BUMPER BOO-BOO!

Got up about 5 am Sunday morning to go on my walk and was surprised that the little mist in the air at midnight when I got home from DIA  had become a sheen of ice on the ground.  I got about four blocks from home and decided to turn around and go back before I slipped and fell.  Don't want to be out of commission before I hit the retirement road!

I went, oh so slowly, to the chapel for my 7:30 a.m. Ward Council meeting and saw that the back parking lot where I go into the building for both the RS room and the Primary room was absolutely nothing but sheer ice.  But, I was the only car and safely navigated into a middle parking spot, leaving just the right amount of space on either side of the car.  One of the priesthood brethren opened the chapel door for me and cautioned me to be careful.  Didn't need that advice, I already knew that in my Sunday shoes it was going to be a flat-footed walk.

An hour later when I was in the Primary room getting everything in readiness, the song leader came in laughing.  She looked at me and said, "I hit your car!"  I thought she was joking! NOT!  She was seriously telling the truth.  The impact sent my car into the next parking spot and creamed the left front bumper and headlight on her Honda Accord.

So, now I have an appointment tomorrow to get the bumper replaced.  With these new cars, it's not just a dent--it's the whole section.  Oh, well.  It wasn't "hit and run", and my insurance doesn't have to cover the bill.  It could have been worse....and, though it is inconvenient for me, the car is still drivable in the meantime. 

The best news is that I'm not even mad. 

I once did some seriously expensive damage to Lois and Dale's car--with their kids in it--while I was babysitting them for the weekend when Lois and Dale went on a little trip with Marie and Keith to Denver. Even though I am sure Dale wasn't feeling so great about what had happened when they got home that Sunday night and heard the news, he never, ever scolded me for that HUGE bump of adolescent carelessness that could have even resulted in personal injury to their kids.

I learned a huge lesson there.  Consequently, ONCE IN A WHILE, I can take the high road and not go berserk over something that has already happened and can't be changed.  This was one of those times.

It must be the Christmas Spirit!  On day 17 of Light the World, it was "meet together oft."  Guess THAT was one way to meet.  HAHAHA!

Merry Christmas!

THE CHRISTMAS STORY...

Note:  Some years ago I began to host an open house every other Christmas as a personal missionary event where I displayed my beautiful--and now extensive--collection of Nativities.  It was principally for my non-member neighbors and friends, but has come to include many people from work, church, and former neighborhoods as my guests. 

The Young Women have also come each time and spent the third hour of their Sunday meeting block for this special lesson in my home.  I have given the following comments pretty much the same every year as a backdrop for the girls' opportunity to look at all the nativities.  

And, every year I have given each of them a special ornament as a keepsake and a reminder of this one wonderful night which changed the history of the world.  Some years it was a small nativity.  Two years ago it was a star.  This year it was something different, and I added a side-bar at the end of the lesson as to why I chose to give the ornament I did. 

So, read on and pretend you are listening in as the girls sat on the floor, the steps, and on the few spaces available on the couch and chair to hear this wonderful story--once again.

(P.S.  There was a glitch when I transferred the copy from one tile to another, and the format of the type is different.  Sorry...hope it doesn't detract too much from your reading.)

THE CHRISTMAS STORY         

AND WHY GEORGIA COLLECTS NATIVITIES

Years ago, when I was a young married woman with two darling blond-haired toddler boys, I was called to teach Relief Society.  The fourth lesson of the month was titled Cultural Refinement, and that year the curriculum was the New Testament.  These were lessons about great literature, but also added to that were the culture and refinement of art and music.  November’s lesson that year (1972) was about the birth of the Savior.

I learned the humble beginnings of Mary’s greatness.  All the young women in Israel were aware that God’s son was to come to earth.  Each aspired to—and imagined—what it would be like if she were the chosen one.  When the angel Gabriel came to Mary and revealed the coming event, it was with great humility that she acknowledged this favored role as being hers. 

Mary was probably as young as 15 years of age—just about the age of you girls.  Joseph had probably finished his carpenter’s apprenticeship, and was in a financial position to take a wife, but instead of being an old man as many of the paintings show, he might not have been more than in his early 20’s.  Betrothal was as binding as a marriage contract in Hebrew society, and when Joseph found out that Mary was going to have a baby, he wanted to spare her the embarrassment and penalty divorce would bring to her.  Therefore, the angel visited Joseph, too, and assured him of Mary’s purity and that her approaching experience would be as the mother of the son of God.

The taxing and registration in Bethlehem for the House of David was the 2^nd of three such registrations at intervals of about 20 years.  And so, Mary and Joseph set out to fulfill the decree of Caesar Augustus, even though Mary was very far along in her pregnancy.

Mary probably baked the bread, dried the meat, filled a sack with lentils, and poured water from the well into a goatskin.  She also packed the swaddling clothes—long strips of cloth to wrap the baby in when it was born—which she knew she would need before their return as Nazareth was 90 miles from Bethlehem.  (About the same distance as Johnstown to Colorado Springs).  They would have to make the long trip up and down hills by donkey.  Joseph must have gently helped Mary onto the back of the donkey every morning and walked by her side, watching carefully so that the donkey would not make a misstep. 

When they got to Bethlehem—you know the story—there was no room for them at the inn.  So, they had to go to a stable.  Actually, that wasn’t considered an awful place, as we would think it was, as the floors of average homes were of packed earth in those days, and often the poor who lived in towns kept animals in their homes.  So, it was there in the stable in Bethlehem, that Mary delivered her son and laid him in the straw of the oxen’s crib.

The star—which was a natural phenomenon that scientists believe was probably the juxtaposition of celestial bodies recorded by ancient astronomers—signaled to the shepherds where to go.  They arrived that night amidst a glorious heavenly chorus in which you and I more than likely participated. 

Continuing with the story, the Wise Men didn’t arrive until the baby Jesus was about two years old.  Before they arrived bringing their gifts, they stopped to ask Herod the King where the new king was.  Herod cunningly told the Wise Men to return and tell him where the baby was when the Wise Men found him so he could go and pay tribute to Him, too.  Of course, once the Wise Men had seen Jesus, they took a different route home.  When Herod realized he had been tricked, he ordered that all Hebrew baby boys under the age of two be put to death.  It was at that time Joseph was warned in a dream to take his little family and flee to Egypt.

