Cousin Ben

 

My dad had a cousin named Ben.  When they were boys they would fish and camp together.  Ben's mother, Echo, was my grandma's big sister.  She was like a second mom to grandma.  Aunt Echo had a knack for sewing.  According to Grandma she could see a dress in the store window then go home and make it.  Grandma needed a pattern, with instructions.  Sometimes she would get stuck and she'd ask Aunt Echo for help.  She'd show her the instructions and point out the spot where she got stuck and Echo would laugh and show her what to do.  Echo's husband, Uncle Brian, also made a strong impression on my grandma.  When Ben and his twin sister were born, Brian would get up in the night to help care for them.  He would say, "Well, Echo has to work all day too."  Meaning that the work she did all day to care for newborn twins and a toddler, a house, and whatever else she was responsible for was just as important has his job.  Grandma thought that was just amazing.  (I'm not sure what that says about my own grandpa but that's a story for another day.)  

When Ben and Dad graduated from high school they had to decide if they wanted to serve missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Ben's mom and dad were both faithful, dedicated members of the church and he planned to serve a mission.  My grandma also faithfully attended church meetings but Grandpa had no use for church.  So dad was left to decide for himself.  He was a shy, anxious kid.  Church was boring.  He had no intention of serving a mission.  Before Ben left for his mission he had an opportunity to speak in church.  Dad and his mom and sister attended.  At some point in the talk Ben said something along the lines of "If I can serve a mission, so can you."  My father felt the Holy Spirit touch his heart and he knew that those words were for him.  He contacted his bishop and soon received a call to serve for two years in Japan.  

Dad's missionary service solidified his testimony of Jesus Christ and his determination to serve Him.  Throughout his life he diligently attended his church meetings, served in a variety of capacities in the church, and led his family in scripture reading, prayer and Family Home Evening.  He and Mom attended the temple often, nearly weekly for as long as I can remember.  On Sunday afternoons he would set up a card table and pull out all his genealogy papers.  He used a fountain pen to carefully copy his ancestor's information onto giant pedigree charts and family group records.  He was a faithful husband and father.

I was an adult living half way across the continent when my dad told me this story and I have often wondered if Ben ever knew the influence he had on my dad.  I can trace my own missionary service and devotion to Jesus Christ to the decision that Ben made to serve a mission.  I don't know where he served or how many people came to believe the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his service, but I know that I owe my own testimony to his decision to serve a mission, and his sharing of that choice with my dad.

Cousin Ben died a few months after my dad did.  (They both died during the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic but not from COVID.  Dad had brain cancer and Ben had a stroke.)  After learning of Ben's passing I carried an image in my mind of Dad and Ben tromping through the woods with their fishing poles; young, healthy, carefree.  Still best friends.

Alma 17:1-2 therefore, Alma did rejoice exceedingly to see his brethren; and what added more to his joy, they were still his brethren in the Lord...

This photo is of Ben straightening Dad's tie at my parents wedding reception.  Would that we all could have such a Best Man/Woman in our lives.

Christmas

When I was little my family had an unusual Christmas tree.  I wish I had a photo of it.  I expect my parents picked it up at the DI.* It came in a big square box.  The stand was broken and some of the branches were missing, so my parents would take out the tree, close the box flaps in a particular way and put the trunk of the tree through the hole in the center of the top of the box.  Then mom would wrap a white sheet around the box.  It kind of looked like a small tree sitting on a table top.  Kind of.  We had lights on the tree that looked like two inch globes dipped in colored rock salt.  There were tin ornaments shaped like birds and Santa and other things, reminiscent of the Victorian era.  But mostly the tree was covered in handmade ornaments that us kids brought home from Primary* and elementary school every year.  And there was an Angel.  She was an iridescent white cone with a head and some feathery wings.  I don't know where she came from but I remember my mother treating her very carefully.  She must have been important to her.

