SiZ (Test): Mother

Have I done any Good In His/Her World Today?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wWR-ek8A5sVBq9tmkgoYge6NWBcuTStAzqNSDS7rin-dBDdvP6yoNdkoCNhi5CeEV-zwvG8LMo0OvDBd0EQjT4QR_R6dRHPjD_eZ7OpGVDzjqob1O79M06rnfyFx5N36tAqWc2kHZgY/s1600/black-children-endangered-species.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wWR-ek8A5sVBq9tmkgoYge6NWBcuTStAzqNSDS7rin-dBDdvP6yoNdkoCNhi5CeEV-zwvG8LMo0OvDBd0EQjT4QR_R6dRHPjD_eZ7OpGVDzjqob1O79M06rnfyFx5N36tAqWc2kHZgY/s400/black-children-endangered-species.jpg" width="282" /></a>What did I do to help shape his/her world today? This is a question mothers and mother-figures often ask themselves. The discussion of motherhood seems to arouse strong emotions in us. We all come to the discussion with our own personal experience, yet one thing that we can all agree on is the relationship (or lack thereof) between a mother and a child is a vital part of helping to shape us. And how we see ourselves in the world. The relationship with our mother often establishes a pattern of future relationships.Which is why many of us will sit in church today silently battling the internal conflict of the “Good” mother. As Sista LaKeysha (a safe name for us because there isn’t a LaKeysha in our wards...currently) stands up today and shares how wonderful her mother was. You’ve heard it before: “I’m so grateful for my wonderful mother and the example she was to me growing up. Everyday when my 12 brothers and sisters and I came home from school, my mother had fresh baked cookies for us with a cup of freshly squeezed milk from our family cow Daisy. She got her Ph.D. from BYU in Early Childhood Education with a minor in Psychology, just so she could be of aide to her children when we needed her. I don’t know what I would have done without the love and support of my wonderful mother…" C'mon Sistas, sit up a little higher in those seats. Please stop beating yourselves up because you weren’t like Sista LaKeysha’s mother. The person we make our mothers out to be in our adult minds are often very different from the mother we had as young children, and that person is different from the mother we had in our pre-teen and teen years. The point is, we should no more beat ourselves up over Sista LaKeysha’s experience than we should over Sista Becky’s. Whose story we may have heard as well: “Hello, I’m Becky and I honestly don’t know why the Bishop asked me to speak today. Ummm, and I really don’t know why he asked me to speak right after Sista LaKeysha, because our lives couldn’t have been more different. Ummm, I really struggle with Mother's Day. I didn’t have the best mom growing up. My mother was emotionally and physically abusive. She had some addictions and we often went without because of her issues. She often left my two brothers and I in adverse situations that were beyond our control. If it weren’t for the mercy of strangers our lives may have turned out completely different. My number one goal was to be completely different then she was, and I am…!" Okay, that was a bit dramatic. However, just as you shouldn’t celebrate not being like Sista Becky’s mother, you shouldn’t beat yourself up for not being like Sista LaKeysha’s mother. As we start down the rocky path of motherhood most of us have no idea what is going to be asked of us in the process of parenting another one of God’s children. Even when we start that journey with the best of intentions, the entire process holds countless surprises. Some women can’t wait to be mothers and then realize too late they probably should have waited. Some women wait then realize they could have started earlier (we don’t know that person, but one of you might). The reality is being a mother offers up multiple opportunities for helping or hindering our children toward adulthood. As mothers we have many truths (not really, but we believe them to be true). When children behave inappropriately (in public), it’s the mother’s fault. When children are well behaved, it’s because they were brought up “right”. Because of the widespread tendency within our culture to blame the mother, it's common for those of us who have braved the rapid waves of mothering to live with haunting questions about what we did or did not do in shaping our children's lives. "Mother's guilt" is a common ailment, especially among LDS Women. Whether you have mild, infrequent discomfort or full anxiety attacks, very few women (even those who don’t have children) escape “Mother's guilt.” The truth is, motherhood (womanhood) is difficult. For some, the demands of both are met with ease; for others, the demands are simply too much. We are the bridge between generations. It is wise for us to try to remember and be merciful towards those who have and still stumble as they continue trying to establish a foundation on motherhood. Also, we should celebrate with our sistas who seemingly have it figured out as they soar beyond the limitations we may have set for ourselves. Today it is wise to remember the women who have influenced our lives with some justice (Lest we deceive ourselves, setting standards that would make even Mary the mother of Jesus feel inadequate), but mostly mercy. Because we are all simply doing the best we can with what we've been given. As our MoDea (Mormon Madea) says “When you know better, you do better.” Here is to wishing us all better days ahead. Happy Mothers Day, Sista Beehive and Sista Laurel