Now mind you, prior to this lesson I used to feel sorry for anyone who had a baby sometime during the holidays.  Is all I could think of was the inconvenience, the extra preparation, the additional demands of a new baby—all at a time that was supposed to be fun for everyone.  But after I prepared this special lesson, I thought what a wonderful time to have a baby—a time when a woman could share, at least in part, Mary’s wonderful experience in the holy sphere of motherhood.  I could see myself as I imagined Mary, when her child was born, being uplifted from the whole experience—hard though it was—and being indescribably ecstatic when she saw her baby for the first time, just like I was.  Beautiful first-born boy!

And, I have to confess, I wasn’t too keen on Christmas carols either until I taught this lesson.  Oh, I liked Deck the Halls and We wish You a Merry Christmas.  Silver Bells was okay. Santa Claus Is Coming to Town was fun.  But Silent Night?  PLEEEEEEZE!!  Away in a Manger and some of the others?  Double PLEEZE!!!  Didn’t occur to me that among the countless number of Christmas carols which fill the world—and I am talking Christmas carols, not Christmas songs—not one would ever have been composed or sung had Jesus Christ not come to redeem mankind.  Now I listen to the words of O Little Town of Bethlehem, or O Holy Night or any of the others and I am totally amazed that these people, who wrote and composed the carols long before the Gospel as we know it was restored, knew Christ’s role as Savior and Redeemer, that he came to save us from our own sins through His atonement.  What a testimony!

Christmas artwork through the ages—all those ugly Virgin Marys with those ugly little babies.  Ugh! Ugh! And ugh! But I learned why they looked the way they did, and I also learned why some paintings have the shepherds and other principle characters in the Nativity dressed like Renaissance Europe.  It was then that I decided it was important for me to express my feelings about the Savior’s birth by choosing Christmas greetings that reflect the “First Christmas”.  So, every year since then I have always tried to send cards that have a Nativity scene instead of Santa Claus or whatever the current style is for Christmas—trees, reindeer, snowmen, forest creatures and that generic Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings.

And now we are finally at the part why you are here—to enjoy most of the Nativity sets I have collected over the years.  It was because of this lesson I taught 45 years ago when my oldest boy was just over three and my second boy just a toddler of 18 months.  I had a great yearning to display something that would show my “conversion” to the religious side of Christmas, and the real purpose for celebrating. 

But we didn’t have any money for that!  I didn’t get to go to the store very often as the stores which had Nativity sets were way too far away to ride a bike to get there.  (We only had one car which my husband always drove, and I rode a bike to get around the neighborhood and to church.)  Besides when I did get to Joslin’s or The Denver or May D & F, the Nativity sets for sale might as well have been a million dollars.  There was no way I could afford one.  Hence, the truly ugly original one, peopled with cone bodies topped by painted wooded bead heads and “dressed” in scraps from my sewing projects, came into being. 

It was a Family Home Evening project.  The little boys’ daddy—my first husband—went outside and found a good-sized twig to make the stable then backed it with a piece of shredded bark.  I “helped” little fingers glue robes on the figures.  One crown was made out of aluminum foil, one of the Wise Men’s gifts was a beef bouillon cube, another gift was a small screw wrapped in foil, another was a tiny square piece of gold cardboard.  The animals in the stable were more like farm animals such as a pig (which NEVER would have been there for real!), a cow, and a sheep. 

That Nativity scene, which never really satisfied my desire and just whetted my appetite for a “real” Nativity set, was actually cute at the time.  Anyone who came to visit was delighted with the originality and intent.  It has held a place of honor all these years.  Now, 45 years later, the number of Nativity sets I own total close to 400 plus, including Nativity ornaments.  And they come from all over the world: places where we lived and visited, from my missionary sons whose first instruction was to “bring me back a Nativity set!”, from friends as gifts, and when I see something new and unusual I would like to add to my collection.  Believe me when I tell you there is a “story” behind almost every one of them. 

The wonderful events of the “First Christmas” have all been chronicled over the years by painters, poets, song writers, craftsmen, and just about anyone else who felt the urge to bear testimony of this great and glorious event.  They have portrayed the whole scene, the Holy Family with just the shepherds or just the Wise Men, or singly as just Mary and the baby Jesus.  There are some with just animals and the baby, just Mary and Joseph, the journey to Bethlehem, the flight into Egypt, and a dozen scenarios as a combination of those themes.  You will see all those selections displayed throughout the house today.  You’ll also see a lot in the loft at the top of the stairs that I like to call the “Lamanite” nativities.

All Nativity scenes throughout the world can be found in a huge selection of mediums—paint, clay, glass, porcelain, wood, rock, straw, corn husks, egg shells, fabric, string, crystal, paper, nut shells, words, even bouillon cubes, cardboard—anything and everything at hand or specifically planned to craft a representation of the event, including USPS postage stamps!  You will also see that is true of the ones in my collection.

As I mentioned before, you would expect the figures in a Nativity set to look like people in the Holy Land.  That isn’t necessarily true, though.  And you may wonder why some of the shepherds have floppy hats and knee pants, or Mary has blond hair, or the wise men are on horses.  Though Joseph is most often depicted with a lantern, the other figures are represented by various styles and cultures during the time they were created. 

The floppy hat shepherds are usually Dutch or Italian, at least patterned after those done during the Renaissance.  The figures that are dressed very richly with wide borders of woven and embroidered trimming around the edges of the sleeves and hems of the garments are a depiction of the Nativity as seen by the Byzantine Empire, around the 4^th century when the Roman Empire Capitol moved to Constantinople.  I have a painting somewhere in the basement—I couldn’t find it—by a French painter by the name of Le Roi who painted the Nativity in a cave—which is actually what historians think is the original stable.

So, look around and check out the differences and the similarities in what is displayed. And see if you can notice how, from the oldest to the newest, the baby figure has moved from the manger to Mary’s arms and even some figures that show Joseph AND Mary holding the baby together.   Joseph has certainly been given a much more supportive role in some of the depictions.

Perhaps you remember that song in Primary about all the things Joseph did before they left for Bethlehem and then after baby Jesus was born.  This poem also reminds us what a central role Joseph played in this great event.

