Surrounded by greatness

I was reading in my journal today about an incredible man, Floyd Johnson. You probably haven't even heard of him. Neither had I, until he became our bishop at Wymount Terrace when your mother and I were students at BYU.

It was interesting being in that ward. Many of its members were athletes at the Y during that time. They wanted to be in Floyd's ward. Now I know why. It turns out he was BYU's equipment coach for many years. He continues to be one of my heroes, because when I was with him, I felt like I was his favorite.

And now I know that he made everyone feel that way. Great men always do.

So this week I want to share with you a remarkable essay.

What would you look at if you had just three days of sight? Helen Keller, blind and deaf from infancy, gives her answer.

As you read it, notice the bounty that you have been given because of who you are and recognize the wealth of blessings at your fingertips.

Like the heroes that surround and edify us, this gift is made possible because of a loving Heavenly Father and his Son Jesus Christ.

It would be tragic to overlook the abundance of good examples all around us for failure to simply look to see those who have been ordained to bless us. These people are just waiting to be discovered, valued, and appreciated--like their stories--that reflect the Light of Christ and the answer to your hopes and dreams.

And joy you don't now even realize is possible will become your life.

It is his promise to you and me. I am already seeing this covenant fulfilled.

Everyone of us on his team is assured this outcome...every one. 

Step into His Light

EMILY

Some time ago, Emily was given the assignment to write an autobiography of sorts for one of her classes at school. The teacher for this course of study insisted on a project that revolves around her personal history for the threads that form the tapestry of her own life. 

Emily's research was significant and involved discussions and interviews with family members, investigative reporting, letter writing, gathering photos, and so on. It included a series of personal writings and explorations which she completed and presented in a creative format. 

She compiled all of this into a special book, something unique and creative, rather than the usual stapled pack of papers. When she finished, I thought this collection was too good to let fall back into the files of remedial school assignments and fade out of memory, so I posted it.

Her personal tapestry follows:

PERSONAL TAPESTRY

tap es try (tap ǝ strѐ), noun: a heavy woven fabric made up of multiple, many-colored threads, which, in combination with one another, portray an overall design or picture.

My personal tapestry began long ago in a location far removed from my current residence. I was born on Fidalgo Island in Anacortes, WA. I am the last of six children born to my mother and father. I don’t remember a lot about Anacortes. We moved from there just two years after my birth. I have of course been back to Anacortes a couple times and we have many friends from that area though our stay there was relatively short. That has also been true for my life. Though my interaction with my friends has been fleeting and brief, each one has made an impact on who I am and the values I hold dear. Some brushes with comrades have simply impressed me to choose one way or another similar to the highlight of a filament or fiber among the pattern of my life, while other friends and family members have influenced my core decisions and are like deeply woven threads in my personal tapestry that make me who I am today. My personal searching for the threads that form the tapestry of my life have grounded my perspective and given me encouragement that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to. Searching involved discussions and interviews with family members, research, letter writing, gathering photos, and so on. It includes a series of personal writings and explorations which I present in a creative format below. My personal tapestry contains the following:

My autobiographical incident helped me begin to understand what has made me the way I am. This is a most important thread in my tapestry, as well as longest. But it is not finished yet. My personal tapestry is a work in progress and changes regularly as a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a friend.

I have always loved to go down to Castle Valley and visit my grandparents…

My explanation of how my family came to America and where they are from originally follows. My grandparents were involved in the westward migration, and their story is included below. As in all families, there are cultural or ethnic traditions, folklore, and superstitions that are part of the family heritage. These are included as well. Enjoy what I learned as I interviewed family members to discover this valuable information.

EMIGRATION TO UTAH   paternal great, great grandfather

I will now give a brief account of our experiences while emigrating in the year 1860 compared to now.

My parents, wishing to be well prepared with good clothing and bedding when they arrived at their destination, had enough new clothing and bedding made to fill two large boxes which my Father had made extra strong. These boxes were about the size of a large trunk. These they packed solid with good clothing and bedding besides what we could carry in our hands.

