience as I have faced storms in my own life.

We all experience storms during our adventure of a lifetime. Some are more like light mists that barely douse our lives. Others are of such scary magnitude, we want to run screaming the other way. I think what matters most is how we decide to confront these challenges. Do we run in a panicked circle exclaiming the sky is falling, or do we simply do our best to secure our foundation and weather the storm? It has been my experience that we often don't know how we'll react until the storm is on the horizon. That's when we discover our mettle, as my grandmother would call it--and often realize that we can shine the brightest when all around is dark.

Isn't it About "Time?"

The other day someone asked me how things were going. I smiled and answered, "Well, I'm never bored." The reply to that response was: "Aren't you glad?" I've thought about that conversation this past week, and have decided that I am glad I'm not bored. It seems like every day there are so many things that I can try to accomplish--it's like a never-ending list.

I usually try to write in the early morning hours, since that is when my creative juices seem to flow. Then I dive in on the daily adventure which is often a combination of household chores, errands, etc.Though I manage to cross several items off these daily lists, I never quite finish up everything. There are moments when I sigh and wish there were three of me . . . but then again, perhaps there would be three times the amount of things to do. ;)

I do make an effort to attend most family events, since I believe those are the really important items in this life. And since my husband and I both belong to rather large family trees, it seems like there are always weddings, funerals, baptisms, graduations, and new babies to welcome into this mortal world, not to mention reunions, family camping adventures, holidays to celebrate, birthdays to commemorate, and so on.

Then there are crazy days like a Friday I experienced a couple of weeks ago. In that one day I helped my mother pick up the cases of canned food she wanted at the local case lot sale, sang at the local senior center for their weekly entertainment slot, endured a less-than-fun mammogram, entertained my mother-in-law who surprised us with a quick visit for part of the weekend, and cleaned out my abode for the arrival of family members from my side who were coming to hang out during Conference weekend. I'll admit, by the end of that day I fell sound asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. 

It seems like I experience erratic days like that at least once a week. But you know what, there are no regrets. I suspect when my allotted time is over on this mortal sphere, I will experience a tiny bit of satisfaction from knowing that I did my best to make the most out of each day. I may not have always succeeded . . . and there is the glitch I currently endure with having to slow down a bit here and there compliments of my less than cooperative body . . . but for the most part, I have tried to live this adventure of a lifetime with a bit of gusto. 

So, yes, I'm rarely bored, but this is a good thing. Though sometimes I long for a day when I can sit and vegetate, if I ever reach a point in my life when that is all I can do, I will probably not enjoy it much. But maybe even then, I will follow my mother's example, and come up with creative things to do to keep myself entertained. Isn't that part of why we're here--to see how we'll use the time we have been given during this probationary time? The good news is the belief that I have that this life is just the beginning. I believe that we'll have an eternity to continue polishing those talents, friendships, and interests that we've developed on earth. And if that is the case, I suspect I will never be bored--and that is a reason to celebrate.