The recession of the late 1970s that propelled Ronald Reagan to the presidency was not good to my family.  Dad was unemployed for a while. My little sister, Elanor, was born with Down's syndrome.  She has always been an absolute joy and a lot of work, worry, and stress for my parents.  My Sandberg grandparents kept the freezer full of meat and the storage room full of home canned peaches.  My Hinchcliff grandparents provided bananas, store bought bread,* and powdered caked donuts with raspberry filling*.  And Christmas and birthday presents, school clothes, Easter dresses and I can only guess what else.  Grandma and Grandpa Hinchcliff lived nearby and we visited them often.  We loved to play in the basement where all the random things from the previous 50 years were kept.  Dress ups that my grandma had actually worn in the 60s, doll dresses stitched by hand for actual babies long since grown, endless piles of scratch paper left over from the middle school math and science classes my grandpa taught, and the giant electric train table kept us busy for hours.  But, after Thanksgiving the basement was off limits.  I don't remember ever really thinking about it, but obviously that's where all the gifts were stored.  There was one year when a crazy snow storm came through on Christmas Eve and my parents informed us that Santa was unable to get through and had, therefore, left all the presents at grandma's house.  We accepted that and happily enjoyed all of our Santa presents when we got to Grandma's.  I'm not sure it ever occurred to us that if Santa could get to Grandma's he could get to our house, it wasn't that far. I think I used a lot of willing suspension of disbelief as a kid.  I don't remember anyone telling me who Santa Claus really was, I just kind of always knew and didn't really think too hard about it.

That Christmas when dad was unemployed and Elanor was little must have been really hard for my parents.  We received regular food orders through the church (the raspberry jam was really good).  I don't remember understanding why, but I remember unpacking the boxes and being amazed at all the food.  As Christmas approached, strange things started happening.  One night there was a knock on the door and a man we didn't know stood on our porch with a giant bag.  He handed it to my parents, wished us Merry Christmas, and left.  The bag was filled with games.  Some of those games are still on the shelf in my mother's basement.  Another day the doorbell rang and there stood all the teenagers from our church with a beautiful Christmas tree.  A real Christmas tree, with matching handmade decorations.  They also had food and gifts.  When they placed the tree and plugged in the lights Elanor got so excited.  She was sitting on my mom's lap, waving both arms and legs in the air with the biggest, happiest smile I have ever seen.  I learned later that that experience, especially Elanor's reaction, was a truly meaningful experience for those teenagers.  They felt the joy of giving.  Maybe it was hard for my parents to accept all that help, but I could see the joy serving my family brought to the people standing on our porch.  It felt like Christmas every day for me.

*DI- Deseret Industries, a thrift store owned and operated by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Utah/Idaho/Arizona.  It is used for job training like Goodwill, as well as a place church leaders can go to get clothes and household goods for families and individuals in need.

*Primary- Sunday school for kids ages 3-11 in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

*My mom always made homemade bread.  I didn't really like it.  The crust was thick and tough and it didn't make very good sandwiches.  The bread would crumble to bits.  I remember one day some friends were over and going crazy about having homemade bread.  It was the first time I remember realizing that homemade bread was special.  I've learned to appreciate homemade bread since then, but I still don't prefer is for sandwiches.

*They don't sell those in Michigan.  We got some last time we were in Utah and they were good but not as good as I remember.  Maybe they changed the recipe.  Ya, that's it.  We didn't eat a lot of treats so the treats grandma brought were well appreciated.

Walking With Dad

 

When I was a little girl I loved to walk with my dad.  We would walk around the block and talk to the neighbors, the Stevens', the Singelton's.  I loved to hold his hand and try to match his strides.  When he noticed he would take longer and longer strides until I was leaping with every step, until I was laughing too hard to keep up.  

We would often spend the afternoon at my grandmother's house.  One day we were getting ready to go home and I was certain that I should be the one to ride in the coveted center front seat between my parents but my sister had beat me to it.  My child's mind believed it had well thought out reasoning but no-one was interested in hearing it.  Looking back as an adult and a mother I can imagine that my little sisters were tired and my parents were anxious to get home.  I made a fuss.  The thing I really remember is feeling unheard.  And I was a stubborn kid.  Finally in a moment of desperation, or inspiration, my dad handed my mom the car keys, took me by the hand and started walking.  It was almost 6 miles and late in the afternoon.  We walked and we talked.  We walked a different way than I had ever been before.  Maybe to avoid the big down and up again hill that we called "the roller coaster".  It was fun in the car, not so much on foot.  The thing I really remember is feeling heard and feeling loved.  I don't remember being tired although I'm sure I was.  I remember it was dark before we got home.  My father's decision to walk with me became one of my most cherished memories.  