Joseph  By Gilbert Thomas

Who has not caroled Mary,

And who her praise would dim?

But what of humble Joseph:

Is there no song for him?

If Joseph had not driven

Straight nails through honest wood;

If Joseph had not cherished

His Mary as he should:

If Joseph had not proven him

A sire both kind and wise:

Would he have drawn with favor

The child’s all-probing eyes?

Would Christ have prayed “Our Father”

Or cried that name in death,

Unless he first had honored

Joseph of Nazareth?

When we lived in Sweden in the early 1980’s, the ornaments on the Christmas trees were all hearts.  The gingerbread wasn’t baked into Gingerbread Boys or Gingerbread Houses.  It was baked into heart shapes, some as big as a dinner plate, and hung on the tree!  And there were also heart-shaped straw ornaments and paper hearts, too.

It seemed odd to me, who was still a fairly young woman and steeped in our own American culture where hearts were the predominate decoration for Valentine’s Day—NOT Christmas.

But I’ve thought a lot about that since our time in Sweden, and I have decided that a heart is a VERY appropriate symbol for Christmas.  That is because THE CHRISTMAS STORY is a story of love.

It is the story of God’s love for us by sending His firstborn spirit child to earth to be His only begotten son in the flesh.  It is the story of Jesus Christ who loved us so much He agreed to come to earth to be our Savior and Redeemer.  It is the story of Joseph’s love for Mary that he didn’t divorce her or put her away when he learned she was going to have a baby.  It is the story of Mary’s love for her perfect little baby. 

That’s why I decided that the ornament I am going to give you this year is a little blown-glass heart.  Let it be a reminder that this Christmas can be the story of your love for those who are around you that may be in that need of “charitable thoughts and words”.   Write a special love story of your own this month…over and over and over.

So now—go on a treasure hunt!  Find a favorite and share with me why it appeals to you.  Merry Christmas!

A HALF DOZEN DOZEN EQUALS SEVENTY-TWO....

“STARRY,  STARRY,  SILENT NIGHT”

 CHRISTMAS NATIVITY FESTIVAL

Presented by Georgia Nichols

Saturday, December 2, 2017.  My 72nd birthday.  When I got up Louis put his arms around me and wished me a happy birthday and told me he hoped I would have a good day.

I assured him I knew I would.  I couldn't think of a better way to spend my birthday than the way the day had been planned...hosting an open house for my friends and neighbors, so they could see my beautiful Nativity collection.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

What a sweet  spirit of Christmas all those Nativities bring to our home.  They are a testimony to me of the reality of that one, wonderful night that Christ was born to be our Savior and Redeemer.

I had worked most of the last two weeks arranging and re-arranging all over the house most--but not all--of my extensive collection of plain, fancy, inexpensive, pricey, and "thrift store finds" nativities.  I had gone to bed the night before at 1 am satisfied that my guests would feel that same sweet spirit I could feel as I lovingly placed each Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, Shepherd, Wise Man, Sheep, Donkey, Camel, Cow, Horse, and even the Angels (some with wings intact) into and out of stables, mangers, or sitting on attractive cloths.  Yes, it had been a labor of love and anticipation.  And worth every minute I had spent determining the best way to showcase these treasures.


“STARRY,  STARRY,  SILENT NIGHT”
                                                                            lasted all day, and it was a wonderful birthday!

A POSITIVE NEGATIVE....

I was flying all day on Saturday, September 30th which was the first day of October 2017 General Conference.  I hate to miss hearing the gospel messages in their original broadcast.  So, I was happy that I had a scheduled day off on Sunday, October 1st.  I like the feeling I have had a Church experience, even though the broadcast comes right into my own home, so I still go to a stake center to view the Sunday morning session of General Conference.  This time I went to the Loveland Stake Center because it is actually closer to us than our own Windsor Stake Center.

I felt spiritual uplift from all the messages that morning, but when Elder Donald L. Hallstrom began talking about a man who had miraculously survived an accidental fall from Mount Shasta while hiking, I was just about to silently make a statement that some people don't survive whatever accident they incur.

Before I could let that thought settle on my mind, however, I heard Brother Hallstrom continue..."But what about those who do not receive the expected miracles that are prayed for?"

Then he gave this definition:  Miracle.  A beneficial event brought about through divine power.

I thought of Jeremy's death and the way I have often described that event as a "positive negative".  Indeed, if Jeremy had to die there were so many positive aspects about that negative occurrence that those positives were blessings in themselves to comfort us.  Each a tiny miracle which, I am convinced, were brought about through divine power.  They spoke of a heavenly long-view  with details that were orchestrated long before that fateful morning in July 1987

Jeremy's death was an accident.  No one to blame.  No one to forgive.

Jeremy wasn't kidnapped, tortured, or left to suffer somewhere.

Jeremy's death wasn't self-inflicted, so there was no guilt to deal with, no wondering why....

Ross had just returned from a business trip and I was at home with my Visiting Teachers who had made an appointment to visit me that morning.

Jeremy wasn't alone when he fell from the tree.  He was with friends and his sister Burgandy.   They enlisted the help of a worker from the Church Ditch Company who gave Jeremy CPR.

That first responder act bought Jeremy a few hours so he didn't die at the tree but at the hospital the following afternoon.

We had about 24 last hours to spend with Jeremy to say the "I love yous." The  "I'm sorries."  The "goodbyes."  There were sad moments but funny ones, too, like when Britty insisted to Karen Frei that it was okay for her to have Pepsi because diet drinks were against her religion!

Families from our ward were with us throughout the night and the next day providing food for those waiting with us in the hospital, giving loving care for our children by staying with them at our home or taking them to their home to sleep.

The sudden spiritual understanding I had in the car on McIntyre Street when the whole family was preparing to pick which cemetery we wanted for Jeremy's final resting place.  A comment Harold made which his Seminary teacher had said was the catalyst for that understanding.  Jeremy wasn't just a statistic like I had initially thought--at the wrong place at the right time.  His time in mortality was over for whatever reason, and I could accept that and move forward or be bitter and rage against God.  I chose to move forward.

