Letter # 2 Tender Mercies for the Grandchildren

Letter # 2

September 26, 2012

Provo, Utah

Dear Grandchildren,

This letter is about tender mercies. Tender mercies are small blessings from Heavenly Father that sometimes go unnoticed, but when you realize the blessings that have come to you, they are amazing.

Tender mercy #1: A couple of weeks ago I worked all day and came home beat. I have been battling a cold and I ached all over, but my feet and calves really hurt. I sat in the chair, kicked off my shoes and said to Grandpa, “If I could just have a massage, I think I would live.” (I have never had a massage before but knew that was what I wanted.)

We were just finishing dinner when Kramer went wild. Grandpa went to the door but no one was there. He scolded Kramer for the false alarm when a little voice came out of the dark, “It’s just me, Phil. I’m sitting on your lawn swings.”

It was LouAnn. Her husband got sick the first part of May and by the end of May he was had died from cancer. As you can imagine it has been a rough summer for her, and she comes to the lawn swings when the loneliness of the house gets to her. I was so tired that I thought I’d drop any minute but she is my friend, and so I went out to sit with her. (Besides that, it got me out of doing the dishes. I haven’t changed much since I was a kid. You don’t try to get out of doing dishes, do you?)

I hadn’t been with LouAnn two minutes before she said, “Lynne, let me massage your feet.”

“What?” I said. “You aren’t going to massage my dirty feet.”

“I want to, come on and put your foot in my lap.”

Well, you haven’t met persistence until you meet LouAnn, she’s persistent with a smile and a cute little laugh. She persisted. I finally I did as I was told. (You should always do as you are told if the “teller” is right. Your parents are pretty much always right. You think about it. Have they ever told you to do anything wrong? I’m just sayin’…do what is right—and mind your parents.)

So, anyway, LouAnn not only massaged my foot but my calf too. I have never felt anything like it. She said she learned how from a gifted chiropractor years before. She worked my foot and leg over until it felt like they only weighed ounces.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s change places and I’ll do your other foot. And she did. I can’t describe to you how much better I felt.

“Why did you offer to do this for me?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I just felt like it,” she said.

That is a key word for listening to the still small voice of the Holy Ghost. Sometimes it’s so small you only feel an impression to do something, to go somewhere, or say something to someone. Be aware of those impressions.

Tender mercy #2: Later in the week my cold progressed and I felt truly rotten. I didn’t work for two days even though Meg could have used me. When I don’t go to work Grandpa knows I really feel rotten.

“What do you want to eat,” he said the first day.

“Nothing sounds good, except a chicken dinner.” And that was pretty much an impossibility. I don’t remember what we ate, leftovers maybe. It might have been worms on toast. (Well, I’m kidding about the worms, but just having toast might have been a real possibility.)

The next night he asked again, “What do you want for dinner?”

“Just that chicken dinner,” I said. Instead we fixed tuna fish sandwiches and I thawed some of the homemade tomato soup (the bag that didn’t get poured down the drain. See letter #1).

The next day I had to work, even though I still felt rotten. When I got home, and collapsed in a chair, Phil said, “Guess what? Cindy’s bringing dinner.” And guess what it was? A whole chicken dinner!

I asked her why she did it and she said, “The idea just kept coming to me, all day long, over and over, and finally I said to myself, ‘I can do this!’ and so I did.”

Both LouAnn and Cindy are angels in my life.

Tender mercy #3: This summer, our neighbor, twelve-year-old Timothy was mowing the lawn. Timothy had the feeling he should stop. It didn’t make sense to him but the impression came to him very strong so he stopped the mower. As he looked around he saw a little garden snake right in the path of the mower; if he had continued the mower would have killed the little snake.

Tender mercy #4: We went to the Brigham City Temple dedication last Sunday in a church house nearby. They told us it was as if the church house were an extension of the temple. No one visited before the meeting started like we usually do before a church meeting started. It reminded me when Grandpa and I went to the Mt. Timpanogos temple dedication in October of 1996.

