Happiness Through His Grace

By Mary Stosich
My sister’s name is Estella Rose.We call her Stella which means Star. She has brilliantly shone with example, beauty and a beckoning spirit. To everyone she radiates invitation to partake of her Christ-given love. She, the oldest child of eight, was sixteen years old when I was born and has held my hand ever since. A few days ago doctors discovered that a melanoma in her eye which was treated two years ago with laser, has returned. Prognosis is now pending.

On Monday we met as a great clan at our parents’ graveside. We siblings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and cousins gathered to honor and hold in our memory the lives of those who once breathed every breath for our good and happiness. But I could not think of Mom or Dad. I could only watch my beautiful sister with her unfoiled grace, greet and tenderly minister love to each family member. There she was again our “Star,” still brilliant, still beckoning.

There at the cemetery, there in the middle of silenced mortality with headstones, lilacs and peonies, there with wringing sadness in our hearts, the sweet grace of Jesus Christ was our gift, and the two of us held three babies—the latest grandchildren—on our laps. They were absolutely breathtaking moments when we were able to feel strange happiness during our sorrow.

The power of His grace flows warmly over all the cracks and seeps into the wounds of mortality.
The power of His grace beams brightly through the realizations of love; it pulses with memory, true and sure of hope.
The power of His grace seals love, brings birth, stretches years, and softly leads to Heaven.
The power of His grace owns the future with its strung out questions and frightening speed.

This is my happiness still.

Living With Fullness

By Mary Stosich.

My daughter Lisa is expecting her seventh child. Above the varied comments of her friends and neighbors, ranging from congratulations to condolences, is her joyful acknowledgment of Heaven’s consideration and blessings. Lisa concisely chose motherhood over medical school. Admittedly her life is not exactly what she thought it would be. Surprisingly she lives not with regrets over what she might have missed, but with awe over her circumstances and opportunities.

Living with fullness is the art of loving the life with which we have been blessed, including its restraints and requirements. Living with fullness is a plan that begs us to build upon lasting values instead of pleasure and to live with a thirst to drink in every moment with appreciation. Living with fullness is having the testimony that the same God who created the world, who filled the ark with animals, who parted the sea for Moses, who restored the gospel to the world is the same God who answers our individual prayers and presents the perfect opportunity for growth to each of his children in each of their needs in each of their details.

It is a testimony of appreciation. This appreciation is not limiting, but empowering. It fosters individuality instead of jealousy. It teaches us patience instead of annoyance and mercy instead of unrealistic expectations. Through this basic yet beautiful paradigm we are able to develop an eye for the art of a beautiful, important life.

Nothing Special About Multi-tasking

by Mary Stosich

Multi tasking is the grief of my motherhood. Rarely did I take enough time to enjoy the minute with awareness and appreciation.

One night, our first-grader Danny was in bed crying. He refused to tell me his problem. I coaxed and pleaded. Finally he gave it up:

“Mommy, our teacher asked us to think of a special memory of our mother, and then she will write it down and we can make a card for you.”
“Why are you so upset about that?”
Then Danny replied with this shocking, devastating, horrifying statement, “Well I don’t have any special memories of you!”

Frantically I started naming off some memories, any memory! “What about reading together?”
“No, that’s not special.”
“What about your birthday party?”
“No, that’s not special.”
“What about teaching you to ride a bike?” He was the only kid I knew whose mother could or would run 6 miles along side the bike. Impressed? Never-mind. I was still multi-tasking by exercising while I taught him!
“No, that’s not special. See what I mean? We don’t have any special memories!”
More tears.

I resisted the urge to shake him and say, “Listen here! I love you!” I also resisted the urge to crawl in bed and bawl.
I finally asked, “Well, my special son, what would a special memory be like?” His clincher question that helped me with some perspective:
“Did you ever save my life or anything like that?”
The closest I could come to that was still way beneath his expectations—something about holding his hand after his tonsillectomy. (I might have been reading a book also.)

