Sunday, November 22, 2015

Tribute to My Mother

For Carolyn Jensen Wyatt
1934-2015

My mother was strong. She was born in Mink Creek, Idaho, and that right there qualifies a person to be strong, but she was strong even by Mink Creek standards. At age 4, she fell off a railing outside the church and broke her neck. The doctor said it could not be set without paralyzing her. But after a priesthood blessing and a chiropractic adjustment, she was up and running again. At age 5, her dad bought her a horse, a big bay named Chub, and gave her a job, riding Chub to the fields to deliver his lunch, and on the derrick to load the hay in the barn. At age 8, she started her first pay job, babysitting occasionally for a couple with three children and a newborn baby, in their two-room cabin with no plumbing, no hot water, and a coal stove on which she fixed supper for the children. My mother lived through The Great Depression, World War II, and the sudden accidental death of her father when she was only 11 years old. In her teens, she had her wisdom teeth removed and went to her senior prom that night.

In her 20s, my mom drove down the Alcan highway (that’s short for Alaskan-Canadian, if you haven’t heard of it) in a Volkswagen beetle with my dad and two baby boys in the dead of winter without telling anyone they were coming for Christmas--and lived to threaten us never to do something that stupid. With my father, she took us on vacation every year, but never to a hotel; always to camp in the wilderness, from which she returned with a plastic bread sack full of smelly cloth diapers to be washed. She managed the household while Dad traveled the world with his job. She had family night every week, and family prayer every day; this is no small feat.

Mom canned a bushel of apricots while in labor with me, and she rode in Dad’s new Jeep to the top of Mount Logan five days later, with me on her lap. She breastfed her babies when it wasn’t in style because she figured nature could never be improved upon. She was always (literally: always) the last one to bed at night, and the first one up in the morning. She fed us oatmeal, Germade and fried eggs for breakfast because they were healthy, and she never broke down under our complaints. She cared for her mother and her in-laws when each was stricken with dementia. She killed a mountain tarantula in my tent at girls’ camp when everyone else ran screaming. She balanced the budget to the penny, ground wheat for homemade bread, and raised her own fruits and vegetables. She survived for days on end with no sleep while caring for my Dad with Alzheimer’s. When my father died, she posted a note on her fridge: “Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.”

My mom seldom caught a cold. She never had a headache. I thought she would live forever.

At age 74, my mother learned to use Facebook to stay in touch with her grandchildren. At age 75, she wrote this Facebook status: “Cut a fairly large elm tree down today. I cut another one yesterday. They were both about 40 to 50 feet tall. I found out if you cut all the branches in small pieces, you can get a whole tree in one giant green garbage can. It’s interesting what an old lady can do once she puts her mind to it. My new grass, and new tree are doing great. Ya just cut some down, and then plant another. That's life!”

When she was diagnosed with Stage 3 Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma last spring, she never shed a tear. Her faith in God had never failed her before, and it didn’t fail her now. She said she’d been healthy all her life (except for a short but scary stint with hyper-thyroidism on her mission) and she had to expect to have her turn being sick sometime.

When my mom was a child, her father, Harry Jensen, was known throughout Mink Creek Ward for his faith. For example, he defied a doctor’s order to have a badly infected eye removed, saying his ward would fast and pray for him and it would be okay. The doctor said he would go blind if he waited. But Harry Jensen was right; his eye healed completely over the weekend. The ward members said the only way he would die would be in a sudden accident, because then he wouldn’t have time to pray and be healed. And that is exactly how he died: in an instant, when a hay rack fell on him and a nail pierced his temple.

My mother had the same kind of faith.

My mom decided to have the “red devil” chemo at the age of 80 because she wanted to live to enjoy the i-phone Gordie had just given her and to see her last two grandsons go on missions. She said she wouldn’t complain, and she didn’t. I know: I was there every day.

For the first time in her life, people brought her dinner instead of her taking it to them, and we as her children were able to help her instead of her helping us. She loved the visits from ward members and neighborhood children. May I say, the Providence Third Ward is truly outstanding in their care of widows.

One day I got a text message from her: “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Her chemo-brain had forgotten how to make a call on the i-phone, but remembered the new skill of texting. I insisted she come to stay at my house, but she was back home in a week, with part-time in-home care given by my daughter.

Mom was triumphantly declared cancer-free in September. I know the prayers of many of you combined with hers and ours to help her heal with less rounds of chemo than were expected. Her blood test in October was completely normal—“Not just improving,” said Dr. Ben-Jacob in astonishment, “but completely normal,” and she began physical therapy to regain her muscle strength. The only medication she was still taking was a blood thinner, and she even succeeded in her personal goal of making Dr. Ben-Jacob smile. Her faith combined with the miracles of modern medicine had made her whole.

