Seeing Anyone New Lately?

One of the souvenirs I picked up on my journey through Cancerland (motto: “Maybe Not Quite the Happiest Place on Earth”) was a significant loss of vision. I visited several eye specialists, but none could tell me why my eyesight was so poor and why it seemed to be getting steadily worse. They could not prescribe glasses strong enough to help me see.

Finally, I was referred to an eye doctor who had more specialized equipment and knowledge about my type of vision loss. He took pictures of the inside of my eye and saw that my eye tissue was very swollen. This had apparently been caused by the whole-head radiation I had received three years earlier.

So I started getting monthly steroid shots to my eye,* and this reduced the swelling a little. But my vision was still bad – I couldn’t read normal-sized text, even with the strongest reading glasses I could buy at my reading-glasses-store-of-choice,** and I was unable to drive, which often made things complicated for my kids and put a lot of pressure on my husband.

It was time to consider cataract surgery. I was a little apprehensive about it at first. But I'd heard that the technology for cataract surgery had made amazing advances and that the procedure was safe, effective, and relatively painless. I knew I had an experienced and competent doctor. Also, by at this point, I was somewhat accustomed to having sharp objects skewering my eye.

So last month, I had cataract surgery on my left eye. It went well. I was in the hospital for only a few hours, and felt no real pain. The most inconvenient part of the procedure was the recovery at home. My left eye was bandaged, and my right eye is badly scarred, so I was essentially blind. The doctor told me that for 24 hours after the surgery, I would need a responsible adult with me all the time, which raised a problem because frankly, I don’t know any responsible adults (with the possible exception of my husband, and he had to go to work.)***

Because my right inner ear was severely damaged by surgery five years ago, my sense of balance is dependent on my eyesight. So my activity was very limited – I couldn’t walk, or read, or do crosswords, or watch TV, or use the computer. I was mostly stuck in bed, and although I was comfortable, I was extremely bored. I am a very easily bored person, and this type of imposed boredom is particularly excruciating for me. I had thought it was terrible to be confined to my sickbed during my chemotherapy treatments, but at least I had constant nausea and occasional vomiting to distract me from the tedium.

At last I was able to remove the bandage. Everything was blurry at first, which was normal, I learned, but my eyesight improved dramatically over the next week. The first two things I discovered
with my new vision were:

    - Whoa, I really look bad. I mean really bad. Much worse than I thought.

    - My house is very dirty. It wasn’t the clutter that surprised me – I could see well enough before the surgery to recognize a problem if there were, say, a basketball in the bathroom sink or a full-grown hedgehog on my kitchen counter. But the dust and the grime and the cobwebs had been invisible to me. If it's true that cleanliness is next to Godliness, we've been living in sin.

But then I started to notice other things I had forgotten: How beautiful my children are – what a startling shade of blue my husband’s eyes are – the beauty of the trees and the grass and the sky. And now I can read, an activity that I deeply missed.

Before the cataract surgery, and during the recovery, I often found myself wishing that someone would just spit in the dirt and put the mud on my eyes to cure my poor vision, the way Christ did for the man born blind, as told in the ninth chapter of the Gospel of John:


And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth. Jesus [said], I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.

When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay, and said unto him, Go, wash in the pool of Siloam. He went his way therefore, and washed, and came seeing.

Then again called they [the Pharisees] the man that was blind, and said unto him, Give God the praise: we know that this man is a sinner. He answered and said, Whether he be a sinner or no, I know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.

It seemed to me, at first glance, that this man received his vision the easy way – no looking for a spot in the hospital parking lot, no health questionnaires, no insurance co-pay. Why don’t things like that happen anymore?

But I’ve begun to realize now the immaturity of that way of thinking. What am I asking for, anyway, when I say I want a divine healing? Just because I didn't literally see God's hand in this doesn't mean it wasn't there. Looking back, I can clearly see that I did receive divine help – I was led to the right doctor, my surgery was successful, and I have had a smooth recovery.

On this day, when we gather to honor the life and marvel at the death and resurrection of Him who made lame men walk and blind men see, I add my testimony that He lives, that He loves us, that He heals our bodies, and our souls, still today. It is through His miraculous resurrection that my full vision will be restored to me someday, as will my lost hearing, teeth, hair, facial movement: indeed, a new body; a new life.