They were just beginning to build the first railroad ever known in Switzerland and I remember well that instead of nice cushioned seats and backs like they have now, they were flat, thick plank seats without any backs to them. They surely did get hard and tiresome in the long run. Other than this we got along fairly well until we came to what they called the North Sea. There we were hurried down a step ladder into a tightly enclosed box ship covered on the bottom with straw. The stench that met us, coming up out of the hole where we had to go down, was enough to turn anyone sick. The ship did not much more than get started when a severe storm came and sailors had to put a lid over the hole tightened with some kind of pitch. This closed out all the fresh air and the ship seemed as though going over waves like high hills. The people soon got awfully sick to their stomachs and there was no light in the ship all night. That was a terrible night for all the company never to be forgotten, but in the morning when the sea had calmed and we could get out into the fresh air and the beautiful sunshine it seemed to me almost like a resurrection from the dead.

While going across England to Liverpool it was quite interesting to see herds of cattle and sheep and quite large herds of swine now and then.

Our company was told to buy some cooking kettles and coffee cans to use on the ship. This we did, after which we were all hurried down into the sailing ship. After the ship started the people got their food, such as potatoes, beans, and peas, apportioned to them raw. In the ship there was a kitchen with a large stove and negro cooks, to whom they could bring the cooking kettles with the raw food to cook. I remember one time when the father got his kettle on the stove and came back to be with us, when he thought the food had plenty of time to be well cooked he found that his kettle had been taken off the stove without being cooked at all. Afterwards he thought it better to stay and see that it would not be set to one side as there seemed to be far too many passengers for the room on the cooking stove when they would like to get their food cooked.

We never had bread to eat, but some awfully hard “tack” that we could not eat without soaking in hot coffee for a long while first. I remember well one time when we were all very hungry after father had gone nearly all the forenoon trying to get our food cooked. At last he came back with it uncooked. He said that the kitchen was so crowded with people all the time that the negroes got mad and drove the people out with sticks of wood. So we had to go hungry lots of the time during the two months and three days (if I remember right) it took to cross the ocean as the winds were against us a good part of the time and drove the ship backwards, sometimes for a few days. It seemed like there was no end to being on the water. We sure felt to rejoice when we got to see land again.

______________________

THE HANDCART JOURNEY

As father was not able to talk or understand a bit of English (traveling partly by land and partly on rivers), we could not always get what we needed so we were hungry again a good part of the time. At last we arrived at a place called Florence form where we were to start on our journey across the plains. There we learned that we had to cross the plains with the Martin Handcart Company* in 1860. So, instead of better times ahead of us, our hardships increased as my parents had three small children to haul in the handcart. There was no room for much else except a very little clothing and bedding and, as there were no team and wagon outfits except to haul about half enough provisions for the large handcart company. We were told that they could not take those large boxes that my parents had filled with their good clothing and bedding. They could not be put in the small handcart with three little children in it, so father went to see if he could find someone who could speak German as he wished to find someone that could interpret for him and then try to sell those boxes filled with good clothing for a little something. He could not find anyone to interpret and we had to leave them there without getting a cent for them. Later on, we needed the contents of the boxes in the worst way for when we got to Salt Lake City, we were almost without clothing and bedding. If we could have brought them with us we would have been well supplied with clothing and bedding for a few years.

There were only four wagons with oxen to pull them to haul provisions for about fifty families (if I remember right.) Soon after we started, we were told we could only have half rations, that is, just half as much as is considered what an average person needs to live on. So, we had to do our traveling on just half enough to eat. My dear mother had a little baby to nurse and, only having half enough to eat and having to pull the handcart all day long, day after day, she soon got so weak and worn out that she could not help father anymore. Nor was she able to keep up with the company till evening without pulling on the handcart. Sometimes, when we camped she was so far behind the company we could not see anything of her for quite a while so that I was afraid she might not be able to get to the camp. Father let mother have a bigger part of the half ration. This shortage of food, together with having the three children with everything else we had in the handcart, made it too heavy for him to pull alone. In this hungry and also nearly worn out condition, I have never forgotten how when I, a nine-year-old boy, would be so tired that I would wish I could sit down for just a few minutes (how much good it would do to me), but instead of that my dear, nearly worn out father would ask me if I could not push a little more on the handcart.