Soon after that my dad decided I was ready to climb a mountain.  Early on a Saturday morning, my dad, my older sister, Oretta, and I filled our canteens and packed our bags.  We drove up the canyon to the parking lot of the Snow Basin ski resort.  We started walking up the dirt service road that follows the ski lifts.  We walked for a long time.  We passed pine trees and quaking aspens, streams and fields of wild flowers.  I remember putting my handkerchief in the stream and wiping my face with the frigid water.  It was a hot sunny day and I got tired quickly.  

When I wanted to rest, dad would point to a shady spot up ahead and encourage me to get that far before we stopped.  Somehow I found that I did have enough strength to go that far.  After a rest and a drink of water I discovered that I wasn't so tired as I thought and I could cary on.  Dad was endlessly patient with us, encouraging us to go "just a little further."  About noon we reached the saddle, a low spot between two peaks where we could look over the ridge to the other side.  I thought we were done, we made it, but dad pointed up to the peak just above us.  We were close but the final stretch was steep and rocky and I didn't think I had any more strength left.  Somehow dad convinced me to keep going and it turns out I did have enough strength to get to the very top of Mt. Ogden. 

It is hard to describe the way I felt standing on the peak.  Even the wind feels different.  I felt like I could see forever.  To the west was the city of Ogden where we lived.  I could see the Ogden Temple and other land marks I recognized.  I could see all the way to the far side of the Great Salt Lake.  To the east was row upon row of mountain peaks finally fading into the sky.  I felt an overwhelming awe as I surveyed the vastness of God's creations.  I felt the contradiction of being so infinitesimally small and so strong simultaneously.  I started to understand my own value and my own weakness at the same time.  It was my first glimpse into eternity.  

So many times since then I have felt that I was done, that I had nothing left to give.  Every time I have found that I do have more.  I can push forward to the next shady spot with a log or a rock to sit on.  I can take a break and drink some water and find that I do have the strength to cary on after all.  

We ate our lunch and took pictures with my Kodak Disk camera.  We signed the registry and started back down.  Down was much easier than up.  When I went back to school that fall I pointed out Mt. Ogden to my friends and told them all how I had been to the very top.  

Last summer I went for a walk with my dad.  He had been diagnosed with brain cancer but the treatments were going well and dad was feeling pretty good.  I had hoped to climb Mt. Ogden that summer but it was too early and the snow was still deep, so we went out to Antelope Island instead.  Dad wanted to come along.  Dad and I and a couple of the kids walked along the shoreline trail.  It was flat and easy.  We went slow.  I kept checking if dad was ready to turn around.  He kept saying, "No, I want to see what's over that rise."  So we kept walking.  He was a little bit wobbly and I was terrified he would fall.  We walked so far that we ended up having to ask some strangers for a ride back to the car. It was weird and a little embarrassing, but they were kind and everything was fine in the end.  That was the last time I walked with my dad.  

When we visited at Christmas he could barely walk from the kitchen to the living room.  In January he fell and broke his arm.  He spent a few days in the hospital, a few weeks in the rehabilitation center, and then to a nursing home because he couldn't even get out of bed without help.  In March the world shut down for the COVID-19 pandemic and in April he was gone.  It was still dangerous to travel and a funeral was out of the question.  The funeral home streamed the graveside service over Facebook.  That was really weird.

This summer, more than 35 years later, I returned to the top of Mt. Ogden, this time with my own children in tow.  I encouraged them to go just a little bit further, to take a break and then try again.  I was afraid we wouldn't make it to the top.  But we did, all of us.  We sat on the peak and looked at the world just as I did when I was 10.  It's a little different now.  The ski resort got a facelift for the Utah Olympics a few years ago.  There's a helicopter pad at the top now, more satellite dishes, too.  

My feet hurt and we still had the long walk back down, but I could feel the wind as it blew and see the long lines of peaks fading into the distance.  My children were there at the top of the mountain and I prayed that they felt eternity and their own strength the way I did when I stood on top of that mountain with my dad so long ago.