Joy Comes In The Morning

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14SlOX87ItxdHS1CwtNpvoPi6ny5GRoRJ0zVM1rhyi5CjF5Wym-dgGOHzXHa8JHRt8UskkuoJvD9tpuVo8faZ8WLNPloyacdIMqVJ-bRwUj94sbXRDDjs6u5HI0iCcNtXCwd7UQ3gEfI/s1600-h/scan0127.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404485611929518738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14SlOX87ItxdHS1CwtNpvoPi6ny5GRoRJ0zVM1rhyi5CjF5Wym-dgGOHzXHa8JHRt8UskkuoJvD9tpuVo8faZ8WLNPloyacdIMqVJ-bRwUj94sbXRDDjs6u5HI0iCcNtXCwd7UQ3gEfI/s400/scan0127.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 309px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />I woke up this morning after having a wonderful dream. I dreamed about my parents, Susie Mae and Arthur Lee. Although Susie and Arthur are my grandparents, they are the ones that raised me. I'm usually referring to Susie and Arthur when I'm talking about my parents. Susie and Arthur have both passed away and I miss them, especially during this time of year.<br /><br />I don't dream of them very often so when I do it's always bitter sweet. I often wonder if I'm doing things that are pleasing to them and that bring honor to our family name. Most of time I feel that I am, especially at this time in my life, however, memories although funny now are somewhat painful. It wasn't very often that both parents were disappointed in me. Nevertheless there were occasions that I know that both parents were, even though they were never able to express their disappointment. One occasion was shortly after my father passed away, and my mother had just gotten out of the hospital, after suffering a debilitating stroke 6 months earlier.<br /><div><br />I'm sure that these feeling aren't unique to me alone. I do know that I will see them again, at that time in my life, I'm hopeful that the reunion of our family will overshadow my moment of stupidity. If in this life we could have do overs, I would use one of my several to re-do Arthur's and Susie's funerals.<br /><br />Arthur's funeral came during a difficult time in my life. The Bishop of my parents ward at that time stopped by our home with the Missionaries. I had flown in from Utah, and arrived at my parents home shortly after the Bishop and Missionaries. A few months prior to my dad's funeral there had been a family feud, and I wasn't and hadn't spoken to most of my family. Many of them didn't know that I had moved to Utah and they most certainly didn't know that I was expecting my first child. <br /></div><br /><div><br />All were excited to see me and willing to let bygones be bygones. I on the other hand refused to let things go. As my family members approached me with their hand extended toward my stomach I would quickly divert their hands away from my basketball shaped stomach. I would not allow the usual playful belly rub, touch, and nobody was talking to the baby that was still leasing space in my stomach. I didn't want anyone that I didn't like at the time (which was probably 90% of the people in the house at that time) to say or do anything pertaining to me and my unborn child.<br /><br />Most people would have stopped right there, not me. I had to express right there in front of the Bishop, Missionaries and my Mom, my dislike for whom ever I didn't like at that time. Talk about putting family business in the streets, it was out there. It was horrible! My mind was telling my mouth to stop, shut-up! Not only was my mouth not listening to my mind it went into cruise control! I couldn't stop, if eye contact was made, and we were at odds, it was on! There...business out there. My mom kept pleading with me to stop, and I really wanted to, I just couldn't. My mouth kept going.<br /><br />Our Bishop and family friend was mortified! There was a look of fear on his face that I will never forget. Not fear for himself, fear for me, and how he was going to explain to my husband how and why I was beat to death. He tried to say something, I believe I told him that the only thing he could do was start blessing folks with his consecrated oil and if he wasn't going to do that then he needed to save his words. My mouth still wouldn't stop moving. I'm sure he wondered who I was and where Sista Beehive went, I wish I knew the answer to that unasked question myself.