"I say unto thee, my son, that the plan of restoration is requisite with the justice of God; for it is requisite that all things should be restored to their proper order. Behold, it is requisite and just, according to the power and resurrection of Christ, that the soul of man should be restored to its body, and that every part of the body should be restored to itself." (Book of Mormon, Alma 41:2) 

Happy Easter.


*That’s right, actual shots to my actual eye. You can probably remember saying, when you were a child, “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” But you never thought anyone would ever really do it.  
**Dollar Tree
***We settled on my 18-year-old son, Danny, who had the day off from school, and he proved to be passably responsible. 

Resurrection Story Cookies

We have made these cookies the night before Easter Sunday for quite a few years. It's a good way to help your children remember the true meaning of Easter. 

You need to preheat the oven to 300 degrees (this is important--don't wait until you are half done with the recipe!)

1 cup whole pecans

1 tsp. vinegar

3 egg whites

A pinch salt

1 cup sugar

A zipper baggie

A wooden spoon

Tape

Bible

Place pecans in zipper baggie and let children beat them with the wooden spoon to break into small pieces. Explain that after Jesus was arrested, He was beaten by the Roman soldiers.

Read John 19:1-3.

Let each child smell the vinegar. Put 1 tsp. vinegar into mixing bowl. Explain that when Jesus was thirsty on the cross, He was given vinegar to drink .Read John 19:28-30.

Add egg whites to vinegar. Eggs represent life. Explain that Jesus gave His life to give us life.

Read John 10:10-11.

Sprinkle a little salt into each child's hand. Let them taste it and brush the rest into the bowl. Explain that this represents the salty tears shed by Jesus' followers, and the bitterness of our own sin. Read Luke 23:27.

So far, the ingredients are not very appetizing. Add 1 cup sugar. Explain that the sweetest part of the story is that Jesus died because He loves us. He wants us to know and belong to Him.

Read Psalms 34:8 and John 3:16.

Beat with a mixer on high speed for 12 to 15 minutes until stiff peaks are formed (*See note below.) Explain that the color white represents the purity in God's eyes of those whose sins have been cleansed by Jesus. Read Isaiah. 1:18 and John 3:1-3.

Fold in broken nuts. Drop by teaspoons onto wax paper covered cookie sheet. Explain that each mound represents the rocky tomb where Jesus' body was laid. Read Matthew. 27:57-60.

Put the cookie sheet in the oven, close the door and turn the oven OFF. Give each child a piece of tape and seal the oven door. Explain that Jesus' tomb was sealed. Read Matt. 27:65-66.

GO TO BED! Explain that they may feel sad to leave the cookies in the oven overnight. Jesus' followers were in despair when the tomb was sealed. Read John 16:20 and 22.

On Easter morning, open the oven and give everyone a cookie. Notice the cracked surface and take a bite. The cookies are hollow! On the day of Christ's Resurrection, Jesus' followers were amazed to find the tomb open and empty. Read Matthew 28:1-9.

My children don't love these cookies, so I don't make a lot of them. But this is such a great way to capture their interest, so that you get an opportunity to bear your testimony to your children about the miraculous, compassionate, and self-sacrificing life of our Savior, and express your love for His life, his atonement, and for our part in the plan.

Happy Easter.

Cheering Words

I was curled up in bed when my husband Wes came home from work. He brought me a hurriedly-made plate of dinner and then picked up his keys.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To Joseph’s baseball game. It’s his last one.”

His last game of the season. I hadn’t gone to any of them. Surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from my head, along with subsequent brain radiation and chemotherapy, had left me very weak, partially paralyzed, and somewhat confused about things. I was almost totally bedridden.

So my husband was surprised when I blurted out, “I want to go.”

“Really? Are you sure you can do it?”

I nodded, although I was not at all sure. I only felt that I should go. It might be my last chance to see Joseph play. Ever.

Wes helped me change into clean clothes and get out of bed. He supported me as I slowly walked to the car and he helped me get in. The baseball field was not far away, but it seemed to me like we were traveling to another planet.

I walked from the car toward the field, leaning on Wes all the way. A neighbor had given Joseph a ride to the game, which was more than half over when we got there. The bleachers were filled with parents, grandparents and siblings. I didn’t recognize anyone there. I thought I heard a murmuring run through the spectators as I neared, and although the bleachers were full, the crowd seemed to part as I approached. I knew I looked terrible, and I felt self-conscious as I half-crawled into an empty spot.

I looked out at the field, where ten-year-old boys like my son were dressed in their colorful uniforms. I didn’t recognize any of them, not even Joseph.