We got to the temple and waited in line. When we were taken into the temple I was so disappointed to see that the people in front of us got the last front row seats. We were seated on the back row! I wanted to cry, but didn’t say anything to Grandpa.

Now I have to tell you this, so you will understand what a miracle this was in my life. My witness of the Spirit is very subtle. When other people say things like, “I felt the spirit so strong in Sacrament Meeting,” the only thing I felt was tired, or cold or hungry. My first real witness (that I recognized) about the Savior came after I was married and had two children! I went on the faith of others and my own reasoning.

So, when President Hinckley came into the room and I had a strong, sweet witness of the spirit, and I knew he was a prophet of God. I could feel a difference in the very air, and I knew angels came into that room with him, maybe even my mother. Maybe she had permission to come and be with me. There I was, stuck on the back row, feeling miserable, and I was given the most wonderful tender mercy. Words cannot explain that feeling to you. It is one of my most treasured memories. If I had been on the front row, maybe I would not have been blessed with that witness.

When you are baptized you will get the gift of the Holy Ghost. I promise you, it is the best gift you will ever, in your whole life, receive. 

 If Heavenly Father cares about a lowly garden snake, my aching feet and legs, and my longed for chicken dinner, and letting me have a witness about President Hinckley, think how much he cares about you, his child. Listen to the promptings. Be a tender mercy in someone else’s life and when those tender mercies come to you, be aware and thank your Heavenly Father.

We love you more than we can express. Be strong and do what is right.

Love,

Grandma Snyder

PS The other night Dad was doing his sleep-apnea-breathing-thing. Not the quiet-sleeping-breathing-thing, the ocean-is-coming-in-wildly-every-three-seconds, breathing thing. I would almost get to sleep and the tide would come in. Thank you Phil. Finally I got up and went into the bathroom and opened my nook and read a chapter in 3^rd Nephi. Then I looked up aps and there was Angry Birds, Seasons. After reading the comments I downloaded it—$2.99—and played until 4:30 when I finally got tired. I didn’t clear one single level. Not one.

Since then I read one chapter in the Book of Mormon every morning and every night and if it’s not too late I play one level of Angry Birds. I know the Angry Birds isn’t making my life better, but I think reading before starting my day does.

May none of you get the can’t-get-to-sleep gene, also called the night-owl gene. If you do, take naps.

Love,

Grandma

Letter #1 to my Children/Grandchildren

Letter # 1

September 3, 2012 (I’m mailing this on September 15^th…because I kept forgetting to buy stamps.)

Provo, Utah

Dear Family,

I keep getting the nudge to write letters to you, my children, your spouses—who I love every bit as much as my children—and grandchildren, and so, to quiet whoever is the nudger is, I am writing letter number one. The person behind this gentle reminder to write to you might be Grandma Rasmussen, or Aunt Pat, or your cousin Matt Gleave, or even one of the babies I lost. I hope I do a good job, I think they want you to know you are wonderful. And I do too.

This letter will probably ramble. That’s how I think and how I write too.

When I started this letter I was sitting in a meeting, organized by John Pontias, who writes a blog that Dad reads, called Unblogmysoul. A woman in the audience had brought her baby, maybe ten months old, and as soon as she sat him down on the floor, he crawled off. Just then John introduced a speaker or performer and the audience applauded. The baby stopped, sat up, and looked around, as if the clapping was for him. When the applause died he took off again, and again the audience clapped. Again he stopped to the applause. My applause was double minded—once as a polite acknowledgment for the presenters/musicians and enthusiastic applause for the darling crawler.

So it is how I feel about each of you. You can’t hear it, but I am applauding for you (Dad is too), for every good thing you do, for every tough trial you face and either overcome or continue to work through. For the mornings you want to pull the pillow over your head and instead, get up and stumble to the bathroom. I applaud for when you make mistakes and right yourself and try again. The world’s opinion of you, even my opinion of you (which is greater than I have ever told you) is not who you are. Only God and the Savior know who you are. You don’t even who you are. Let go of your harsh self-judgment. Mistakes make us grow and so, when you are sad or discouraged, or when you think no one can love you, then listen…that will be me you hear, applauding, having faith in you. And loving you. Dad too. Always.