<br /><br />"Where is Sista Beehive? I don't know, I don't know. Where is Sista Beehive? I don't know,"!<br />Mouth kept moving...The Missionaries, just kept staring at me. They didn't even know me. I know they thought I had lost my mind and I had lost it! I know that I should have cared but I didn't. By the time my mouth stopped, there were only five people in the room. Your guess is correct. One Bishop, two Missionaries, one Mother, and me. There wasn't even a trace of the Holy Ghost, shameful, just shameful! We all sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity!...Finally the Bishop said, "Well, it sounds to me like this home could use a prayer". Needless to say, not one family member spoke to me during the rest of my stay in Fresno (which was a whole two days), except my Mom. I'd love a do over please!<br /><br />At Susie's funeral I was a totally different person (she passed away 4 years later). I was more helpful and I wasn't pregnant. (I would like to blame the outburst at Arthur's funeral on my impending situation... I said I'd like to say that, but I know better than that. I was bitter about more then a few things). At Susie's funeral, my guilt comes from not dressing her, which I'm sure she would have forgiven me. All I needed to do was take care of other responsibilities, her hair and make-up. Susie was always put together! She always looked sharp! If she didn't do her hair no one ever knew it 'cause always she had the finest wigs. She wouldn't go anywhere without having her nails and hair did. I couldn't even bring myself to do her hair and/or makeup. The person who did do my mom's hair and makeup (a family member), fixed Susie up the way she saw Susie through her eyes. Pink lip-stick, bright red finger nails, an red-auburn wig, shoulder length, and way too much makeup. I know that I'm in trouble the next time I see Susie!<br /><br />The woman who fixed Susie's hair is Pentecostal (not that being Pentecostal is a bad thing), and they don't really do flashy. They don't really wear makeup, and if makeup is warn you can't tell it just by looking at them. I'm sure that to my Pentecostal family members we (everyone not Pentecostal) wear way too much makeup and probably do look over made. Anyway, I'd really like a do over for that one!! <br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I probably still wouldn't do it, but I would hire someone who could do an amazing job! I would also get her a different wig, one that's more brown than red, and a little shorter. Yes, I'd like a do over for 600, Alex.<br /><br /><span style="color: #ff6600; font-style: italic;">Side note: Place in my will: Do not let a Pentecostal woman/man do my hair/makeup when I die. Unless they have already been pre~approved or they are currently (at the time) back sliding.</span><br /></div><br /><div>I don't want ya'll to think it's all about guilt and do overs. I do laugh when I think of those moments. I'm sure that's the gift that was left to me, because only God knows the sorrow I felt having lost them. Now instead of crying when I think of losing them, I can't help but laugh, I'm grateful for having their influence of love and laughter in my life. I'm happy that I have better relationships with those family members that I embarrassed, and that today we are able to laugh about my "uncontrollable mouth".<br /></div><br /><div><br />I know that there are several people who have anxiety when it comes to participating in family events especially during this time of year. Hopefully as you read my story and the story of some of our brothas and sistas comments you will be able to create a buffer for yourself and your immediate family. One of Susie's favorite songs was "Joy Comes In The Morning"! I do look forward to the morning that my family will be reunited! May joy and love for family help you usher in this holiday season. <br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Brothas and Sistas, tell us what you'd like a do over in and why?<br /><br />Sista Beehive<br /><br /></div>