I struggled to keep my head upright and my eyes open. Suddenly, Wes nudged me. “Joseph’s up next,” he said.

I straightened up and squinted in the direction of the field. I spotted Joseph, his red hair gleaming in the setting sun. As he moved toward the plate, the crowd of people around me began to stir. It seemed like everyone was making noise now, shouting, “Go, Joseph!” and “You can do it, Joseph!” and “All right, Joseph!”

I was confused. Why was everyone cheering so loudly for Joseph? He was smaller than many of the boys, and not particularly athletically gifted. I had wondered why he even wanted to play. And now he was getting cheered on as if he were the star of the team.

The bleachers were filled with sound as Joseph picked up the bat. “Go, Joseph, go! You can do it Joseph!” I heard one voice, just behind me, call out, “Hit that ball, Joseph!” Then the voice dropped to a near-whisper as it went on, “Your mother’s here.”

And that’s when I understood. In our small town, I suppose almost everyone had heard about my health problems. The people in the bleachers hadn’t known what to say to me, but they found a way to communicate their sympathy, encouragement, and support as they cheered for a scrawny 10-year-old, clumsily swinging his bat. They weren’t cheering for Joseph, not really. They were cheering for me. 

I don’t remember whether Joseph got a hit in that game, or what the final score was. But I can still hear the sounds of cheering and the quiet words of compassion: Joseph, your mother’s here.

Gone Thriftin'

Yesterday, two good friends and I drove to a city more than an hour away to do one thing: visit a really good thrift store.

Does this sound extreme? Even, perhaps, a little insane? The frugal shopper's version of Thelma and Louise?¹

Maybe. But we had a lot of fun together, and we picked up some real bargains.

I started shopping at secondhand stores more than 20 years ago. My husband was in school full-time, and I had been working only a few hours a week since we had our first child. Money was tight, and thrift store shopping seemed to be the only way for me to pick up a few necessary items.

Now, although I still have to stretch our income to provide for our large family, I have several reasons to keep thrifting that have nothing to do with money.

1. No super-store, big-box store or mall can match a good thrift shop for variety. I've never been to a retail store where you can walk in empty-handed and come out with a wedding gown, power tools, a spare tire, a backpack, a Halloween costume and some Christmas decorations – in June.
2. You are likely to find some surprises. Thrift stores offer some unique items you probably can't get anywhere else: Out-of-print books, 8-track tapes, binoculars used in World War II, and sometimes a really beautiful dress or quilt or table that was clearly handmade in a previous owner's house or garage.
3. Most thrift shops are run by charities and support worthy causes like feeding and educating people in need or providing a safe shelter for an abused spouse. Shopping at these stores gives us a great opportunity to help.
4. Buying and using secondhand products is good for the planet. Selling things that would otherwise end up sitting in landfills just makes ecological sense. For the environmentally minded shopper, thrift stores provide the quintessential opportunity to recycle, renew, and reuse.
5. Finally, thrift stores give people a chance to share with those less fortunate. There's no question that many middle-class Americans have too much stuff. Look at the cover of almost any magazine marketed to women and you will probably see a story headline reading “Ten Tips to Cut the Clutter” or something similar. If you look inside, you'll find that the magazine article does not suggest that you get rid of things. No, it will tell you how to store the things you have, so that you can get more stuff you probably don't need. Knowing that a college student or a recently relocated family can make good use of your excess and be grateful for it is a satisfying motivation to pare down.

Some people don't like thrift stores because they don't want to buy things that are “used.” I prefer to think of these items as “broken in.” Let's face it – everything you own is used. Does it really matter who used it first? I like having items in my home that have some history – and it doesn't have to be my history.

I have heard some people express doubts about the quality of secondhand items. How do you know that toaster will work? Maybe that backpack will just fall apart. Maybe. But isn't that true of things wherever you get them? Many thrift stores have a return policy, but I almost never take them up on it. In my experience, thrift store items tend to be higher quality than you might find at discount stores. When clothes have been worn and washed, you can more accurately judge their quality. When a seam rips open the third time the shirt is washed, or an appliance goes out-of-order, people don't give them to the thrift store. They throw them away. Yesterday I bought an old blender. (I don't know how old it is, but the color is Harvest Gold, to give you some idea of its age.) It works well, and I think it might keep working well longer than a new blender I would buy. I've learned to believe the old saying, “They just don't make things like they used to.”