There was a woman at our table—at the meeting—that was eating Cheetos. She had access to a napkin, but no matter how hard she wiped, the evidence was still there. She finally licked her fingers. So it is with our unwise actions, they stain our spirit. No matter what we tell ourselves, or others, or how well we hide it, when we stand before God the evidence will be clear. For us the “licking of the fingers” for the soul is repentance. Then the evidence is gone, not just “licked off,” but gone. All the Savior asks is for us to be sorrowful, it doesn’t matter how bad we are stained. He will clean us up and complete us* and we can have no fear of standing before God. Don’t be a Cheetos finger licker. Let Christ do it right.

On Saturday morning I found a recipe on allrecipes.com for tomato soup, using fresh garden tomatoes. Judy and Glade Hunsaker had given me a lot of tomatoes so that was what I was going to make: Garden Fresh Tomato Soup. And dye my hair. And go to this meeting. I put the dye on my hair and then cut the tomatoes and onions, added spices and simmered everything for an hour. Of course, as always, time got away from me. I barely got my hair and face done, and we had to go. (Dad didn’t actually tap his foot but I could hear it in my head.) We got home at 10:00 o’clock and I made a roux for the tomato soup, simmered it again, adjusted the salt and seasoning and put the pot in a sink full of cold water. When it was cool enough to bag and freeze it was midnight, and I was tired and just wanted to be done with it.

I have a new kitchen gadget; it holds bags open so you can fill them w/out spilling stuff all over the place. I hooked up my handy-dandy, bag-holder with a gallon Ziploc bag and filled it with tomato soup. I used a 2-cup measuring cup, because I wanted to fill the bag quickly but it was way too wide and soup got all over the outside of the bag, so I had to rinse it off. I was not smart enough to use a smaller cup the second time, so that bag had to be rinsed too.

I was grateful to be almost done. I zipped the second bag with an “I’m done,” flourish, and put it under the faucet. The bag opened! It opened under the faucet. The most beautiful, fragrant, redish-orange soup pored over the sink divider. I stood there with my mouth open, doing nothing. When I came to my senses, I whipped the bag up and looked at the soup, cascading down the drain and for one insane moment I considered using a spatula to scrape it up and even considered licking the sink.

I didn’t realize that until tonight that if I had put it the bag in the freezer, and it opened once I closed the door, I would have had a far worse mess than the one I did have. So now I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m grateful I lost all that soup in the sink. Remember this—whenever you think life is just awful, it could always, always be worse.

At the meeting on Saturday, John Pontius told a story about when he was teaching a class. There was a girl—he called her Lynette--who always sat on the back row in his class. She had made herself as unattractive as possible. “She even smelled bad,” he said. But she was bright. She knew the answers to any question he asked. (She didn’t raise her hand but she mouthed the answer.) One day he asked the class a personal question and wanted each of them to answer. He started in the front of the room and went row by row. The closer he got to the back row the further she slunk down in her seat. When he got to her she barely shook her head, signaling she didn’t want to answer.

At that very second he had a vision. (Don’t disbelieve. Visions happen, impressions come, and voices are heard. This comes from the Holy Ghost. In fact I think all of you have had some kind of experience with the Holy Ghost, a feeling, a decision not to go somewhere. You might be prompted to make a phone call. You might have uneasiness about something. Even when cooking, you might have gotten an impression to add or delete an ingredient. You might meet someone so familiar, like you know them, and yet you’ve never met them before. Be open to the gift, the great gift that you are given at baptism. ) In John’s vision he was standing in a lovely little glen. There were steps leading up and the most amazing woman was descending. “She was brighter than the sun. I have never seen a woman so beautiful,” he said.

When she got to him she said, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he said.