Last Tuesday her grandson Aaron dropped in to visit for a couple of hours.

Wednesday night she played “Taboo” with my younger children and me, all of us laughing our heads off.

Thursday the bishopric stopped by and observed that she would soon be well enough to return to church.

Friday Garth Woolsey delivered a beautiful custom hand-carved cane to her, since she would soon be out of her wheelchair.

Saturday was her best day yet; she felt stronger and very optimistic. Her new DVDs of “The Ten Commandments” and “Ben-Hur” arrived in the mail and she was eagerly waiting to watch them with her granddaughter Savannah on Monday.

Sunday at 4:00 she turned down my offer to bring her to our house for dinner, but accepted my offer to bring her some lasagna later. At 7:15 I arrived to find her peacefully asleep on the couch with the TV on. But as I touched her arm, I realized she was not asleep. She had left this life in exactly the same way that her sister Coralie had left ten years before: her time was up, and her heart just stopped. And as in her dad’s accidental death, there had been no time to pray for healing. The strongest woman I ever knew was gone, and four days later her next great-grandchild would be born. Just like the big old elm tree, God “cut one down and planted another.”

I’ll never be as strong as my mother. I get colds and migraine headaches. I cry when I hurt. I’ve been known to sleep in. I sometimes let perfectly good fruit rot before I get around to preserving it (although I certainly never told my mom). I love the out-of-doors, but if my husband had ever asked me to get in a Jeep five days after delivering a baby, I’d have told him exactly where to take that Jeep. And I’m pretty sure I won’t be chopping down trees when I’m 75. Or any other age.

But if, like her, I can treat everyone as a precious child of God;
if, like her, I can greet each day, each person, and each situation with a smile,
if, like her, I can give without needing to receive;
if, like her, I can survive tragedy with triumph;
if, like her, I can love without limit;
if, like her, I can trust in my Savior Jesus Christ and serve in His church to the end of my life;
then, like her, I can face death with serenity—


and I will have been strong enough. 

--Given at her funeral, November 21, 2015

Sunday, August 9, 2015

How Should Mormons Treat LGBT People?


To the Editor,

I would like to respond to Mr. Geoff P. Vongermeten’s letter posted Sunday, August 9, in which he criticized the LDS Church for donating money to the gay pride homeless shelter food program. He asked them to consider, “What would Jesus do?” I would like to answer with Christ’s own words.

Jesus said, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” (Matthew 22:36)

And who is my neighbor? he was asked. (Luke 10:29) Jesus responded with a parable in which the hero was from the ethnic group that “the chosen people” considered degenerate and half heathen. This Samaritan ministered to a man covered with bloody wounds and body fluids which would make a priest and Levite “unclean” should they help him.

When “the chosen people” accused an adulterous woman before Jesus, he said, “He who is without sin, let him first cast a stone at her.” (John 8:7) Then he worked out her repentance privately and personally.

To a repeat offender of the law of chastity, the woman at the well, Jesus gave the opportunity to accept his Living Water. His disciples were “amazed” (appalled) that he spoke to her (John 4:27), but this woman became a great missionary (John 4:39).

Jesus said those on his right side in the kingdom of heaven would be those who had fed him when he was hungry, ministered to him when he was in prison, and clothed him when he was naked, things which we cannot do since Jesus is never hungry, in prison, or naked, things which we can only do others. “Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matthew 25:40)

If we consider the youth at the Gay Pride homeless shelter to be “unclean,” to be adulterers, to be some of the “least of these” our brethren, Jesus has made it abundantly clear that we should go to them in their “prison”, and we should feed them, clothe them, and offer them the true Living Water of the gospel of Jesus Christ. We should love them as we love ourselves.

On the official LDS Church website,  “Mormons and Gays,” we read this counsel, “We may know individuals with same-sex attraction…These neighbors deserve our love…God loves all his children alike, much more than any of us can comprehend, and expects us to follow.” (www.mormonsandgays.org)

Sincerely,
Nancy Wyatt Jensen
Logan

Stepping Out of The Cage

This spring our sweet gray tabby died of old age. My youngest daughter wailed that we would never have a cat again, and her two older sisters said, "Oh, don't worry; Mom will always have a cat." They are right. Life is just not right without a cat. Besides the mousing value, the therapy value of that incredibly soft fur is inestimable. Except for a few years in rental housing, in my 52 years, I've always had a cat.