I have occasionally been known to say, “I'm pretty sure that even if I had plenty of money, I would still live frugally. But I wouldn't mind having a chance to find out for sure.”

I may never get that chance. But the more I think about it, the more confident I am that thrift stores will always be on my shopping list.

¹I have not actually seen this movie, so it's possible that I am making an inappropriate comparison here.

What Will You Be Like?

This is from 2005.
“What will you be like when you grow up, Elisabeth?” I asked my daughter, for no reason, except that she was sitting there, on a kitchen stool, waiting for her breakfast, with the sun coming through the window behind her making her hair gold around the edges, and I was amazed at her, and I wondered out loud what she would become.

“Like you,” she answered immediately.

I was startled by her quick answer, and not sure if I liked it. “Maybe not just like me. Maybe you will be smarter than me; nicer than me,” I suggested.

She shook her head. “No, I want to be just like you. Only with more hair.”

Elisabeth at five

The last part made me smile. I know that it is her five-year-old way of saying that although she wants to be like me, she doesn’t want to have cancer. Of all the changes my disease has left me with, the hair loss is the thing that has been the most visible, the most disturbing to my youngest children. My baldness has become a symbol for the sickness; the whole experience summed up by a tangle of hair left on a pillow and a pile of donated wigs on a shelf of my closet.

Learning that I had an aggressive breast cancer a year ago was surprising, and sad, and unsettling, and worrisome. But, strangely, it was not devastating. I shed some tears, and said many prayers, pleading with the Lord that I would conquer the disease, that I would be allowed to remain on earth and finish raising my young family. But I do not recall a feeling of hopelessness or despair. In fact, I remember the week of my diagnosis with something like fondness. Thinking back, it seems that it was a very sweet time. I felt that I was wrapped up in a blanket of peace, and I came to truly know that the Lord was with me, and that his plan for me was wiser than my own.

Now, I don’t mean to sound perfectly saintly. As a rule, I am not a person who accepts trials with faith and gratitude. I whine, and complain, and doubt. In this case, my prayers progressed gradually from, “Don’t let me die, Father. I can’t die,”  to “If you think it would be best for me to go, to leave my family, then I am willing. But I think I should tell you that’s not what’s best. They need me here,” to finally, “I want to live, Father. But thy will, not mine, be done.”  At that point, I finally felt the peace that comes with accepting His will.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to speak to the Beehive class during a lesson on eternal perspective.  I told them, honestly, that I had been able to see how, in God’s eyes, the cancer was something that could help me, and that in the eternal scheme of things, it was a small moment in my life.

All the next week I wondered – why is it that I can have that kind of perspective about a terrible disease, but not about piles of dishes and whiny children?  Why is it that the small ordinary trials are sometimes more difficult to deal with than the “big ones”?  We believe we could square our shoulders and be brave about crossing the plains, but no one thinks about bravery in the face of gum in the carpet.

Yet bravery – consistent, unyielding courage – is exactly what is required for those kind of everyday difficulties.

When I was a teenager, I read a story about a man who set a world’s record by walking across a large desert. When he reached the end, he was interviewed by a reporter, who asked him what was the most difficult trial he had experienced on the way. The man thought about it and then replied, “I guess it was that the sand kept getting in my shoes.”

I remember being struck that he couldn't come up with any more noteworthy problems than that. How about heat stroke? Dehydration? A thrilling battle with a wild animal? A tarantula bite?

Now that I’m older, I’m beginning to see that the scary problems in life – the tigers we have to fight – are difficult, no doubt. But we have adrenaline to help us with those. Clogged toilets and burned casseroles and dirty floors are the sand in our shoes. We keep dumping it out, but as long as we are on the journey, there will be more sand to get inside our shoes and irritate us. We may be tempted to give up, to sit down in the middle of the barren wasteland and cry. But to endure to the end – to cross the desert – that is what is required of us.

By the time I handed Elisabeth her oatmeal it seemed she had forgotten the conversation. But now I am wondering: Could Elisabeth grow up to be just like me, but with “more hair” – in other words, live a full, character-building life without facing major trials? Maybe, with our limited vision, that is what we  want. A life of sunshiny days looks good to her. And it would be heart-wrenching for me to watch her suffer. But it wouldn't be possible. I am what I am because of the experiences that have shaped my life, and cancer is one of those experiences.


So, what will you be like, Elisabeth? What events, happy or sad, will help make you what you will become?