Well, I didn’t say everyone else had to be aware or appreciative of our experiences, but we need to be. You see, about that same child, I have one of my precious memories. I have it because during one quiet moment of his babyhood, I put it there on purpose. I wasn’t multitasking. I had lost so many other pictures during my motherhood. I couldn’t bear to lose this one too.

I shut out the rest of the world for just a minute and leaned over the side of his crib where he was cuddled with his blue blanket, blissfully asleep. I memorized his soft face, the way his skin looked, the perfect profile of his little forehead, nose and lips. I touched his fat little hands and traced around his fingertips. I listened to his soft breath and stroked his dark curly hair. My tears fell on his blanket.

Twenty-two years later I have that memory because I was aware. I thanked the Lord and asked him to help me never forget it.

Family Dinner

By Mary Stosich

Although I had spent hours preparing the best food I knew how, including rolls, pies and mashed potatoes, I had never met even one of our seven, unusual dinner guests until just a few days ago. This was not the typical dinner party with friends, ward members or business colleagues, but instead, brothers and sisters—fellow citizens of the household of God from Australia.

During his LDS mission in Australia, my husband, Al was instrumental in sharing the gospel message with the Tremacchi family. Thirty-seven years later, Al—formerly known and loved as Elder Stosich, the once twelve-year-old boy who is now a stake president and his sister shared an emotional reunion of spiritual commonality powered by gospel of Jesus Christ.

As for the rest of the Aussie family and myself, we were also conscious of the great events of baptism that opened the gate wide for life-defining conversion and temple covenants. We all shared exquisite, unspeakable joy. Lives that had been otherwise separated by countries, oceans and the spans of time, were instantaneously melded together in rich bonds made possible through the memories of missionary labors and love. The future—even the distant future could hold more of these reunions for each of us!

What price am I willing to pay for other brothers and sisters who are presently missing at the dinner table? Tonight I am just itching for a missionary experience again. Do any of you feel the same way?

It's Startling

by Mary Stosich

He is our oldest son. The one that startled my life as “Mom.” (“Startled” was not a typo.) His startling not only began at birth but continued with fighting siblings, running away from home, arguing with parents, not keeping curfew and being the cause of sleepless nights and not a small amount of anxiety. Life continued with its kind and cruel passing of years. His startling continues still, but sweetly different.

This “little boy” of ours recently moved back into our town with his family. Now there are some startling twists just in that. He is now an oral/facial surgeon (I can’t spell the real title). That’s extremely startling considering the number of times I ever saw him bring home a book in high school. A few years ago I told his adorable wife that when they finished medical school, she and I would both know how it was possible. I give her the credit. And it’s also startling that those two are parents to five sons. So far, five sons.

Our entire family—all twenty-nine of us have just been together for five days. Don’t worry, I will spare you the details except for one. We had just prepared and cleaned up dinner. I was standing in the kitchen, maybe in a sort of daze when this particular son walked over to me.

Now I am not a small woman, but my 5’11” persona shrinks next to my towering boys. I felt his once chubby arms, now masculine and wonderfully overwhelming, wrap around me with a big squeeze. I heard the words. They are words that strengthen, motivate and bridge across the trials of living. “I love you Mom.” Although his expressions of love are not infrequent these days, this timely tenderness was startling mana from heaven. My soul, sweetly fed with precious light, was fully satisfied.

It's a Small Cedar Fort World

Emily Cushing

I made a fun little discovery last night. One of the other authors on our blog is quoted in my book One Heart, Many Voices and I didn’t even know it (and I don’t even know if she knows it!) Let me explain. One Heart, Many Voices is a daily inspirational calendar for the Relief Society sisters of the church. Each day features a different Relief Society sister from around the world. The page gives the sister’s favorite scripture or quote and its importance to her in her life. My good friend Cortney sent me the following submission which I included in the calendar:

December 19
"Help me to remember that my children are a special privilege and not a task. Help me to think of them as fun and laughter and not more responsibilities. And most of all help my heart to be their age so I may understand."
My mother-in-law shared this quote with me one day after I had a bad day. I love it because it reminds me...of what a great responsibility we as mothers have and I hope to always cherish it and never take it for granted.
Cortney, Age 28, Utah, USA

As the mother of four young children, this submission from Cortney really hit home when I read it. Especially the line that reads, “help my heart to be their age so I may understand”. I have tried to remember this advice when my two-year-old spills a bowl full of milk shortly after I have mopped the kitchen floor or when a little person climbs into my bed at night because he or she has had a scary dream. I appreciated this mother-in-law’s advice even though it wasn’t given to me.

