From me

Children can bring you joy.
They can also break your heart.
Probably you knew that already.

There Is Light in 2015

I'm not sure how to write this. Someone who reads it will think it ridiculous. I can't help that.

It's about the line of nine lanterns along the outer wall of the garage at the front of the house. Between the wall and along the concrete walkway that leads to the front door is a two-foot space. When we first built the house, we had flowers there against that wall. I had zinnias and marigolds and columbine that climbed high on the wall. I liked the color and the evidence the flowers gave that I actually cared about flowers and about the outside of my house. This lasted about three years.

The neighbor across the street had a cat. The cat would come over, dig in the dirt and use my flower area as a toilet. The digging was bad enough, but the smell was awful. I wasn't happy. I sprayed stuff that was supposed to deter animals, and I poured Clorox around the area. Nothing worked. So I gave up on having flowers. Wayne covered the ground with plastic and gravel and installed the lanterns.

It was a good thing, although after the neighbor moved and took the cat with them, I wanted to tear out the lanterns and plant something alive again. But I didn't do it. I got so I counted on the lanterns to come on every night--as the timer bid them to do--and go off in the morning. It was automatic, a nice line of small lights every night. Wayne set the timer. If a light occasionally burned out, I replaced it with the tiny bulbs I bought at Home Depot.

When Wayne died, my first thoughts were not of the lanterns. But I did still count on their light.

I figured out how to set the timer--I'm not helpless. But this summer something happened. I don't know what. The lights stopped coming on. I fiddled with the timer, thought I had it fixed, but no. A time or two the lanterns would come on as they should, but not always. A few times they came on in the morning and went off at night. Not hard to fix, you would think. But over a period of several weeks, nothing seemed to work automatically. I would manually turn the lights on in the evening and off next morning. Sometimes I didn't want to bother with it. So the place was just dark. And I was very frustrated.

Then one night a few weeks ago the lights came on at around 7 o'clock. They went off again at 7 the next morning. A fluke, I thought. I hadn't turned them on or off, and I hadn't touched the timer in more than a week, so I figured it was some little happy accident. Next night at 7, the lights came on, off in the morning. Hmmm. Well, it can't last. But it has. Those lanterns come on every night at 7 and go off every morning at 7. I still check every night, just to make sure, and because I enjoy what seems to me a small miracle. Maybe even a tiny miracle.

And that's the part someone will find ridiculous, but I say, "Think what you want." For my part, I believe Wayne stopped by and fixed the thing. For me he did that. I can get rational and say it couldn't be, not possible, and I certainly don't know how such a thing could happen, but still, I believe it. They were his lights, and I was pretty unhappy that I couldn't make them work. So he fixed them. Why not?

And what will I say if they stop working? I don't know. I'll deal with that if it happens.  In the meantime, I'll tell those Rake-up Boise folks who are coming in two weeks, bless them, not to touch my lanterns.

Humbled Today

We take too much for granted.

I speak for myself. I take too much for granted without pausing to give thanks.

I hereby offer humble thanks for my life, my parents, my health, my family, my home, my church, my Savior, where I live, my country, my heritage, all blessings that are mine that I have never really had to think about because they have been mine.

I give thanks.

And so on

A long time silent here.

That does not mean anything except that I haven't written.

As to my widowly feelings. It's still the pits being a widow. I don't recommend it.

I still love my husband, miss him, would like to see him up there at his sink, shaving, or just lounging in the family room, his chair tipped back, a nice little fire going.

And so on. It's not news.

Our son, Richard Joseph

Joseph for Joseph Fielding Smith.

Today is Richard's birthday. He's 42 today. Oh my goodness.

Richard: good heart, very good heart; bright mind and sharp intellect; artistic and clever; a keeper of the law; a natural teacher; a funny guy; a good father, who loves his children and has high hopes for them; faithful to what he knows and believes; and a good husband.

The memory is a wonderful thing. Just sitting here I can see Richard--hugging the knitted puppy I made for him; skateboarding, with a shock of orange hair; acting in Picnic; crying when his dog got hit by the school bus; practicing the guitar; being a perpetual idealist, no matter what. And so much more.

Richard loves his dad, and I'm sure he misses him. Wherever he is, Richard, he is please with your life and your goodness.

Me, too.