None of us really knows the answers to those questions. I can't shelter her from life's sometimes unexpected roughness. But what I can give her is an example – a close-up view of a human being who has been kicked and pinched and poked and hurt, but who still gets up in the morning to make breakfast for a little girl with golden edges.

Note: You can find more information about my cancer diagnosis and treatment at the Mormon Women Project website, here: www.mormonwomen.com/2011/04/13/daughter-of-a-king

Taking Time for Teeth

The other day I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and gave my teeth a little lecture. I’ll spare you the details, but the main theme was, “Honestly, you guys are an awful lot of trouble.”

If we didn’t have teeth – if there were no such thing – and someone invented them, and tried to market them to the general population, I expect the company would be out of business very soon.  I just do not believe they would be a big seller.

It’s not that teeth don’t have any benefits. On the whole, I think they are an excellent idea, and they come in useful on many occasions, such as when you have something to bite. No, it’s the maintenance on teeth that would make them hard to sell.

Tooth salesman: “Well, you’re going to need to clean them at least twice a day; better yet, every time you use them. You’ll have to buy these special brushes – you’ll need a new one every couple months or so – and this special cleaning paste.  And there’s a special string – this floss here – that you need to use to scrape between each little tooth.  Oh, and you need to take the teeth themselves into a repair specialist twice a year to be checked out. That’ll cost you. It’s usually only moderately painful, though. Really.”

Prospective customer: “Um, uh.  I’m not so sure . . . you know, this liquid diet isn’t so bad . . .”

For me, and I suspect, for most people, there is no piece of art, no furniture, no vehicle or appliance on earth that has so much appeal that I would buy it if it required that kind of upkeep.

And yet we all have teeth. And, for the most part, we invest that kind of care into them. Why?  Because we have been told, from the time we were preschoolers, that we must spend a few minutes every day taking care of our teeth or they will cause us great pain and we may eventually lose them completely. So we brush, and maybe even floss, and we use fluoride, and we visit the dentist, because we really are rather attached to our teeth.

So I’ve been thinking: maybe that level of maintenance makes sense when it’s for things that we expect to last a good while. In our low-maintenance, disposable-goods world, it is worth remembering that there are a few things that are designed to hold up for the long haul. One of those is teeth. Another is marriage.

A few minutes of relaxed conversation, a kiss, and some words of love are the marriage equivalent of tooth brushing. Is it asking too much for us to make a habit of it a couple of times a day? When a problem seems stuck in our relationships, are we willing to floss it out before it does painful damage? A sincere apology is better than a toothpick for getting rid of decay-causing gunk. How about getting out for a checkup occasionally? Even pretty serious damage can be repaired, if you are willing to do what it takes. If it’s worth it for your pearly whites, isn’t it worth it for your most important relationship?


I once saw a sign in a dentist’s office that said, “Ignore your teeth and they’ll go away.”  Change the word ‘teeth’ to ‘spouse’, and it would still be true. Marriages that are neglected get rotten and stinky.

So, here’s some advice from someone who has done her share of apologizing, but wishes she’d started flossing earlier: take care of your teeth, take care of your marriage. That may be the real secret to a healthy smile.

The Club

This is from fall 2004.

Like most clubs, this group meets regularly, in the same place, on the same day every week. Our meeting room is attractive, with comfortable seating, and refreshments are served. Although membership is limited to a small segment of the population, the club is growing. Some members of the group drive a long way to be here. Sometimes the room is full and some of us have to wait to get a seat.

But none of us really wanted to join this club.

This is my “Chemo Club,” as I have come to think of it – the group of people who come to the cancer clinic to receive their chemotherapy treatments on the same day that I do. In a small room lined with leather recliners we sit together while chemicals drip from an IV pole into our arms or our chests, filling our bodies with poisons intended to kill our cancer before our cancer kills us. Depending on the type of chemotherapy we are receiving, this can take several hours, or even all day, so we have plenty of time to get to know each other. While we talk, the nurse comes in and out, checking on us, hanging a new bag of medication on our pole when one bag is empty, asking if we want a blanket, or something from the snack tray.

Occasionally a new face appears in the group. We get acquainted with new club members like convicts greeting the new prisoner, comparing crimes and sentences:

“So, what are you in for?”

“Breast, stage three.You?”

“Lung. Stage four.”

“Ooh. How long have you been in chemotherapy?”

“Three months. I’ll be in for a year.”