Last night I found out that Cortney’s mother-in-law is our very own, Mary Stosich. I also discovered that Mary has written an inspirational book entitled Finding the Diamond Within: 10 Ways Every Woman Can Sparkle. I’m excited to read Mary’s book. If the advice she gave to Cortney is any indication of what can be found in her book, then I know I will truly be inspired.

Improper Feeding of Boys

I guess you could say that I am in Continuing Ed. If I thought that raising my own children was an education, here is an enrichment course: Grandchildren 101. I am probably failing the chapter, “The Proper Feeding of Boys.”
Last night while my husband was out of town, I invited five grandsons (all from one family), ages 7 months to 9 years, to spend the night while their parents went out to dinner and a movie. My How to lose weight when you’re over 50 diet went out the door faster than our dog! Don’t blame me. I just can’t eat responsibly while going crazy.
We started with “Whirly Popped” kettle corn, progressed to Costco’s jumbo bag of teeth-stickin’ taffy-tootsie treats, and settled in with giant Popsicles. Then the boys begged for dinner! No wonder we Grannies develop those round, comfortable tummies!
I am not ruining my grandkids. They’ll brush their teeth and burn 8000 calories jumping from bunk bed to bunk bed. Closer to the truth—they are ruining me!
I think to myself, “You really should eat healthy with the grandkids.” But you know what? I’ve tried that. It’s not as fun. And fun is kind of what it’s all about. No, I am not cutting pineapple into flower shapes. Can I just leave that to the parents?
For breakfast I cheerfully asked, “Who wants a piping-hot bowl of oatmeal?”
Blank stares. No takers.
I pulled out the sugared cold cereal. The boys cheered!
In came my 23-year-old-still-live-at-home-son. He looked at the kitchen counter covered with Marshmallow Mateys and said, “What has happened to you Mom? We never ate that stuff growing up!”
Grandma-ing happened to me.
Now, where’s that diet book?

To Have or Not to Have

By Mary Stosich

When I awoke that morning, I quietly lay in my king-size bed between sheets soft as silk and a fluffed goose-down comforter. I sneakily crept out of bed. Just had to have some time to myself without a taskmaster. At 5:30 AM there’s not much competition for my attention.

I opened the back door. A piece of the moon still hung in the morning sky and a delicate, soft light began to hint at daybreak. Giant pots of flowers—my answer to the impossibility of gardening in clay soil—adorned my patio. I sat amongst them and watched the leaves of the quakies twinkle and shiver in the morning breeze. It was my best effort to bring a bit of nature closer to me before the phone rang, the microwave beeped, the keyboard clickity-clicked and the traffic bunched up at the light before the freeway entrance.

Just a day before, I had been entranced by a documentary about the Baka—a primitive tribe in New Zealand, still independent from the rest of the world. No clock, no pavement, not even an electrical outlet. They worked side by side, raised their babies, hunted and gathered—all in a hidden, luxurious world of jungle. I thought of my contrasting life. I wondered at the costs of “having” and “not having.”

Today my life’s fullness somehow evokes a melancholy strain of important emptiness. So important that most cannot call it emptiness. It is a life empty of wasted effort or callused hands, but still filled with busy things. It is even empty of slow time that brings on thought and gratitude.

I have been trying to make up for a lack of nature’s peace and beauty that has been stripped from my neighborhood of curb and gutter. I hung a beautiful picture on our wall. It is an ocean scene with high, green waves that splash over rock. Palm trees fade into purple jagged, tropical mountains. I want to climb into the picture and enjoy the beauty first hand—like the Baka.