Have I done any Good In His/Her World Today?

What did I do to help shape his/her world today? This is a question mothers and mother-figures often ask themselves. The discussion of mothe...

Proverbs or Proverb?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7l2cGpfaQbG2xI3tGxTS3Pzz6CBs0ZxWO0SO-Rr44gH4JK0z7RZhDVS3S2PtGupO0xIKJUm3dy7O0bQtwpP7twKAZn6wP5mniQxynadltAig5NFuP_DOxW293uMWHcR5MfiNiQGDym-M/s1600/2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467881006888481026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7l2cGpfaQbG2xI3tGxTS3Pzz6CBs0ZxWO0SO-Rr44gH4JK0z7RZhDVS3S2PtGupO0xIKJUm3dy7O0bQtwpP7twKAZn6wP5mniQxynadltAig5NFuP_DOxW293uMWHcR5MfiNiQGDym-M/s320/2.jpg" style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" /></a>I come from one of those families where scripture is used to scare you straight. I used to wonder how parents ever expected kids to like reading the scriptures if they were always associated with punishment. I mean, no wonder my siblings and I didn't want to wake up for early morning scripture study. Go stand in the corner, Go sit in the corner, Go kneel in the corner, Go to your room (ok, so I was a bit of a trouble maker, but that's not the point) and take your scriptures with you. *Side note: I don't know how I ended up loving to read, but it's one of my favorite things to do, even though I had to do it when I was in trouble at home. Even at school I had to read the dictionary for punishment...hmmm well I guess that explains my excellent vocabulary. Anyway, there was one verse in the Bible that I couldn't stand when I was younger. I had never read it, but I had heard it quoted by numerous parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, neighbors, teachers, and random old ladies watching me make mischief. It's one of the scariest scriptures known to children-kind, yes, that's the one. If I've heard it once, I've heard it a thousand times: "the Bible says; spare the rod, spoil the child." To me it seemed like every adult I knew, had this scripture memorized. I naturally assumed that while we children were being told to memorize the Articles of Faith in Primary, grown-ups we're being told to memorize "Spare the rod, spoil the child," in adult Sunday school. Even my school Principal had a big paddle nailed above his door. The Principal loved mallard ducks, he had wooden ducks on his desk and one Christmas my mother found fabric with mallards on it and she made him hand towels out of it. Well, even that giant wooden paddle above his door had a mallard duck in flight on it. I never wanted to be sent to his office, because I figured that a paddle with a duck on it meant he liked paddling kids just as much as he liked ducks, and if that were the case...well, you get the picture. After hearing this scripture for the thousandth time, I decided to do a little research. The first thing I did was search high and low for the scripture, and after searching every Bible nook and cranny, I couldn't find it anywhere! I did however find this: Proverbs 10:13 In the lips of him that hath understanding wisdom is found: but a rod is for the back of him that is void of understanding. Proverbs 13:24 He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes. Proverbs 19:18 Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying. Proverbs 22:15 Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. Proverbs 23:13 Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Proverbs 23:14 Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell. Proverbs 26:3 A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool’s back. Proverbs 29:15 The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame. Yikes! I had a million questions. Who was this Mr. Proverbs? What had I ever done to him? Why doesn't he like children and what could I do about getting his advice removed from the Holy Bible? It took some time, but I finally I found out that the book of Proverbs was actually written by King Solomon. Well you must know how I felt about dear old King Solomon. Turns out that King Solomon was well known for his wisdom, and while I had to admit that with 700 wives and 300 concubines he probably did know a thing or two about raising children, I still wasn't happy about his scary scripture verses. Then another thing happened, I learned the definition of the word proverb (probably while I was in a corner at school reading the dictionary). A proverb is a short, popular, wise or profound saying. So get this, around the year 1662 a man by the name of Samuel Butler had a poem published that had some lines in it that went a little something like this: Love is a Boy, by Poets styl'd, Then Spare the Rod, and spill the Child. Also written as: Love is a Boy, by Poets styl'd, Then Spare the Rod, and spoil the Child. Apparently spill in this context means spoil. Well, well, well, didn’t I feel smug and what did you think I did with my new found knowledge the next time some grown-up said “Spare the rod and spoil the child” to me…. that’s right brothas and sistas…. I did absolutely nothing! Why, you ask? Well, do I look crazy to you? I just sat in the corner with my Bible thinking, ain’t that a shame, grown folks don’t even know the difference between a proverb and the book of Proverbs…. um, um, um…so sad, think they quotin Bible, but they quotin Butler! Hallelujah Holla Back, Sista Laurel <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>