Someone anonymously gifted us with brand new temple clothes in which Jeremy was buried.

The funeral director belonged to the Church and provided a loving atmosphere as we planned Jeremy's funeral service.  (I had dreaded that part because it was such a garish experience when Grandma Nichols died and we had to choose her casket etc.)  But this was a blessing.

Ross was adamant that the kids be involved with every aspect of Jeremy's funeral, where he was buried, and then design the headstone which became the permanent marker of his grave.

The Golden Cemetery personnel who were also caring and compassionate.  They even made arrangements for Ross and Harold and Brice and Schuyler to fill Jeremy's grave by shoveling the dirt themselves after the dedication of the grave...one last service for his turn on earth.

The impact on our non-member friends and neighbors was phenomenal.  They silently witnessed all the loving concern and service bestowed on us from the first minutes after Jeremy fell from the tree until well after this cataclysmic event was nothing but ripples for everyone else.  Most attended the funeral, which in itself was enlightening because of its intimate focus on Jeremy as a person.

•     One family was so impressed, they called me and said because they had watched how our church took care of us,  they wanted to know more.  They began taking the missionary discussions and subsequently joined the Church.
•     When  school began again, Schuyler's  2nd grade teacher had all the kids in the class meet a day early.  She told them about the sad thing that had happened to the Nichols family that summer so the kids would know and not find out in whispers from kids in other classes.  A thoughtful and loving gesture for Schuyler who was apprehensive about returning to school.

The first thing I noticed about Ross' Patriarchal Blessing was the part that said his ancestors had rejoiced when he joined the Church, as he would be their means of obtaining salvation.  After Jeremy's death I came to know that part of his mission is to preach the gospel to those many, many Nichols family members who have gone on before.  Who better to do that than a member of your own family!  That possibility of Jeremy's role in uniting a family has been a source of comfort to me many times over the years when I have missed him with the bone-deep ache of separation until we are reunited.

All of these "beneficial events" flashed through my mind as Elder Hallstom was speaking.  When he closed his remarks by saying spiritual miracles are available to all of God's children and those miracles should be our supreme focus, I silently testified that I have been the recipient of a multitude of spiritual miracles.  Jeremy's death was just one MAJOR time when I have benefitted from that divine power. 

Our lives are full of "warm tones and tiny miracles".  Focus on them as you give daily thanks for the divine intervention that is omnipresent in everything we do.

 




























But I am grateful which become personal friends over the next six months as I listen to them in the car.

GOLDEN NUGGETS OF THOUGHT

I believe the Family Home Evening program was divinely inspired, and that the promises associated with having regular Family Home Evenings are sure and worth the time and effort.

Family Home Evening was first instituted in the early 1900's when the membership of the Church was admonished to bring their families together one night a week for gospel instruction.  Then it was emphasized again in the 1960's with a manual much like the Gospel Principles manual.  I don't think many families were plugged into FHE at the time.  But during my senior year when I was at BYU, our wards were divided into Family Home Evening groups which met together each week to ostensibly discuss some gospel principle. Instead those meetings were a hot bed for flirting, pairing off, and getting a date for the next day's Devotional or the Friday night stomp.  I sincerely do not remember ever having a real lesson.

Could be because I was smitten with the guy who had been put in charge of the group--Larry Dilly.  Larry Dilly--just  returned from a mission, in pre-med, an Idaho farm boy, and the object of my romantic desires.  He had the dark hair that always captivated me--no blondie for my dream guy!  Apparently, he had also been bitten by the love bug, and miraculously, it was I who was the object of HIS fancy.

It didn't take long before our friendship was soon moving toward something more serious.  By Thanksgiving, and then Christmas we were seeing each other all the time.  I even stayed longer at BYU for the Christmas break because Larry was staying longer, I think for the campus job he had. It was sooo hard to say goodbye for the holidays

I had lavished the little money I had on Larry for what I thought was a mighty fine present.  No gift for me, but he sent flowers to me in Rawlins.  Expectations for commitment were running high on my end.  I could hardly wait to get back to Provo for finals in January.  I was sure there might be something we wanted to discuss.  I imagined it all in my mind.  The wedding, the marriage.  Yes. YES. YES!!!  I would support him in school clear through his becoming a full-fledged doctor.  I would give my almost free-of-school life for him!

Imagine my surprise when classes resumed in January and instead of our relationship racheting up, Larry was clearly not interested in me any more.  Family Home Evening became awkward and downright painful for me.  It wasn't long before I was done with THAT little bit of gospel learning.

Fast forward a few years during which I met Ross, we got married, had Harold and Brice, and moved to the Welch Court house.  It was the early 70's.  The Church came out with a whole different sort of FHE manual.  Family friendly and full of fun ideas.   It was our weekly "Bible" when it came to holding FHE.  There was a new manual every year, and every year we  had every lesson in the book .  Little by little, we added our own special "TRA -NICHOLS-TIONS" to make Monday night--literally from supper through bedtime--a true Nichols Family Home Evening.

By then I was well aware that the efforts made to hold Family Home Evening were worth their weight in gold.  That consistent practice was the glue that held us together through good times, and a lot of years that weren't so good.  I am so grateful that the kids loved FHE, too.   Our kids would never accept an invitation to do something with a friend on Monday night.  FHE was too fun to miss, so they invited their friends to come and be with US.  So friends often came and joined in the fun.

Well, Family Home Evening has been so ingrained in my life that I still have it.  Usually for one, though.  Louis has never warmed up to the enthusiasm the Nichols Family always had for FHE.  No matter where I am on Monday night, I have FHE in my hotel room.  I sing "There Is Beauty All Around", say the opening prayer, and have a lesson for one.  Sometimes it is a Conference Address, sometimes an article in the Ensign.  Often I set aside BYU Magazine so I can use the one spiritual article in each issue for one of my FHE lessons.  Then I work a cross word puzzle or read a chapter in a book for my activity and end the night with a treat, just like always.

Tonight I picked up the SPRING 2017 BYU Magazine which has been sitting on my kitchen desk ever since it arrived in the mail, just waiting for my personal "FHE for ONE".  Good article from Matthew O. Richardson's Devotional Address last October about his four BYU mementos. 