So I headed to the Humane Society to find a new friend. I love Siamese cats, so I planned to get one of those, but when I picked up this beautiful little lady, with her one blue eye and one gold eye, I was smitten. She was sweet, she was inquisitive, she melted in my arms.

The Humane Society workers, however, were very wary. They said they needed me to understand that this cat had "extreme anxiety," that she had originally been adopted by another family from another shelter, and had been surrendered to this shelter because she was crazy and wouldn't stop attacking the family. What? She was so sweet! They said, "Yes, that's the way she was at the shelter for the other family as well, but as soon as they got her home, she freaked out. They had her a month and she only got worse. She attacked people and actually caused injury, so they sadly brought her in." After they assured me that I could bring her back and pay a surrender fee if she didn't work out, I decided to take a chance. I was just so taken with that silky fur, and those bright eyes. I named her "Jewel."


Jewel was as sweet as could be. For about 1 hour. And then the devil cat appeared. Anytime someone tried to get near her, she attacked. The claws were out, the teeth were sharp. She ran, she fought, she gave me battle wounds. She'd settle down for a little while, and then suddenly go crazy again. Clearly she was terrified. Throwing a small blanket on her would cover the vicious claws and help me pick her up safely, but I started to wonder if she was beyond hope.

It was curious that she had been so sweet at the shelter. I sat and thought about this. What was the difference between the shelter and our home? The shelter had lots of noise, lots of other animals (we have a small, calm, quiet cocker spaniel who is uninterested in cats), lots of people, lots of smells. And then it hit me: at the shelter she lived in a cage! She felt safe in a cage!

I pulled an old cat carrier from storage and pushed her, yowling and clawing, inside it. She angrily protested for a few minutes, but within an hour she was completely calm and happy. Bingo! She was terrified of too much space! Cats are naturally territorial and if she had been a feral kitten, she may have had some bad experiences treading on another wild cat's space.

My girls and I set out to help her expand her territory and realize that our entire house was safe. We started with her in the cage in the living room. After a while, we let her out, but shut the French doors. She could see us, but she was still in her own room. She explored a little bit, and then started freaking out again, so back into the cage she went to calm down before having another go at it. When she became comfortable with this room, we added another room: the girls' bedroom. She would move around for an hour or two, and then the claws would be back out, and we would return her to her safe cage for a while.

Over a week or two, she increased her territory to include the whole house, but it was almost six weeks before she had any interest in going outside, or even looking out the window! Finally, she couldn't resist the pull of the outdoors, but she stayed right on the back patio for the first day. The next day, she went a couple of feet beyond the patio. It was another week before she ventured beyond the back yard to the canal bank beyond. Occasionally she got scared and had to spend a little time back in the cage.

Now that we've had her for two months, she is totally comfortable. She loves exploring (but not too far beyond the back yard). She's a very intelligent and very sweet cat. She hops up on the bathroom counter and meows for us to turn the tap on so she can get a drink straight from the source. She has a beautiful voice and communicates well her needs. When you pick her up, she gives you a "neck hug" and a butterfly kiss. She even purs! If you pet her so much that it starts to bug her, she never takes out her claws, but with all four soft paws, she firmly pushes your hand away. She's a wonderful pet.

It seems so silly now to think that she preferred such a constricted space as a cage, when there were so many joys to be found in the freedom of roaming the house, in the companionship of the people around her, in the fun of the back yard, in the cool, clear tap water, and in sleeping on a soft blanket on a bed.

But are we not all a little bit like Jewel? Do we not prefer to stay in our comfort zone? Do we not like being with people like ourselves, in familiar situations, doing things we are already good at? Do we not freak out sometimes when the Lord opens the cage and coaxes us into a new church calling, a new visiting teaching district, a mission call, the terror of marriage, the adventure of becoming parents, an unpleasant trial, an opportunity to love someone very unlike ourselves, a new career? Wouldn't we rather be left in our cage?

Now whenever God opens the door and forces me to experience something new, something scary, something uncomfortable, I'm going to remember those first weeks with Jewel, and remind myself that a comfort zone is nothing but a cage that will deny me many amazing adventures and delightful associations, and keep me from experiences and joys I can only now imagine. I'm going to picture Jewel, sitting in the tall grass on the canal bank, spying the ducks, her tail twitching excitedly. I'm going to picture Jewel, chasing after birds and butterflies and bugs, enjoying the thrill of the hunt. I'm going to picture Jewel, purring ferociously on the shoulder of a former scary giant human. And I'm going to dare to embrace the greater freedom outside the cage.


Thursday, January 8, 2015

Faith to Move Mountains

It is easy to have the faith to move a mountain. 
All you need is a shovel and a lot of patience. 
It's mostly patience that we lack.