Proverbs or Proverb?

I come from one of those families where scripture is used to scare you straight. I used to wonder how parents ever expected kids to like rea...

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> 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. 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. <div> 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. 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. </div> <div> 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. 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. 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. "Where is Sista Beehive? I don't know, I don't know. Where is Sista Beehive? I don't know,"! 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! 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! 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!! </div> <div></div> <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. 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. </div> <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". </div> <div> 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. </div> <div></div> <div>Brothas and Sistas, tell us what you'd like a do over in and why? Sista Beehive </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...

Will A Man Rob God?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzXbuejQH6jC5JGPIbBKEXQ1vGbwrrgV_DtIKp1B_zz_uE6x7G6y3EwQMkzZNi4dXDAtc3WfBKBEyQwt55wfGY8ddbe2UUmWIZm_I0aEs5xRoHbeSUQEDf1rAdF_iss3oCyBheRaczis/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399562849325222658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzXbuejQH6jC5JGPIbBKEXQ1vGbwrrgV_DtIKp1B_zz_uE6x7G6y3EwQMkzZNi4dXDAtc3WfBKBEyQwt55wfGY8ddbe2UUmWIZm_I0aEs5xRoHbeSUQEDf1rAdF_iss3oCyBheRaczis/s320/1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 212px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a> Malachi 3:8 Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings. Will a man rob God? I heard this every Sunday for the first 12 years of my life. I always knew when it was time to dig deep and produce what ever change my mother put in my squishy red plastic wallet, as the deacons passed the offering tray around. I also knew to only put a few coins at a time so that each time the tray came down the aisle I would have something to give. I always felt terrible when I had nothing to give. Shortly after joining the LDS church my parents decided they would return to our family church (Pentecostal). Although they felt they should return to the pentecostal church, they allowed me to continue to attend the LDS church. Every Sunday my parents would drop me off at the ward building, and they always made sure I had a few dollars for the offering tray - a couple of times I even got twenty dollars! YEP... I said they gave me money for the offering tray. Remember I was only 12, so I did what most 12 year olds would have done, I pocketed the money. What? I never asked for money for the offering tray, my mother assumed that the LDS church collected offerings and tithing like some of the other churches did. My parents always told me never to assume anything! "When you assume" they'd say. "you make an "a&&" out of "u" and me. I guess that doesn't apply in a situation like this? In the LDS church, tithing is more of an honor code thing, those who are going to pay it will and those who aren't won't. Nobody is beaten over the head with how much we give or needed to raise for the day. Unlike the church I had grown up in, where if not enough was collected, we kept passing around the tray until the desired amount was reached. At the LDS church, there was no preacher that was going to get up every Sunday and ask the thought provoking question "Will a Man Rob God"? So I justified my actions by conducting my Sunday transactions like a military officer. "Don't ask, don't tell". My parents never asked if I paid offerings. My Bishop never asked me if I would "rob God" so I continued to justify my actions. It was easy and I was rich, until that "Great and Dreadful Day". Zephaniah 1:14-18 The Great Day Of The Lord: 14: The great day of the Lord is near, it is near, and hasteth greatly, even the voice of the day of the Lord: the mighty man shall cry there bitterly. 15: That day is a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, 16: A day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers. 17: And I will bring distress upon men, that they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned against the Lord: and their blood shall be poured out as dust, and their flesh as the dung. The day started off like any other day. School was great, the walk home was typical. As I approached my house I was excited to see that the missionaries had stopped by. When I walked in the house the energy in our home seemed a little weird. Everyone looked like they were going to cry. I thought that Elder Young (name change) our fav missionary was getting transfered. Elder Young was fun, knew his scriptures and was cute. He