The best part was the many aphorisms he quoted--true golden nuggets.  And because I am still an aphorism addict, I add them here to share their wisdom and food for thought.

Ezra Taft Benson:  "It is our privilege to store our memories with good and great thoughts and bring them out on the stage of our minds at will."

Spencer W. Kimball:  "When you look in the dictionary for the most important word, do you know what it is?  It could be remember...."

Winston Churchill:  "Success is not final,  failure is not fatal:  it is the courage to continue that counts."

Karl G. Maeser:  "Be yourself, but always your better self."

Jeffrey R. Holland:  "You gotta believe...you gotta believe."  [That God will work his mighty miracles for you, too.]

Pick one of these little golden nuggets and make it yours--for a day, a week, a month--and see if it doesn't bring a patina to some aspect of your life that might need uplift.  There are great lessons here.  Mine them....

COUSINS!

Courtney Cox said:  Cousins are people that are ready made friends.  You have laughs with them and remember good times at a young age forever.

My niece Janet Hamblin Smith had a brilliant idea a couple of years ago that she would like to renew acquaintance with some of her Huggins cousins with whom she had formed friendships when they were all much younger.  That idea slowly developed and finally blossomed into a full-blown Huggins Cousins Reunion.  Bette, Marcie, and Georgia are the only aunts still around, so they were invited to represent the first generation Huggins kids.

The reunion was held in Alpine, Utah, Saturday, August 19, 2017.  Janet was the overseer and the hostess, having logged literally countless hours in planning and executing a fun afternoon for over 75 family members who were able to attend.  All came with the giddy anticipation of seeing people that belonged to their family.  Lots of pictures were taken, and I was apprehensive about seeing them because I am so very  un-photogenic. But I was pleasantly surprised to see I didn't look half bad--and I know it was because I was genuinely happy to see everyone and be with my family.  It reflected in my face. 

 As an added treat for those of us who lived in Rawlins, George Huggins who is our first cousin, came to represent Uncle Aft's family. ( Grandpa Huggins' brother's son.)

Georgia and George at the Huggins Cousins Reunion

Janet asked me to prepare a trivia game with some Huggins  Family history that we could play as a group during the festivities.  I had a good time reading through journals, bits and pieces of writing my mother had jotted down, and memories the family had of Grandpa and Grandma Huggins.  

In one of the boxes where I found several small notebooks in which Grandma Huggins chronicled her days--like a diary--I discovered this picture of me and George. It was one of those pictures in a booth that came in a strip of four for 25 cents.  We were probably eight or nine.  No date....

I do remember when the one below was taken, probably about 1956 or 1957. It was during one of the trips Uncle Aft spearheaded to Denver with my dad and mom and probably only Marcia and me in our car, as well as Uncle Aft, Aunt Fern and George Lee in their car.   We went to Lakeside Amusement Park, Museum of Natural History and lots of other amazing places to kids who lived in a hick town in Wyoming.  Wonderful memories.  

And, as I was reminiscing, I remembered something I wrote about that relationship in one of the Nichols Family Newsletters years ago.  That is where I rediscovered this picture of George and me.  Cousins are great! 

      

·         A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.                                                                                                                                                Marion C. Garretty

·         By the time I showed up in the Huggins/Crane extended families, most of my first cousins were already parents and some were soon-to-be grandparents.  On my dad’s side only my adopted cousin George Huggins, who lived up the street from me in Rawlins, was younger that I was.  Two other boy cousins, who were sons of my dad’s sister, were just two and four years older than me.  Their siblings were all older, too. My Grandma Huggins lived with them in the Sugar House neighborhood of Salt Lake City.  We didn’t see them often. But when we did, I don’t remember much more than a feeling of their superiority because Grandma lived upstairs in their house on Blaine Avenue.  However, when I was a freshman at BYU, there was a knock on the door one Sunday night and there stood Terry Reid, the younger one, who was dating a girl in our dorm and somehow recognized my name.  He had just returned from his mission and was one handsome man!  Too bad he was a cousin—and engaged to be married.

·          

On my mom’s side of the family, only Aunt Cornelia and Uncle Bill had kids younger than I was.  Fred Butterfield was just older than I and his sisters Ralphene and Helen were both younger.  They lived in Herriman, Utah, on the same block as Grandma Crane’s tiny little cottage. (They all suffered from asthma, and their house always smelled like urine.  So, I equated the two.  I was shocked years later to find out that asthma had to do with lungs—not kidneys!)  Truthfully, I don’t know Uncle Bill’s kids, but I did run into some of them at BYU.  Not really interested in forming some kind of relationship, though my mother would have liked that.  (I can understand that now, not then.)

So  George Huggins, and my second cousin Lynn Butterfield (daughter of my mother’s first cousin Tony), were the only cousins that were close enough in age—and location—to have any kind of friendship.  I was born in December 1945.  George’s birthday was Washington’s birthday in 1946 (February 22^nd). Lynn was also born in 1946 but not until September 13th.  The three of us were all in the same grade, as Lynn barely made the cut-off which was September 15^th.  We lived within a few blocks of each other and all went to Mountain View School.  George and I had the same teachers the last few years of elementary school, but Lynn was always in the opposite class (every grade had two classes).  Obviously, we all went to Church together, too.  The early years we were often together playing at each other’s houses or when our whole families went to the mountains for a huge campout together.



  

  

A MEMORY THAT MATTERS....

Note:  I recently read of a book by Jefferson A. Singer whose premise is to teach a person how to use self-defining memories in his/her personal story which will help define "the real you".  This is one memory that I have reflected on many times in my life.  And I recognize this experience as one that literally changed me and made the "real" me.  I shared it in the NICHOLS FAMILY NEWSLETTER MAY 2006, but in case you forgot or never had a chance to read it....here it is as it was originally  published!

WORDS OF WISDOM…There are times in our lives when  the right words spoken at the right  moment can transform us.  They  challenge us at a crossroads, carry us through times of sorrow, or dare us to action.  This is the story of one of Momma G’s transformations.

