Ask, And It Shall Be Given You

In the KJV, Matthew 7:7-8 says, "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened."

This whole morning I've been asking things of God. Please bless this food that it will nourish my body. Please bless my husband with safety while he is working. Please bless me with patience (as my son is practically yelling in my ear) throughout the day. And so on as the normal morning routine goes. Then I remembered that today President Nelson was going to speak and I really wanted to hear what the new Prophet had to say. I tuned in as my son was finishing his breakfast and listened to Elder Christofferson relate to us who the new First and Second Counselor to President Nelson would be. My prayers and love go out to President Dallin H. Oaks and President Henry B. Eyring. The joy of the Lord was on all of their faces. Their countinances were bright and full of love.

As they spoke, I listened to President Eyring say that he knew that the men round him were called of God. In a quick, half-thought out idea of a prayer I asked if they were called of our Father. As Eyring continued to speak, I gained that confirmation. These are men of the Lord who are directed to lead the Christ's Church on the Earth today. These men are prophets, seers, and revelators for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Days Saints. They will lead and guide the church as the Lord sees fit. The Lord will not let them do anything that is contrary to His Will; if they were to try, they would be removed before they had the chance. Though I know that they wouldn't even try, because they love the Lord. You can see it in their eyes. Unlike many other leaders around the world in different capacities who have ulterior motives and are constantly trying to get gain, these men want all people to know the love and light of Christ.

Over the past few years since President Nelson became President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I feel we've gotten to know him more. He's spoken more often, or so it appears to me, in Conferences and his addresses have hit me more at my core than in previous years. (This might be do to some lack with I have, which very well might be, at which point I apologize.) But even before he became President of the Quorum of the Twelve, he always seemed so happy, so positive, and loving whenever he spoke or was out amongst people. His smile is contagious.

I believe there are big things that will be happening in the coming years. Some strenuous many positive, but all, hopefully, moving us forward to Christ.

Not only was this a spiritual morning listening to the new First Presidency and praying for spiritual confirmation there, but vigorous, frightened prayers were said for a good twenty minutes. My experience might sound silly, but that I guess is what makes this experience even more of a miracle to me.

I have had the same computer for nearly eight years. It was my first big buy after my first car and has lasted well past that car. My computer had a name, it was silly and now I don't even remember what it was, and it graduated college with me. I origionally bought it for two reasons, school papers/other writings and games. I wanted a big screen with a ten key. It is simple and honestly hasn't changed much over the years. No stickers are on it's screen, my nails have scratched the paint on most of my keys, a few of those self same keys have fallen off a time or two but have been masterfully put back on by myself, and where my hands rest next to the mouse pad are small pock marks where the fancy swooping design has worn away. It has been well loved. I even got thinking about it and if there were a fire in my house, after making sure my family was safe I'd have to make sure my computer was safe also.

So as you can understand, I have quite an attachment to it and the things in it's programing. I have my writing here (and backed up in other places--ALWAYS BACKUP YOUR FILES!!!), I have my games that practically don't work on any other system, and I have pictures from the last seven and a half years. So many adventures and moments that happen that I can remember with fondness about. It would cost me hundreds of dollars to get all of the pictures I've taken printed and many hours sleeving them in photo albums.

This morning after hearing President Nelson and his counselors talk, I was trying to get my son ready for school and he tipped my drink over knocking it into my computer and scriptures which I'd been reading. Neither were drenched, thank goodness. I picked up my scriptures and quickly wiped it off before seeing that my computer had droplets on it too. My computer started freaking out. Instead of the desktop picture I have of my husband and I on our wedding day, white, green, red, and black lines creeped across my screen until it automatically shut down. I, of course, flipped a lid and sent my son out of the room to get his socks and shoes on like I'd been telling him to do for the last two minutes. I grabbed my can of pressurized air (to rid the keyboard of dust) and sprayed where I thought would help the most, all the while still standing in a giant puddle of pink soda on the floor. I moved my computer away from the popping puddle of soda on the table and sopped up the mess with a towel. My phone run its alarm to remind me that my son needed to get to class and I left the mess on the floor  as I walked out the door.

Walking out to the car was the most solemn I've seen my son. He definitely realized that he'd done something wrong that not only a half heart "I'm sorry" would fix things. I was still irritated and told him I was mad which made the ten minute car ride to school very quiet.

All the while I prayed that my computer would be alright. Not only would we not have the money to replace it, but what of the photos? I have my most cherished ones printed already, but what of the other good times? Please don't let them be lost. Please fix my computer.

We just turned down the road to my son's school when he said he was sorry again. By then I had calmed down enough to tell him I was sorry too for being so angry. I told him I knew it was an accident and that I knew he didn't mean to spill the drink. Hopefully it'll be okay if it takes a break.