was fun to be around because he joked a lot. "What's up, Young"? He didn't really look at me, he just glanced, and shrugged his shoulders. Not the usual response, he didn't even smile, and there were no jokes. When I turned to address his companion Elder Green, I noticed that it wasn't Elder Green at all, it was the Bishop. Hey Bishop! I was excited to see the Bishop, he hadn't ever been to my house before. "Hello", the Bishop seemed happy to see me too. Everyone looked so serious, I didn't really know what to say so like a dummy I asked "what are you doing here?" I don't know why I asked that question, but I wish I hadn't. "Your mom called me this morning, she wanted to know why I hadn't cashed any of her tithing checks. (Note to self and all others listening, always give the Bishop the tithing checks!). Personal thoughts: Can a 12 year old have a heart attack? Can Jesus take me now?! Do I have the power to will myself to die or faint? Can I make my head explode? What do I have to do to make my head pop off my neck, right now? How come I don't have a super power?? Dang! Dang! Dang!!! My mom's voice was cold like steal, and flat, "have you been stealing the Lord's money"? She asked without blinking an eye. Stealing from the Lord? She made me sound like a cold hard criminal. I didn't say that, although I did think it. I just had the blank stare in my eyes that my mother hated, and the more I tried to focus, the dumber I looked. I couldn't speak, the room was quiet and seemed to be closing in on me. Everyone just kept looking at me waiting for a response. The tears came, and the confession followed. Now, I don't know how the punishments went down at ya'lls house, but at my parents home the calm, cold voice was the worst. There was no yelling, there were no time outs (actually where I come from time outs were for athletes), there was no whippings (although that would have been so much easier for me) My mom looked at the Bishop and wanted to know when I would be confessing my sins before the Lord and the church. The Bishops response was at first slight laughter then realizing that my mother was serious he told her that we didn't do that in our church. I was happy that the LDS church was different. He did explain to her that I did need to repent and he wanted to meet with me on Sunday. For most parents, the Bishops response would have been satisfying enough. Not for my mama, she had something else in mind for me. When I looked over at my father he just gave me that poor pitiful child look, and looked away. He didn't say anything to me. He didn't have to, I knew he was disappointed. Knowing that I had disappointed my father broke my heart. For the first time in a long time I couldn't wait to be banished to my room. One more little glance at my Dad and Elder Young and I knew I was for sure going to HELL! I only wish it would have been before Sunday which was two whole days away. My mother woke me up early Sunday morning. I got dressed for church, we got in the car, and my dad drove to my uncle's church, my uncle's pentecostal church! I reminded my mom that I had a meeting with the Bishop at my church. "Not before you confess your sins before the saints at "our" church". Yes, brothas and sistas, I had to confess before my God, my uncle, and all the saint's of Greater Victory Church of God and Christ, that indeed "a man would and had robbed God". As I confessed my sin to the members of the congregation, they looked at me in shock, my cousins laughed, but some of the older members shouted out a few , "Oh bless her Lawds", "Watch her Jesus", I even heard someone say "Keep her Jesus, keep her Lord"! The comment that stood out the most to me was from ** Mother Harris (God rest her soul) "if you will steal from God, you will steal from me" then she clutched her purse like I was going to snatch it and run... Really? You see how people act sometimes? I used to go to Mother Harris' house all the time to help her clean, and she never paid me anything (not that it was an issue at the time). I'd never stolen anything from Mother Harris and I wasn't about to start. Anyway, after confessing my sins to all the Saint's at Greater Victory Church, talking to the Bishop was a cake walk. I learned my lesson! No, there's no need for any of you to clutch your purses or check for your wallets when I'm around. I do think that we (LDS) should ask more often "Will A Man Rob God"? What? Don't act like ya'll have never kept a little spare change. It's time to confess your embarrassing sins that you can laugh about now. Who called you out and how did you respond? **Mother of the Church~ The Elderly sister in the church. Sometimes even the pastors wife, or pastors widow. She is highly respected and usually sets the tone where behavior, dress, and standards are a concern. Church Mother usually helps decide what is socially acceptable for the women of the church. As a sign of respect this person is referred to as Mother. Sista Beehive <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>