I will never forget how hungry I was all the time. One of the teamsters, seeing two buffaloes near the oxen, shot one of them and the meat was divided among the whole handcart company. My parents also got a small piece which my father put in the back end of the handcart. That was in the forepart of the week. He said that we would save it for our dinner next Sunday. I was so very hungry all the time and the meat smelled so good to me while pushing at the handcart and, having a little pocketknife, I could not resist, but had to cut off a piece or two each half day. Although I was afraid of getting a severe whipping after cutting a little the first few times, I could not resist taking a little each half day. I would chew it so long it got perfectly tasteless. When Father went to get the meat on Sunday noon, he asked me if I had been cutting off some of the meat. I said, “Yes,” and that I was so hungry that I could not let it alone. Then, instead of giving me the severe scolding and whipping, he did not say a word but started to wipe the tears from his eyes. As we had so little to eat, I wondered why they did not shoot more buffaloes when there were herds of many thousands traveling the opposite direction from which were traveling. I afterwards learned that it was awfully dangerous to shoot into a big herd as they were easily stampeded and, when stampeded, they would run over emigrants or anything in their way.

MY GIVEN NAME
I am just beginning to understand and appreciate the explanation of the meaning and history of my name, as well as the significance of my name in the family (named for grandparents, relatives, etc.) These feelings are frankly hard to describe, but I feel a connection when I learn more about why my parents felt passionate about my name. Catherine Hopewell (Granny’s paternal grandmother), Emily Towell Will Bagley South Pass: Gateway to a Continent, Emily (industrious, hardworking)

Poems that reflect who I am:

a.      THE WIND BENEATH MY WINGS

It must have been cold there in my shadow,

To never have sunlight on your face.

You were content to let me shine, that's your way,

You always walked a step behind.

So I was the one with all the glory,

While you were the one with all the strength.

A beautiful face without a name -- for so long,

A beautiful smile to hide the pain.

CHORUS:

Did you ever know that you're my hero,

And ev'rything I would like to be?

I can fly higher than an eagle,

'Cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

It might have appeared to go unnoticed,

But I've got it all here in my heart.

I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it,

I would be nothing without you.

Fly, fly, fly away,

You let me fly so high.

Oh, fly, fly,

So high against the sky, so high I almost touch the sky.

Thank you, thank you, thank God for you,

The wind beneath my wings.

b.     MY HEAVENLY FATHER LOVES ME

Whenever I hear the song of a bird

Or look at the blue, blue sky,

Whenever I feel the rain on my face

Or the wind as it rushes by,

Whenever I touch a velvet rose

Or walk by our lilac tree,

I'm glad that I live in this beautiful world

Heav'nly Father created for me.

He gave me my eyes that I might see

The color of butterfly wings.

He gave me my ears that I might hear

The magical sound of things.

He gave me my life, my mind, my heart:

I thank him rev'rently

For all his creations, of which I'm a part.

Yes, I know Heav'nly Father loves me.

c.      BUILDER OR WRECKER

As I watched them tear a building down

A gang of men in a busy town

With a ho-heave-ho, and a lusty yell

They swung a beam and the side wall fell

I asked the foreman, "Are these men skilled,

And the men you'd hire if you wanted to build?"

He gave a laugh and said, "No, indeed,

Just common labor is all I need."

"I can easily wreck in a day or two,

What builders have taken years to do."

And I thought to myself, as I went my way

Which of these roles have I tried to play?

Am I a builder who works with care,

Measuring life by rule and square?

Am I shaping my work to a well-made plan

Patiently doing the best I can?

Or am I a wrecker who walks to town

Content with the labor of tearing down?

"O Lord let my life and my labors be

That which will build for eternity!"

d.     THE TOUCH OF THE MASTERS HAND

Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

thought it scarcely worth his while
to waste much time on the old violin,

but held it up with a smile;
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,

"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then two!"
"Only two? Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars twice; going for three..."
But no, from the room, far back, a gray-haired man
came forward and picked up the bow
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin, and tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet as a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer, with a voice that was quiet and low,

said; "What am I bid for the old violin?" And he held it up with the bow.

A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two? Two thousand! And who'll make

it three? Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice, and going and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We do not quite understand
what changed its worth." Swift came the reply: The touch of a master's hand.

And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin,
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine; a game - and he travels on.
He is going once, and going twice, He's going and almost gone.
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd never can quite understand
the worth of a soul and the change that's wrought by the touch of the Master's hand.

Where I live and play…