Some of us have been given a life sentence – those with fourth stage cancers, metastasized beyond their original sites and now considered incurable, have been told they will need this  treatment indefinitely.

I have never liked hospitals and doctors' offices. I never wanted to be around “sick people”. But the emotional atmosphere of the Chemo Club has been a surprise to me. The room is filled with greetings, jokes and laughter, stories and sympathy. I have been touched to see loving spouses who come every week to support their partners, or grown children who stay to help a ailing parent. People swap stories about their side effects and offer advice to others similarly afflicted. There is a general feeling of goodwill and comradery. When a patient’s last IV bag is empty, the nurse removes the line and the patient stands to go.  As the patients leave, they pause at the door and say, “Goodbye, and good luck to you all this week.”

Most of the people in my life are much like me – mothers with young children, middle-class, college educated. My Chemo Club meetings present me with a more diverse group. There is a elderly farmer in suspenders, a middle-aged woman who works in a factory, a high-school student with testicular cancer.

One woman, with stage four ovarian cancer, tells me that she has full custody of her two young grandchildren. The chemotherapy is making her very sick and uncomfortable, but she has to fight, she says, for them. They need their grandmother.

Sometimes one of the group doesn't come, and we worry. We don’t ask the doctor or his nurses for information; we know they can’t tell us. Almost always, the person returns the next week, feeling fine, having taken a week off to travel, or because of illness. But sometimes, one of the group is missing, and another has sad news to report. She has seen the obituary of our absent club member. He won’t be coming back.

Being diagnosed and treated for cancer has made me aware of something I should have known all along: I am going to die someday. We are all – everyone on earth, not just the members of the Chemo Club – terminally ill, and the disease is being alive. Every day on earth is another day of an extended trip, the length of which we can guess at but don’t really know.

And that is what the members of the Chemo Club have in common, despite our diverse backgrounds. We have all faced the reality that we might not live as long as we had hoped. We have all realized that there is magic in each additional day. We are all willing to accept pain, and inconvenience, and nausea, to prolong our lives – but not because we are afraid of dying. I don’t believe that’s why we come.We come every week because now, more than ever, we enjoy life, and we want more of it.

I did not want to join the Chemo Club. I was hoping my application would not be approved. But like many other experiences I didn't want to have, this one has enriched my life. And when my term of membership is up, I expect to have mixed feelings about it being over. At my last meeting, I think I will hand out treats, and hugs, and maybe shed a tear or two. And then I will stand in the doorway, pause, and say, “Goodbye, and good luck to you all this week.”

Happy Birthday, Relief Society!

On March 17, 1842, the Relief Society – a women's organization that is an auxiliary of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints – was officially created. Because I am a woman and a member of the LDS church, I am privileged to be a part of it.

Several years ago I was assigned to prepare a presentation on the history and value of the Relief Society. As part of this presentation I wrote the following essay:

          Tonight we address two questions: what does the Lord think of you as a woman, and what does he want for you in your life?

          For most of the history of the world, women, individually and as a group, have been poorly thought of, badly treated, and severely limited in their freedom. For thousands of years, it was illegal for women to own property. A woman could not get an education, was not allowed to study the scriptures or be taught the gospel. A woman frequently had little or no choice about whom she married, and once she was married, had no rights or freedom. It was legal for a man to beat or otherwise abuse his wife – she had no right to stop him. A man could divorce his wife for reasons ranging from unchastity to burning a meal, but a woman could almost never divorce her husband. Although she was expected to do the work of taking care of children, she did not have the right to decide how her children would be raised and taught.

          In ancient Jewish society, public life excluded women, often forcing them to cover their heads and faces in the presence of men. A rabbi could not speak to a women in public. Woman had no legal, financial or civil voice. Some Jewish men repeated daily the infamous prayer: “Praised be God that he has not created me to be a woman.”

          This kind of treatment seems incredible to us, but for the lawmakers and other men of the past it was the only way to treat women. In fact, they believed that women didn't have the ability to make the kind of decisions more freedom would require. The well-respected philosopher Aristotle taught that the male by nature is superior and the female inferior, and believed that the female state is one of deformity.

          Another famous philosopher, Socrates, said that being born a woman is a punishment from God, since a woman is not fully a person, but is halfway between a man and an animal.

          When Augustine, a religious thinker and teacher, came to power he wondered how a man could possibly love his wife, knowing what she is and what she represents. He thoughtfully concluded that he should love her as a Christian is commanded to love his enemies.