I had dreamed of being a teacher ever since I was a little girl.  And, after I had Mildred Chaffin for Sophomore English at Rawlins High School, I solidified that dream into one of being a high school English teacher.  Mildred Chaffin was from Iowa,  a thin, unattractive woman with a sharp nose and nondescript “dishwater blond” hair.  It was long, thick, dry and usually unstyled and bushy. She had the husky voice of a chain smoker and always wore sling back high heels with open toes (even when it was cold and snowy) which produced a loud staccato as she walked purposefully down the hall or in her classroom.  Mrs. Chaffin didn’t smile often, and her voice was not pleasant but abrupt and to the point.    She wasn’t the sort of teacher to whom adolescents gravitated, nor did she seem popular with the other teachers and staff, though she was married to the good-looking and affable man who was the head bus driver and in charge of all school transportation. 

For the entire first semester of Sophomore English Mrs. Chaffin seemed harsh and demanding, far  beyond 15/16 year old capabilities, it seemed.  But I was in an accelerated class (now they call them GT) and much was expected of us.  I worked hard for my grades, as I didn’t want to be the target of her critical comments.  And Mrs. Chaffin knew English—backwards, forwards, inside out. (That was the year we did Silas Marner. I made Grandma Huggins sew the clothes for the character Nancy Lammeter as my special term project.  Remember? I showed you the doll with those special outfits still in its gold cardboard case just the way I submitted it for grading.) 

Truthfully, I was kind of afraid of Mrs. Chaffin, yet grew to admire her and appreciate her special talent for making us want to learn about the English language.  She set her standard the first semester, and when the second semester rolled around we were disciplined enough that she began to loosen up and actually joked around with us.  I became excited for that period each day to see what she was going to present and how innovative her presentation was. 10^th grade English was a great warm up for those of us lucky enough to be in it, because Mrs. Chaffin taught English to everyone in the 12^th grade.  So, we had her again a couple of years later.  It seemed seniors dreaded English class each year after having heard the stories from those who had experienced Mrs. Chaffin’s expectations in previous years.  However, my accelerated class had the advantage of already knowing what she was like and what she expected.  We lost no time picking up where we had left off as sophomores.  12^th grade English was geared to more sophisticated learning as we explored “Macbeth” and Les Miserables, and much more advanced grammar and writing skills.

 When I was a senior, I was president of my high school’s chapter of Future Teachers of America.  That organization gave its members an opportunity to do some “student teaching”.  I selected Mrs. Chaffin’s current, accelerated 10^th grade English class to “show my stuff”.  Mrs. Chaffin was full of praise for my ability and seeming talent to draw out the class in discussion.  It was a heady experience to be in front of other students and lead them into avenues of language exploration and learning.  I was exhilarated and anxious to begin my college career so I could be a “real” teacher.

 

When I arrived at Brigham Young University in September 1964, I declared English as my major and set about designing my schedule for the four years ahead.  By taking a history exam worth three credit hours, I had all general requirements behind me by the second semester of my BYU sophomore year. 

As I returned to Provo for my junior year at BYU, I began that long-awaited Teacher Education 301B—the beginning class for high school teaching certification.  And….I HATED it!  It wasn’t at all like I had imagined.  We started out with something they called “Maeger Objectives”.  It was this complicated formula of classroom goal setting, I think. (Comparable to all the theorems of solid geometry which I was never able to master either.)

To this day I do not know what THAT had to do with teaching (the University dropped that approach a few years later).  I only knew I wanted to be in front of a class and teach ideas and mechanics, not be bound by performance objectives that didn’t teach ANYTHING!  I felt like the profession I had always wanted held no promise for me.  It seemed like it would be more like being in a prison of my own choosing.  I expressed my disappointment to roommates and family, and was met with statements much like this, “You’d better certify to teach anyway.  You’ll need something to fall back on in case you can’t get a job.  You can always get a job as a teacher.”

As those first few weeks of classes came and went, I became more and more discouraged about the choice I had made and seriously wondered if I could stand being a teacher doing something that satisfied a curriculum requirement with no potential for personal satisfaction. 

Midterms came, and my test score was far from a stellar performance.  I was bummed enough as it was when I saw my posted grade.  Then I got a note from the professor that he wanted to visit with me.  I was sure I was going to get the same “pressure” talk about the need to improve so I could certify.  I wasn’t looking forward to meeting with him.

Timing of the appointment couldn’t have been worse.  Oh, the weather was gorgeous.  It was a beautiful Fall day on campus.  However, the night before, the guy I was crazy about had told me he wasn’t crazy about me.  What an emotional blow!  And that morning I had exchanged some cross words with my roommate Ann  Boyd whom I really had a hard time tolerating, let alone liking.  Then on top of all that, I got back to the campus parking lot after my first class only to find a parking ticket on my car. 

By the time I got to Professor Lyal Holder’s office, I was a wreck.  He began the interview by saying, “I perceive you are not happy in this class.”  All of the frustrations of six weeks of class and the previous 24 hours caught up with me as I started to cry and tried to get myself under control.  I was sure Brother Holder was going to come down hard on me now!

Instead, he opened his desk drawer and took out a box of Kleenex, patted me on the arm and said, “When you are finished, we’ll talk.”  With that the floodgates opened, and I began to bawl in earnest.  I sobbed and cried while the tears streaming down my cheeks mingled with the snot from my runny nose.  I couldn’t seem to stop!  What a sight I must have been.  Messy mascara was rapidly turning my eyes into a raccoon mask. (This was the 60’s with HEAVY eye makeup!)

Brother Holder motioned for his assistant and asked him to go to the classroom where the professor was scheduled to teach that hour and indicate there would be no class that day.  Then he sat patiently while I slowly regained some semblance of composure.

My story spilled out.  No, I wasn’t happy.  It wasn’t what I thought teacher training was going to be like, and I no longer wanted to be a teacher.  I had come to abhor the idea of being chained to a classroom with rigid guidelines and papers to correct—all using that “Maeger Objective”.  But everyone seemed to be pushing me to “certify”—that magic safety net for unsuccessful job hunters. 

Truly, I thought Brother Holder was going to give me the same pep talk.  Instead he said, “Georgia, if you can’t be the kind of a teacher you would like your children to have, then don’t be a teacher.”  He paused, “What would you rather do?”