“I’m Lynette,” she said.

And then the vision closed and he was looking at the unlovely, earthly Lynette. “I have never looked at anyone the same again,” he said. And neither should I, and neither should you. We come to earth and do not have any idea who we are, or who our children are, or the guy down the street is. Our unlovely mother—I’m speaking of myself here—might really be the most slender, fit and organized person ever. But here I am, in this life, looking like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, in cluttered chaos.

Let’s not judge. It won’t be easy because people everywhere,—in our own family, even—hurt our feelings (sometimes we’re “snarky”), others have things easier than we do, have talents we would love to have, look better than we do, etc. We don’t know who anyone really is. Not even ourselves. If the vision about Lynette can be believed, and I think it can, we are all as glorious as she. Let’s at least think of other people as amazing and everything good that we could ever imagine, no matter how they look here. And then let’s give ourselves a break and look at ourselves with some kindness and maybe awe. You are an amazing human being with an amazing spirit, here on earth, doing hard things, and good things, and stupid things, too. Do the best you can and always know that you are here on earth for the experience, and what an experience we are all having. Dare I ask you to be grateful? I will. Be grateful for your interesting experiences. Aunt Pat had the word “interesting” all figured out. None of us are boring and none of us will escape this life w/out having our fair share of times when we want to tear our hair out or someone else’s. Aunt Pat always called those times interesting.

When I was in high school I really wanted to sneak into a girl’s house and put Nair all over her head, I wanted to tear her hair out, but was too chicken, so I thought up a less aggressive way. Of course I didn’t do it, but for a while she gave me lots of reasons to want to. Now I look back on it, and am grateful that she did some of the things she did. I might be in a totally different place, today, if she hadn’t. And yes, it involved a boy. (I was young once.) My point is that she gave me some times of real grief. I cried a lot. What she did wasn’t fair. Life isn’t fair. It was never meant to be fair. But that’s how we grow and change and become better people, by dealing with the unfairness of it all and working through it.

On Saturday night, before the tomato soup fiasco, Dad was on his way to bed. He had to leave the house at 6:00 to be at his new BYU ward. But, my toenails were a mess. The polish was chipped and there is no way that the Pillsbury Dough Boy can paint her own toenails. I asked Dad to touch them up. Not re-do them, mind you, just paint over the worst spots.

He was tired he was almost staggering, but came to do my bidding. Let’s use the magnifying light, he said. (It’s the one from Grandpa Snyder.) So we positioned it over my foot, which was on a chair, and I was holding the arm of the light so it wouldn’t fall off the table. We looked like contortionists. Dad did pretty well on the first foot. The big toe of the second foot just needed a bit at the base of the toe, so he got the nail polish on the brush and immediately painted the left side of my toe. “Erp,” I said.

“Oh dear,” he said and then he tried again and painted my toenail and my toe a quarter inch up onto the skin.

“Oh dear,” he said again.

He grabbed a napkin and wiped it as much as he could get off, but there was a big blurry mess on my toe. It looked like a toe that had some kind of a communicable disease. I didn’t have the nerve to ask him if we could use the nail polish remover and start again, so I went to church with one big toe looking normal, and one looking huge and blurry and infectious. And after his kindness, I simply didn’t care—well, I almost didn’t care. I tried to walk with one foot always behind me. It’s hard to do that at church. People ask if you are all right. “Do you have a broken leg,” they ask. You can’t say, “I just have a big, fat, red toe, but it’s not catching.” People will think you’re mad.

Dad is a kind man. He tried his best to help me. He got red nail polish on his hands and on the bottom of my foot, too. Probably on the table and kitchen floor, I haven’t checked. But he did his best for me. He always does his best for me. And I got a good story out of it, to tell my Personal History group.

So, today, don’t judge, and do the best for someone.

I love each of you. You are amazing people. How amazing, we none of us remember.

Love,

Mom

PS Repent and forgive. Hugh Nibley says that is the two things we need to do here on this earth. Repent and forgive.