Will A Man Rob God?

Malachi 3:8 Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings. Will a man rob God...

Saturday's War

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUaePQKyKaLIGwGVgiH8qL8UBWzx8qgZr_nDiJI1BwfUpk_TQpIh4XUtKzgzIy2Z61-wXQ9jJOX8tlhyphenhyphenM1Wb5jYAJbU7M1JJDXR81sPl3OIUP3JCoDnI_DAgH8511eghPWXal21Wfb4s/s1600-h/3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397358167513566338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUaePQKyKaLIGwGVgiH8qL8UBWzx8qgZr_nDiJI1BwfUpk_TQpIh4XUtKzgzIy2Z61-wXQ9jJOX8tlhyphenhyphenM1Wb5jYAJbU7M1JJDXR81sPl3OIUP3JCoDnI_DAgH8511eghPWXal21Wfb4s/s200/3.jpg" style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: hand" /></a> Saturday is a special day, it's the day we get ready for Sunday.... For years we've all been striving (or should have been striving) to use our Saturdays to prepare for Sunday. I must admit that I haven't always felt eager to prepare for anything except Christmas and maybe a few birthdays... maybe. However, as I've taken on this particular challenge I find it extremely difficult to remain patient. My boys have a way of sneaking odd objects into our home without me finding out until it's time for me to do the laundry. In the boys room, I found a home made shank... I would like to think it's a B.O.M. weapon, and that my son was thinking like a "strippling warrior", however, I know it's just a product of our watching too much "Gangland" on the History Channel (T.M.I.). Anyways, I've become my mother... No Saturday morning cartoons until your room is cleaned, and you have what you're wearing to church out on your bed. With all the moaning and groaning I find it difficult not to take it to the next level of insanity. "What are you complaining for when I was your age we didn't have TiVo. When I missed a show I had to wait for a rerun!!" Don't get me started with the many memories of how things used to be... Remember when kids were afraid to talk back? Wow, I just had to save myself, I almost gave a shout out to "the good old days" which would have officially made me and my mother the same person. I'm not really there yet. I don't know if the suggestion to use Saturday to prepare for Sunday was to encourage family togetherness, or just really to be prepared for Sunday. I don't know if the Brothern realize that families all across the world are at war on Saturdays and on most Sundays some mothers shouldn't even look at the Sacrament tray lest they should catch fire and turn into ashes. I don't know how many more Saturdays I can keep my cool without having a "Drop Kick Me Jesus" moment! Brothas and sistas, the warring has got to stop, I'm in need of a treaty - any suggestions? Help keep a sista outta jail... Sista Beehive <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>

Saturday's War

Saturday is a special day, it's the day we get ready for Sunday.... For years we've all been striving (or should have been striving...

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;"> </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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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! 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? Your Sista In the Gospel, Sista Laurel <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...