I was shocked, to say the least!  Here was a legitimate way out of my dilemma with authoritarian approval.  I thought for a few moments then told him I had always loved libraries.  Thus it was that, instead of becoming a teacher, I became a librarian.  And, the rest is history.  I graduated on May 30,1968, from Brigham Young University with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English with a Library Science minor. 

I arrived in Denver on August 31, at the end of that summer.  Three days later I found a job as a Library Assistant III at Bibliographical Center for Research, whose offices were on the third floor of the original Denver Public Library building at 13^th and Broadway.  “Bib Center” was a research library, one of three like it in the country. 

I loved the work I did as it often involved sleuthing for book titles from cryptic clues the patrons would furnish (though I didn’t care for the micromanagement of the Supervisor and Director).  I stayed in that employment until six weeks before Harold was born.  (At that time pregnant women had to quit work two months before the baby’s due date, but Harold was born early.)  It was the good result of that tearful confession with a teacher who truly had a sense that his student wasn’t cut out to be a high school English teacher.

Through the years as I have served in teaching callings in the auxiliaries of the Church, I have come to know that teaching IS one of my gifts. But that gift would never have blossomed in the public education system of the late sixties. 

Brother Holder’s words that fateful day challenged me at a crossroads in my life.  They gave me direction to move forward and not feel guilty about changing my long-held dream, but to grasp a different dream that would lead me to greater fulfillment and satisfaction.

MY MOTHER, MY MODEL, MY MENTOR....

                        MOTHER'S    DAY   TALK--MAY 12, 2002, ARVADA 6TH WARD

I missed the last three days of school the year I was in the 4th grade because I got the mumps.  What a devastation!  All the fun stuff was happening, and I was missing it while stuck in bed in my bedroom which was darkened during the day with the shades pulled--the old-fashioned way of recouperation because the thought at that time was bright light could hurt the patient's eyes.  My mother always let us have her delicate blown glass cup and carafe full of ice water on the dresser to quench our thirst when hot and feverish. We weren't even allowed to get up and eat at the table with the family.  My mother served our meals in by our bedside, fussing over us by using a clean dish towel to cover the chair and then pulling it up to the side of the bed if we were too sick to sit up.  Or if we were well enough to sit up, she would cover the painted green wooden tray with a clean cloth and serve our meal to us in that fashion.  This illness was no exception to those rules.  The first few days I felt pretty sick, and the bed was a comfort. But after the fever and discomfort subsided, the days dragged by.  The shades could finally be left up, and I saw those beautiful May days slipping by while I was still confined to my bed.  I remember reading about one Nancy Drew mystery book a day.  Then even that favorite pastime became boring.

My mother came to the bedroom door one afternoon and said I could go into the dining room where she was sewing.  What a treat!  It was like walking into the house after a long vacation--everything was familiar, but it seemed strange, too.  The dining room tablecloth was off, and stacked on the table were all kinds of fabric scraps which my mother had cut into various sized circles. Then she sewed around the outside of each one with a basting stitch on the sewing machine, instructing me to pull the threads carefully so the gathers came together into a bunch making a little pouch.  When all the circles were gathered, we flattened each one and layered them into four short stacks and four stacks each a little taller.  We were making clowns!  I don't know where she got the idea, Relief Society maybe or maybe she had made them some other time, but we threaded through each stack with colored yarn.  At the bottom she knotted the end with a pompom.  After the body was put together she made the heads, complete with pointed hats all out of fabric.  Lastly, she embroidered funny little faces on each one.  Hers she made look mischievous.  Mine was just cute.

I still have those little clowns in my cedar chest.  I never see them or think of them without thinking of how special my mother could make some experiences--even a common childhood illness.  She was so thoughful of our feelings and sensitive to our pint-sized needs.  It seemed like weeks before I was well enough to be able to resume the summer life of a ten year old.  It probably wasn't too many days, yet I  recall fondly how we listened to the baseball game broadcast over the radio each afternoon.  She had liked Babe Ruth.  And though he had been dead many years, I decided my favorite team was the New York Yankees in spite of the fact  I was from a small town on the windy plateaus of south-central Wyoming.

I don't remember any other time that we did either of those activities again.  It doesn't matter.  The memories of those days have become for me  the epitome of my mother's greatness.  They have etched a lasting impression of the uniqueness of how she magnified her calling as a mother.  

Brother Palmer asked me to speak this morning about some of the attributes of my mother, how I have appreciated and emulated those in my life, and then expres how I can pass that legacy of teachings onto others.

Maude Marie Crane Huggins was 43 when I was born, the youngest in a family of eight girls and one boy.  Though I knew her only for less than half of her life, still those characteristics I remember are the hallmarks of her entire life. 

First and foremost, my mother was a lady in every sense of the word.  That she had refinement was something I took for granted until at age 12 or 13 one of my friends pointed that out to me.  Then I began to notice that she was always particular about her own appearance,  her conversation, and her way of doing things. We always had a cloth on the table for meals, and the food was always in serving dishes with the proper serving spoon, no bottles of dressing or pans on the table ever.  My mother had great dignity even when ill and in the hospital. She walked with her head up, never down--a fine carriage, and always sat as a lady with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap.  I can’t think of a time I ever saw her without a hanky.  She was even buried with one in her hands.  When cleaning she did not look grubby.  And when she went out--for any reason--her hair was combed and she had on appropriate attire for the occasion. 

My mother made sure her girls didn't go out looking tacky either.  She always rinsed our hair until it was squeaky clean so it would shine with natural highlights.  We had Sunday best clothes, second best clothes, school clothes, and old work clothes.  And we had to change our clothes after church and school so we didn't wear the right clothes at the wrong time and shorten their life through carelessness. No pins either, and definitely no holes--what would people think if we were in an accident and we had holes in our underwear.

My mother was an outstanding homemaker. She could make a tasty meal out of "nothing" as easily as she could cook a bounteous feast.  She was an excellent seamstress--the original kind who didn't need a Simplicity or Vogue pattern to make attractive clothes.  Her talent was to look in the pattern books and adapt those pictures to patterns she already had--or make patterns out of brown paper sacks she held up to our bodies--turning out a finished product that was both professional and prize-worthy.  She was a creative sewer and could take a used garment and make a brand new one out of the best parts of it.  She made white blouses out of men's white shirts, a jumper and coat with yellow taffeta lining for me out of my brother-in-law's wool Navy dress blues he'd worn in the military.  Underwear, outerwear, she sewed everything--including exquisite wedding dresses.  My mother had an attention to detail observed only in the best of seamstresses.  The inside of the garment was as nicely finished as the outside.  Plaids and stripes were always perfectly matched, seams precise as gauged by her eye and not by any line on the throat plate of the sewing machine.  Hems and facings were done evenly with care, too, so everything was perfect.  Many summers she won blue ribbons at the county fair for both cooking and sewing. 