"We're both sorry," he said.

"Yeah, dude. We're both sorry."

I got him out of the car and gave him a big hug. He still looked distressed even when one of his friends started calling for him as we crossed the parking lot. As little boys do, when he started to play with his friend he got happier forgetting about being sad for a moment until we got inside and things slowed down again and he remembered he was sad. I again gave him a big hug and told him I loved him, kissing him on the forehead before I left. I will do something very nice for him when he gets home, don't worry.

When I got him, after more prayers that was mainly repeating the word "please," I started up my computer again it worked perfectly fine--as this is what I'm typing on. Prayers of gratitude spilled from my lips as everything started up normally. I cleaned up the floor, which was still popping with pink soda and finished my scripture reading.

The moral I guess, is that I know that prayer works. Fervent, heartfelt prayer to know if President Nelson is a Prophet or for a miracle to revive my computer, big things and little things will be answered by the Lord. If you earnestly ask, you will be given an answer; if you seek for a blessing, a miracle, you will find it; and if you knock on the Lord's door He will open it and more miracles, blessing, and answers will fall on you that "there shall not be enough room to receive it" (KJV Malichi 3:10).

"Behold my beloved brethren, remember the words of your God; pray unto him continually by day, and give thanks unto his holy name by night. Let your hearts rejoice" (2 Nephi 9:52).

The Lord is listening and watching out for us. He loves us and gives us Prophets to help guide us. He also gives us our own revelation if we ask and listen for it. Let your hearts rejoice and remember to be thankful for the many blessings He gives us every day.

God bless you President Nelson, President Oaks, and President Eyring. I love you and sustain you.






Picture from:  https://www.lds.org/church/news/new-first-presidency-speaks-to-members-worldwide?cid=HP_TU_16-1-2018_dPAD_fMNWS_xLIDyL1-A_&lang=eng

The Curl

When I was about eight, I made a horrible dissension: I should get a perm. My father permed his hair so then it would be really curly and stick close to his head. And I wanted my hair like that, thinking I'd look like Shirley Temple or that tall, pretty girl with her naturally curly hair that looked amazing. I, being a girl who preferred to play outside and not get my hair brushed because we had a death brush that stabbed into my head like nails to my scalp, thought it would be low maintenance because my fathers was low maintenance. I was completely and utterly wrong.

My hair previously had a pretty wave to it; I did have bad 1980's bangs that on school picture days with more hairspray in it than it would have for the rest of the year. But perm on top of 80's bangs was a bad thing for a low maintenance girl. For the next year, my hair was frizzy. Poofed out by the death brush and tied into pony tails.

After my hair grew out and was cut back (which we even took pictures of at the salon, it was a momentous occasion), my hair was never the same. I slowly became a brunette instead of the dish-water blond I had been. Instead of the light wave I'd had that would work in curlers, it was still curly--though not as bad as the perm. I'd learned how to straighten it with the blow dryer and iron. I finally started figuring out that doing your hair, more than just a brush through it, in the morning was important for my self-esteem and that there were other things I could do with it on my own other than a ponytail at the nap of my neck.

In high school as I became aware of the hair products I could use, I would mousse my locks so then it would stay curly--though it was so stiff with the mousse and hairspray that it looked like I'd just stepped out of the shower even though it was dinner time and I'd just gotten home from school. My giant head band with long fabric tassels with my waterlogged hair was what I did my 10th grade year. Senior year I discovered hair dye. Stick straight hair with bleach blond high lights was everything even through the first few years of college.

All in all, I tried to keep my hair as maintenance free as I could while also giving me that bit of a self-esteem boost that girls crave for. If a girl has a bad hair day because it doesn't lay right, everything else seems to go wrong.

But now it seems my hair is still recovering. When I got pregnant, my hair was luscious, thick, and amazing! I could try anything and it worked. Hormones and pre-natal vitamins were the best. But then my son stole my curls, stole the thickness, and body that it once had. My body, as everyone's does, changed dramatically as well. It seemed to like keeping the fifty pounds I'd gained while my son was growing in me, so it stuck around. Right after he was born my hair was nearly stick straight and flat as could be. My mousse didn't work. Pony tails made my face look huge. And only rarely did I find that I actually liked my hair.

Everything always seemed to go wrong with it every time I had something important to go to, which wasn't necessarily often with a newborn/toddler/young child. I went to work, to school, and was home with family with hair: "done," make up: simple though sometimes with too colorful eye shadow, and often mismatched socks (though that was intentional).