NO! Cherrios In the Chapel

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6y-PKZqQMkr46zD_uXwr6yGcObJUpODvzTwQPOgs3x2aJ2cbwD3EBk-WyNbbYtlfJ5UuMectF3c-SfIyN3EKjgsLER9Jo_Ed5ruqn7B-AjSE9AcWZE47D57-t9yr68YD9mID0rijuCQ/s1600-h/cheerios.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397354535714684882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6y-PKZqQMkr46zD_uXwr6yGcObJUpODvzTwQPOgs3x2aJ2cbwD3EBk-WyNbbYtlfJ5UuMectF3c-SfIyN3EKjgsLER9Jo_Ed5ruqn7B-AjSE9AcWZE47D57-t9yr68YD9mID0rijuCQ/s200/cheerios.jpg" style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" /></a> I always wished I were in one of those families who brought Cherrios to church. Nope, that is not my testimony. We couldn’t do anything at church, but put our hands in our laps and look straight ahead. Once some friendly unsuspecting woman, had one of her kids offer us a snack. We each took one and popped it in our mouths. When my Mother looked down that pew and saw our mouths moving the look on her face alone made me start to sweat. You see my parents rarely said, “You’re gonna get it when you get home.” They had the “This is the place” mentality. If you can act up here then this is the place you get punished. After Sacrament meeting she herded us into the women’s restroom (yes, even my brother). Now Brothas and Sistas, I’m not going to write the details of what happened to us in the restroom that Sunday, but let’s just say we felt everything, but the Spirit. After that when ever someone tried to hand us a treat we looked at them like they were handing us a piece of leprosy and said, NO THANK YOU! (In our heads we were saying, “Get that away from me, I’m trying to be reverent, are you crazy! Do you not know who my Mother is?) I don’t know a thing about bring snacks to church in Tupperware, and by Tupperware do you mean those plastic cups my Mother kept in the cupboard that she said were too expensive for us to drink out of. Once in<a href="http://mormon.org/mormonorg/eng/basic-beliefs/glossary/glossary-definition/primary"> Primary</a> they told us bringing “quiet books” to church was a good way to be reverent in Sacrament meeting. Well, Brothas and Sistas, they lied, cause when I tried to walk out of the house with that “quiet book”, my Mama got real loud! Oh, and don’t even think about asking to go to the bathroom during Sacrament meeting, if you didn’t go at home, or before the meeting started, you had better take that up with your bladder. While we watched other children happily coloring in their coloring books, we looked down at the back of the one meeting program that my parents divided into sections so we could all share it to write down thoughts about the talks we were supposed to be listening too. In Sacrament meeting the <a href="http://lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?locale=0&vgnextoid=ae20e975d2a2b010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD">Friend</a>, was no friend of mine. If you thought church magazines were allowed, you thought wrong. Once my brother was reading one, and even though he was sitting on the opposite end of the pew from my Mom, the back of her go go Gadget arm found the back of his head. Do you know why Bishops keep candy in their office, and say have as many as you’d like? I don’t, I don’t even know what the Bishop’s candy tastes like. When we got treats in Primary my parents wouldn’t let us eat them at church, not even after church. We had to take it home and save it. Save it for what you ask? Save it until they said we could eat it, and by then that popcorn ball was so stale, that it tasted like it actually fe1l off the apricot tree. (<a href="http://lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?hideNav=1&locale=0&sourceId=aa60c106dac20110VgnVCM100000176f620a____&vgnextoid=637e1b08f338c010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD">Click here if you don’t get that joke.)</a> Do you want to know who I blame? I blame YOU! My parents got away with acting like the Grinch Who Stole Primary thanks to all the adults who after Sacrament meeting said, "You’re children are always so well-behaved." So excuse me if I didn’t comment on <a href="http://www.sistasinzion.com/2009/10/cheerios-in-chapel.html">yesterday’s post</a>, I was to busy experiencing flash backs and cold sweats. Was it just me, or did you have parents who sucked the fun out of being Mormon? What kind of parent are you? What keeps your kids reverent in Sacrament meeting? What keeps YOU reverent? Sista Larel <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>

NO! Cherrios In the Chapel

I always wished I were in one of those families who brought Cherrios to church. Nope, that is not my testimony. We couldn’t do anything at ...