          In summary, it is fair to say that a low view of women was common, even predominant, during ancient times. With this type of thinking being held by all men, there was little hope for any change for the better in women’s lives.

          Then came Jesus Christ.

         Christ completely deviated from society in the way he treated women. For the first time, women saw a man who would teach them, heal them, respect them. Christ treated women with respect regardless of their station. He taught the woman at the well, insisted on fair, even merciful treatment of the woman caught in sin, and healed a woman who, having an issue of blood, was considered unclean and therefore untouchable. He showed the world a different way to think and act.

          Even after the Savior’s death, Christian men, following His example, had greater respect for women, and women did enjoy more rights, more freedom, more spiritual growth for a time. But as the truth and the priesthood left the earth, so did man’s true vision of woman. Women were again mistreated and unable to share their talents. The only work available to them was menial or even immoral.

           With the passing of time, there was some small improvement -- in many cultures the blatant abuse of women became less acceptable. But at the beginning of the 1800s, for the most part, things were not a whole lot better. Women were still denied access to higher education. Their career choices were extremely limited. They had no voice in government – they could not vote or hold public office. 

          Then came Joseph Smith, the restoration of the gospel, and the birth of the Relief Society.

          In March 1842, when the Prophet Joseph Smith established the Relief Society, he said to the women:

“You will receive instructions through the order of the Priesthood which God has established, through the medium of those appointed to . . . direct the affairs of the Church in this last dispensation; and I now turn the key in your behalf in the name of the Lord, and this Society shall rejoice, and knowledge and intelligence shall flow down from this time henceforth.” 1

The Prophet told them that the organization would be “a charitable Society, and according to your natures,” and then he added, “If you live up to your privileges, the angels cannot be restrained from being your associates” 2

Over one hundred years later, in 1945, President George Albert Smith said to the women of the Relief Society:

“You are . . . more blessed than any other women in all the world. You were the first women to have the franchise; the first women to have a voice in the work of a church. It was God that gave it to you and it came as a result of revelation to a Prophet of the Lord. Since that time, think what benefits the women of this world have enjoyed. Not only you belonging to the Church have enjoyed the blessing of equality, but when the Prophet Joseph Smith turned the key for the emancipation of womankind, it was turned for all the world, and from generation to generation the number of women who can enjoy the blessings of religious liberty and civil liberty has been increasing.” 3

          Could this be true?  Could it be that the Relief Society – that key turned for the emancipation of womankind – has really made the difference in the lives of women around the world since then? A look at history suggests that it certainly is so.

          Remember, the Lord, through Joseph Smith, established Relief Society and thereby pronounced the blessings of liberty on women in 1842. Seven years later, in 1849, Elizabeth Blackwell graduated from medical school, becoming the first woman in the U.S. with a medical degree. A few years after that, the first woman graduated from dental school. In 1870, the Mormons settlers in Utah gave women voting rights – the first state to do so. Other states soon followed.

          In 1869 the first woman lawyer was granted admission to practice law. In 1873 the first woman to be admitted to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology earned her bachelors degree, and became the first female professional chemist in the U.S. In 1887 Susanna Salter became the first woman elected mayor.

          Remember, all these firsts occurred within less than fifty years of the day Joseph Smith ‘turned the key’ to open the door for the freedom of women.

          I found a detailed list on the internet documenting the achievements of women throughout history. There were hundreds of landmarks of women’s progress on the list, and virtually all of them happened after 1942. A few examples: The first woman to be elected to the U.S. House of Representatives.  The first woman to serve as governor. The first woman Senator. The first woman member of a presidential cabinet. The first American woman to serve as a director of a major corporation. The first woman to own a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. The first female Supreme Court justice.

          Can you see the huge upward turn in freedom and opportunity for women? Can you doubt that this is more than coincidence?

          Some of you remember the "woman's movement" of the 1970s. It was in many ways a controversial issue, and I have heard people say that “women's lib” was that work of the adversary; an idea that Satan started as part of his plan to destroy families.

          I have a different theory. I believe that it was Satan’s work that persuaded men to oppress women for so many years. Fearing the influence and power a righteous woman can have, Satan did his best to make sure that that influence would not go far. This was his work for thousands of years.

          The evidence shows that it was God who started the women’s movement on that day in 1842 when He consecrated women’s work through the birth of the Relief Society. Satan, knowing the wonders that educated, knowledgeable, joyful women could do, did his best to stop it, but the key had been turned. There was no going back.