--

Quick side note: I remember one day in my fiction writing class and listening to the only high-maintenance girl in the class was complaining. I'm so glad I missed out on the roommate drama in college. Her super busy life with roommates and the drama that ensued from them, made her enable to finish all of her make up. The only thing she was able to put on was her foundation, eye liner, and mascara before she left the apartment for classes at eight. I turned to my friend who sat next to me, a mom, worker, and student like myself, and we both rolled our eyes. That is all I ever put on, I was thinking to myself. I could tell my friend did as well. We were lucky to be able to have the time to put foundation on. Some days it was eyeliner (if we were lucky), mascara, and a brush through into some kind of pony tail. Her's was the hair that was always braided in some intricate knot or with just the right amount of body to it. She looked great, even though she was rather annoying whenever she spoke which was normally a self-centered conversation.

She spent a lot of time completely on herself, on her hair, on her endless workout routines, and the boy and girl drama the surrounded her, that I don't think anyone really liked her in class; I know I didn't care for her.

--

As my son has grown and now that I'm not in school anymore and work is only occasionally, I've let my hair do its own thing. I hop out of the shower and don't instantly go for my hair dryer and straightener. I, more often than not, skip the make up in general. Partially because of time and partially because my son doesn't care. He seems me as his loving mom. I dress up for my husband and for myself on occasion whenever we go out. He loves me with or without it on, with or without my hair done a certain way. It's interesting though, as I've cut his hair and his curls have faded slightly, I've gotten mine back. They're returning with time.

It's nice though, to have my hair work with me. It's not something I need now. My hair is becoming curly again like it was back in high school, slowly. The other day, I let my hair air dry and the parts the framed my face curled nicely without me having to touch it too much (the rest of my hair was flat or frizzy, but baby-steps; it'll get there). It'll be in its pony tail one day, curly the next, straight from the iron two weeks from now. Many ladies have one hair-do and one only, but what is the fun of that? Some days there seems to be almost no choice, while others you have the most choices in the world and pray that your hair works out the way I envisioned it.

A Mother's Worry

It's more than just a little terrifying to have a sick child. Even though my two-year-old isn't sick with cancer or leukemia or the measles that has been running rampant or anything drastic. But the fact that he is miserable is always concerning to a mom.

My son is normally very happy, extremely cheerful, and bright like his sunny, blond hair. His eyes are blue and has fingers small. He loves to give hugs and high fives and knuckles.  When he isn't sick, he's running around as if he had a tail that had been caught on fire. He also has a very wild and crazy arm, so when he throws things more often they come flying at your face or behind him.

He is a sweetheart and the definition of a ball of energy.

When he is mildly sick, if his nose didn't run, I wouldn't even know. If it weren't for his cough that was so raspy you could hear the fleum moving in his body as the air rushed through it, I wouldn't know he was unwell. He is two and doesn't know to tell me. He doesn't realize that the red medicine that tastes rancid is there to make him feel better. Instead, he only knows that the little, plastic box full of water that puffs out a silly kind of smoke has a light on it. He calls the green light "red" then pulls his Pooh Bear blanket over his shoulder and falls asleep.

He doesn't know that the reason we can't go outside to play with the neighbor boy his age is because his cough makes me squirm. He doesn't understand that he's contagious at least for a while. Instead, he only knows that he gets to watch movies we've already seen a hundred times and I have to chase him down to wipe his nose.

It's scary, though, when he suddenly slows down. It's frightening when his light eyes, so full of wonder and joy, suddenly are half closed. When he climbs into my arms with his blankie and wants nothing more to be held. I relish those moments, looking back on when he was so little. When he would fall asleep peacefully in my arms wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. When I could see the trace puffs of his dark baby hair turning blond. He would rest in my arms, my baby. My two-year-old baby who wants nothing more than to be safe and held, to feel better and be close to "Mom." I secretly enjoy those moments, because I know that as soon as he is feeling a little bit better, he'll be running away, playing with his cars or screaming to go outside.

Those little moments. Those longing moments. Those scary moments. All in one.

He may not be sick with an incurable disease. My son will be better in the morning. Right now, he isn't even sick enough to want to sit down in my arms and be held. And slowly, I realize that tomorrow, he'll be one day older. One day closer to going off to school. One day closer to finding the girl of his dreams and having kids of his own. One day closer to leaving my house to find one of his own. One day closer to him being taller than me, so then I have to look up to him to get my hugs that he so freely gives now. I will be happy for him and the family he will make. Then when he has a son of his own, I can hold that baby in the cocoon of blankets. That boy can fall asleep in my arms as well as his mothers. I can bask in the joy of another life, another child to love. Another child to hug.

But for now, I have a two-year-old, sleeping quietly next to a vapor box that sends out little puffs of steam. A boy who is crazy and rambunctious. A boy who is so happy to see me when I come home from school. A boy whose eyes light up when I turn the corner or enter a room. A son who will love me forever. A man who will, hopefully, give those hugs so willingly when I have to look up at him.

My son forever.