Joy Comes In The Morning

I woke up this morning after having a wonderful dream. I dreamed about my parents, Susie Mae and Arthur Lee. Although Susie and Arthur are m...

Read more »

Never Raise Your Hand In Primary

<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuDXoN5XzBoyQANKrDzSCZlZGZEsOPMeti3toFEd78eFOQbnn5FaS0L8dXqwexlunA2PXzh_XHOQEUmUCBCkSFfuQSTS7Mz-caoqN5_ONubwOCD5PO0EJgSXqkGcdZRr_YAZPbEVt66dJ/s1600-h/53144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuDXoN5XzBoyQANKrDzSCZlZGZEsOPMeti3toFEd78eFOQbnn5FaS0L8dXqwexlunA2PXzh_XHOQEUmUCBCkSFfuQSTS7Mz-caoqN5_ONubwOCD5PO0EJgSXqkGcdZRr_YAZPbEVt66dJ/s320/53144.jpg" vr="true" /></a>I remember the first talk I ever gave. I was 5 years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. I even remember what the talk was about, I told a wonderful story about a boy named Timmy, and a butterfly. Do you want to know why I remember it so well, because it was traumatizing of course! Picture it...a family decides to move to America, a 5 year old girl and her Father travel months ahead of the rest of the family, to secure a place for the family to live.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>After sometime in my new <a href="http://mormon.org/mormonorg/eng/basic-beliefs/glossary/glossary-definition/ward">Ward</a> I summoned up enough courage to raise my hand when they asked for volunteers to give a talk the following week in <a href="http://mormon.org/mormonorg/eng/basic-beliefs/glossary/glossary-definition/primary">Primary</a>. I was so excited to show my Father the slip of paper which said that I had to prepare a 2 minute talk. My Father was so proud, we went home and called the family to tell them the good news. My Mother was so happy, but so sad she would miss it. My father rushed me off the phone because he wanted to start preparing my talk immediately.<br /><br />He got out a blue spiral bound notebook and began to ask me what I wanted to speak about so he could write it down. My parents are converts and were never in Primary so I explained to my Dad that I had seen many talks now, and all he had to do was come into the Primary room next Sunday, kneel next to me at the pulpit, whisper the talk into my ear one line at a time, and then I would repeat it into the microphone. Nonsense! He said. I have never seen someone whisper a talk in someone’s ear. It happens all the time in Primary I assured him. He didn’t believe me. He asked me what the other children talk about. I told him that they usually told a story, that there was a magazine that had nice stories in it, and their parent’s whispered it in their ears and the children repeated them. He still didn’t believe me about the whispering in the ear part, but he consented that having a story that portrayed the message you were talking about was a good idea. He didn’t know what the magazine was and we didn’t have any children’s church books, so together we made up a story about a boy named Timmy and a butterfly. Hours later we had finally completed the talk and I was tired and ready for bed.<br /><br />The next day when I got home from school, after I had finished my homework I headed outside to play. Where do you think you are going my Dad said. To play I said. No, no, he said, you have to practice your talk. Practice! The talk wasn’t until Sunday, today was Monday, what was he talking about. Now I had lost the whisper the talk in my ear battle, but I had been reading for years, what was there to practice. I would just take the paper up there and read the talk. Read the talk he said, no that’s not how they do it you have to memorize it, at conference they don’t look down at the pulpit, they have their talks memorized. I was flabbergasted. This man who had never been to Primary a day in his life, was comparing my two minute talk to a conference talk.(Which by the way, they use teleprompters! Didn’t know that then, so couldn’t make that argument). I began to cry, I looked through the tears in my eyes, he wasn’t moved at all. This is where not having my Mother on the otherside of the world would have come in handy. I took the blue spiral notebook from his hand and walked into the living room and slumped into a chair and began to memorize my talk. Did I mention that this was just a simple Primary talk? What about that I was only 5, did I mention that? This was my life for the rest of the week. My Father would listen and correct me if I skipped a word. I began to despise Timmy and that stupid butterfly. <br /><br />At last Sunday came. My Father picked a hideous outfit for me, as he had been doing for the past few months, I was lucky if I eneded up with the same color shoes on my feet. My hair looked a hot mess. One fat braid sticking straight up from the middle of my head, another sticking directly out at the side of my head. I’m sure people thought I was homeless. When it was time to give my talk in Primary, I got to come up front and sit in the chairs behind the pulpit. I could see my Father sitting proudly at the back of the room. I was the second talk. As I watched the boy before me get up there and watched his mother lovingly whisper the words in his ear, I started to get mad. Why didn’t he listen? What was so wrong with whispering? Wasn’t he always telling me not yell and to whisper? Why couldn’t he do it? Why couldn’t I just read it? I really missed my Mother. When I got up to the pulpit I began my talk, I said it exactly like we had rehearsed it all week, I put the voice inflections right where Dad told me they should go, I stopped where there were periods and paused where there were commas, didn’t mess up once. When I had finsihed my talk my Dad looked up at me so pleased, and instead of going back to my seat I walked directly to him put my head on his shoulder and began to sob.<br /><br />He quickly picked me up and took me into the hall, and handed me his kercheif. He knelt down beside me and quietly asked me what was wrong. OH! Now he wanted to kneel beside me and whisper! I told him I wished he would have just done it the way everyone else had done it and whispered it to me, but you can read he tried to reason with me. I could have pretended I didn’t know how, I told him. I’m sorry he told me, I didn’t know what it was like, I never went to Primary, maybe next time…..NEXT TIME, was he insane, there would be no next time, that two minute talk had cost me playing outside for an entire week. I would be sitting on my hands from now on in primary when they asked for volunteers for anything, I would be looking confused like I didn’t speak English.<br /><br />As Primary ended people started leaving the room, my teachers and friends and other parents stopped in the hall to tell me how well I had done on my talk and how impressed they were. It made me feel a little better, you know how your parents say the same thing and you don’t want to hear it, but coming from a stranger it makes you smile. I dried my tears, and Dad and I headed home to call my Mother so I could recite my talk to her and beg her to come to America and comb my hair!<br /><br />Have a traumatizing talk story to share? Do you have that kid that is always volunteering for talks in Primary? Practice all week with your kid for a talk, then they get up there and stare at you and say nothing?<br /><br />Your Sista In the Gospel,<br />Sista Laurel<br /><br /><a href="http://www.myfreecopyright.com/registered_mcn/BT8QW_3GY41_YKT8E" title="MyFreeCopyright.com Registered & Protected"><img alt="MyFreeCopyright.com Registered & Protected" border="0" height="38" src="http://storage.myfreecopyright.com/mfc_protected.png" title="MyFreeCopyright.com Registered & Protected" width="145" /></a>

Never Raise Your Hand In Primary

I remember the first talk I ever gave. I was 5 years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. I even remember what the talk was about, I to...

Read more »