          So Satan took a different tactic. You will notice that one of his favorite tricks is to take a good thing and mix in some evil. I believe that this is what happened to the women’s movement. While God said, “You are equal to men, but you have different gifts and different roles,” Satan said, “In order to be equal to men, you must be just like men.” Where God says, “You are free to choose whom you will marry, and how you will love and nurture you children,” Satan says, “You are free. If you marry and have children, you will be a slave.” This was a two-pronged attack: on the one hand, the evil one persuaded many women to reject their divine roles and become more like men. On the other hand, he made many good women see the progress of women – the so called "woman’s movement" as an evil thing, instead of a wonderful God-given blessing. This confused some woman and led them to limit their own growth.

          We started out tonight with two questions. The first was "What does the Lord think of you as a woman?" I hope now we can see the answer more clearly. Heavenly Father loves His daughters as much as his sons. He knows we have marvelous potential on the earth and unlimited potential in the life to come.

          The second question was “What does the Lord want for you in your life?” It is my testimony that He wants the very best for you. He wants you to enjoy and excel in all your roles. While recognizing that you can do many things well, he pleads with you to remember which of your responsibilities are most important. He wants joy, growth, and freedom for you – and He wants those things for men, as well.

Our dear President Hinckley said, “Stand a little taller and work a little harder and value a little greater the marvelous blessing which you have as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” and I would add, as a member of the Relief Society.

          Can we do this, sisters?  Go we go forward in so great a cause?  I believe that we can. As members of the Relief Society, the organization that has blessed the lives of millions of women, whether they know it or not, our potential is enormous.

          Tonight you have come to a birthday party. We have food and decorations and cake to celebrate the birthday of the Relief Society. You did not purchase and wrap a gift to bring. But I am suggesting that you can still give the Relief Society a birthday present. On that wonderful March day in 1842, Joseph Smith prophesied, “If you live up to your privileges, the angels cannot be restrained from being your associates.” That is the gift you can give the Relief Society. After all it has given you – all the learning, all the comfort, all the service, all the opportunities, and all the privileges – you can commit tonight that you will more fully live up to those privileges. What a marvelous birthday present that would be, if we would all make that commitment.

          I am grateful to be a woman. I am grateful to be a member of this church. Tonight, I am certainly grateful to be a member of the Relief Society. I am grateful to live in a time and place that gives me liberty and opportunities. I am grateful for the many choices I have had the freedom to make: to get an education, to choose a career, to choose a husband, to choose to have, rear, and love my children.

          I know this church is true. It has blessed the lives of millions. It has blessed everyone in this room. I pray that we will never forget that, and that we will stand as women of God, women who, at all times and in all places live up to their God-given privileges.

1 (History of the Church, 4:607).

2 (History of the Church, 4:605). 

3 (Relief Society Magazine, Dec. 1945, p. 717, emphasis mine)

Note to Self

During the past few days, I have spent some time looking over my blog, and I have realized two things:

1. My posting frequency has been spotty,  at best;
2. My posts have been for the most part very light. Airy, flighty, frivolous -- just a lot of fluff.

It's not that I have anything against fluff. I think we all need a little levity in our lives to help us get through the day. But coming to the realization that Swan Mom is the blog equivalent of  "Gilligan's Island" has been somewhat unsettling. And even Gilligan and the Skipper offered up a new episode every week. Plus, they had a really catchy theme song.

I do have a serious side, and there are many things I feel deeply about: my faith, my health, my country and our planet, for example. From now on I will be writing more posts that include my feelings and experiences in these weightier matters.

So, sit right back and you'll hear a tale . . .

Can It Really Be?

Is it possible that winter is finally ending?

I don't want to get my hopes up, because I've lived in this cold northern valley long enough to know that as soon as I put the coats and boots and sweaters and heavy blankets away and reach for the short-sleeved t-shirts, the weather fairies will turn on me and dump more snow in my yard. But still, it has to end sometime. Right? Right?

I do love the beauties of spring. Not everyone at my house shares my opinion, though:

Approaching Spring

She said, "Soon there'll be no snow,

The icy winds will cease to blow.

And mountain streams resume their flow

To fill our ditches here below.

Then flowers will begin to grow,

And trees their scented blossoms show,

As the bright sun warms us with its glow.

And oh, the places I will go,

And oh, what happiness I'll know!

He said, "Snow will soon be gone,

And then, I'll have to mow the lawn."