All this allows a flood of memory—my father’s wish for me: “Marry a farmer. The earth helps you to be happy.” That was an unlikely wish to come from an inventor and machinist who worked twelve hours a day in a cinder-block shop, whose view of blue sky and grazing cattle was cropped by a welding hood.

Well, Dad, not everyone can marry a farmer. Not everyone can love and wrestle with a big chunk of earth. But I’ve tried to make some acceptable substitutions. A little grassy plot of dirt where I grow tomatoes. Pink cosmos flying in the summer air and a couple of apple trees. I am the owner of a rototiller, garden tools and yet another convenience that would amaze you Dad, a sprinkling system. It all saves wasted effort and callused hands

Again, I keep trying for that old fashioned goodness. Oatmeal (zapped in the microwave), whole wheat bread (from the bakery), and even family prayer together. It’s a jungle out there and it’s not always safe. Off to face the day—danger and fatigue—all part of life.

Blessed Baka. No radio alarm, but the whooping of wild things calls you from your mat on the hard floor You awaken every morning to sweet jungle air and the sight of vines, leaves as big as your chest and the sound of a river somewhere close. You feel the oozing between your toes and know that today the forest will give you something. You have no closet but wear a sarong that maybe you dyed from roots and painted with stains from tree bark. A hand-woven basket on your head carried everything you need. You and your family share a wild sweet potato, fresh from the earth.

Time doesn’t boss you around. No need to wear a watch and check it often. When you feel to rest you sit down. When you feel to dance you make your music. When you feel hungry you search. But, it’s a jungle out there and it’s not always safe. You face the day—danger and fatigue—all part of life.

Ultrasound. It’s a girl!
“Take these vitamins. See you next month.”
There is a shot for that pain.
There now. Do you feel better?
Baby under stress. Move fast!
Everything sterile.
Baby rescued from the heaving abdomen.
Placed in plastic incubator.
Monitors show progress.
Both lives are spared.

Baka, mash the roots and herbs.
Wisely rub the smooth skin of mother’s swollen belly.
Sing your prayers
While mama groans
And tears roll.
Will you hear healthy cries?
Or will the forest floor open for your still child?

There are fantastic differences between the life of the Baka people and the society in which I live. The obvious industry, medicine, technology and travel make only a part. Where they work together for their survival, we do our “my job, your job” deal. Where they weave a mat, stake a shelter or spear a fish, we push the button, flip the switch and bank online. Where they retell tales and hand down treasured words, we pop in a video, and then try to explain the funny, foul or beautiful. The Baka live lives rich in work.

My joy? Well, even in ambivalent progress, where I find detriment, I also find blessings. I am the grateful recipient of life-saving medications and procedures; the technology to learn about the world and communicate with loved ones that our society has split from us; and our culture with its artists, musicians and writers. I admit that I even enjoy a good shopping spree. But somewhere I have lost a little of that quiet sense, and the Baka remind me to be still and let nature comfort me.

I do remember helping my mother hang the wash on the line and then gathering in the crisp, fresh sheets. I would bury my nose in their scent as I flung them over my shoulders. Mother and I folded them together—lining up the corners just right. I can’t remember anything she said then, but I remember she was there with me. It was a demand of “wasted effort” that afforded me a memory of the most important woman in my life. When I became older, she counseled me, “Don’t ever make your children work alone. Work by their sides.”

I am thrilled to rid my life of drudgery. If I think of losing my washer and dryer, I feel nauseous. Hanging the wash on the line is one job I replaced with giving my children piano lessons. That replacement has been a blessing of value and opportunity. Although my children didn’t smell the sheets, perhaps they will speak of a memory of counting and naming notes while we sat together on the piano bench.

I have learned that God provides a way for all his children to link together in valuable experiences. Those in the sky-rise apartment, those on a rural farm, those in deep, untouched jungles and even those in my curb and gutter town have the opportunity to live life rich in meaning and purpose. It is a great manifestation of His love for us. The outcome seems to be in our own attitude, will and focus. In that “wasted effort” we might actually find ourselves to be a little Baka-ish, with more peace, contentment and memories of love.