Being a good hostess was also one of her attributes.  She always made people feel welcome and that she had nothing better to do than visit with them or fix them a meal or a place to sleep--stangers included who often came as a result of the highways through Rawlins being closed because of blizzards.

Our home also reflected my mother's cleanliness.  She taught us to respect our material possessions and treat our home with care.  One of her sayings was, "Clean the corners first, and then you'll be sure to want to clean the middle, too."  We were instructed to make the beds in such a way so that when we stood at the door of the room, we could be proud of our efforts and not embarrassed.  She never left dirty dishes on the table or in the sink no matter how small a snack even, except once that I can remember.  It was the Sunday I was baptized. When we got up from dinner and left the dishes to go to my baptism, I knew it must be a pretty important occasion.

My mother was a peacemaker.  She sacrificed her own health, comfort and wants to keep peace in the family and make others happy.  Even  in her last illness, her concern was for the nurses and for her family rather than for herself.  She was a quiet disciplinarian.  We only needed a gentle pat on the knee or a subtle shake of her head to let us know we were in error at church or otherwise in public.  At home she used the time-out chair long before it came in vogue with child psychologists. But it was for an hour of quiet thought that we sat there and not a minute for each year of age like nowdays. 

 Never did my mother use crude or vulgar language.  Never ever did she condescend to listen to anything off-color.  She abhorred gossiping, and never ever succumbed to that temptation either.  Instead she always made sure she pointed out something good in that person.  We usually hated to have her do that, because if we were out for blood our accusations fell flat.  She had a genuine concern for others and their feelings.  Particularly her sons-in-law whom she always championed.   Even if we were right in what we were complaining about, that fussing fell on deaf ears as she recounted all the good qualities of that daughter's husband.  Needless to say, those mother-in-law jokes never applied to her.  Her sons-in-law loved and revered her as dearly as they did their own mothers.

My mother was a friend to her children.  She played paper dolls on the floor with us, joked with us, and made candy on Sunday night after Sacrament meeting with us while we played Chinese checkers or read.  She rocked us and bathed u s while telling us stories about her childhood and she often sang songs that became our favorites even though some were sad songs and made us cry like "Poor Babes in the Wood".  Ordinary times became special, almost like a party, when she cut the sandwiches for an everyday lunch into fancy shapes or pulled out a treat of jelly beans or mints from some secret hiding place.  When I was a teenager, it was my house all the girls in the ward wanted to come to and there were many, many impromtu slumber parties which always ended the next morning with a delicious pancake or waffle breakfast. 

Reverence was one of her sterling qualities--reverence for her temple garments so that as I saw her treatment of them I could hardly wait to go to the temple so I could wear them. Reverence for the Sabbath.  It was a quiet day that reflected a true change of activities from every other day of the week including that we wore a dress all day long, second best after we changed our Sunday clothes.  Saturday was spent preparing for Sunday--just like the Primary song.  It was Sunday that I was most homesick of all when I went away to college.  Reverence for new life.  She was excited, not only when her own babies and grandchildren were expected and subsequently born, but she was also excited for the new babies in the ward, too.  She often said it was unthinkable to be cross or impatient with such tender new beings entrusted to us by the Lord. 

I learned the Old Testatment Bible stories from my mother.  She taught me to memorize the books of the Old Testatment while drying the silverware.  She was my Jr. Sunday School teacher for a number of years.  But it was her calling as ward organist that taught me the most.  She was also the 9th but in a family of 13. There wasn't a lot of money so it was her older sister who had the opportunity to take piano lessons.  Then her sister would teach my mother when she got home from the lesson.  Just about the time she was 14 her father said they finally had enough money for her to take lessons, but he died before the teacher had received the music book he had sent for to New York City to teach her out of.  No money. No lessons.  However, she continued to practice and over time became the ward organist serving in that capacity for over 50 years and finally realized her dream of taking lessons the year before I went to Kindergarten.  My father's birthday present to my mother that year was a year of organ lessons in the Assembly Hall on Temple Square with Dr. Frank Asper, one of the Tabernacle organists. She and I would board the train in Rawlins every Tuesday night at midnight, ride the train all night to Salt Lake City, where we would arrive in time the next morning to walk up the street to Temple Square for her 9 AM lesson for three hours.  Then we would window shop--and sometimes have a 5 cent donut hot out of the donut machine at W.T. Grant's or on rare occasions lunch at the counter at Walgreen’s--before walking back to the train station and boarding the train at 5 PM for the return trip to Rawlins.  It wasn’t until much later I learned that she often had only the dollar my dad would slip to her as we boarded the train.  During the week after the lesson, she would finish all her daytime chores before walking to the chapel about 9 PM and practicing until midnight to make sure she did the three hours practice each day that her teacher expected.  Her gratitude for that blessing of organ lessons was reflected in the way she played.  There was a rare quality of devotion that sounded in almost every hymn.

My mother's love for the gospel was always evident.  She was the RS president when I was born and for many years after.  Her stories of those sisters she  served--and mentored--have always been an invaluable resource for my own service in my church callings.  She could be counted on because she was willing to do the thankless jobs.  She always said she was a work horse who could plod on day after day doing what needed to be done when it needed to be done, not a prancing pony who could do fancy stuff but soon tired and moved onto something prettier. Her willingness to go the extra mile was never something she vocalized, but one we saw demonstated over and over and over.

I learned about dignity of person, reverence, the attributes of service and friendship, charity and unconditional love from my mother--very little of it through sermons or formal instruction but from her person because she lived that way every day.  That my mother was a good teacher is evidenced by the fine examples she set for her daughters, who in turn have used those examples to serve others in many capacities both in and out of the church.  Whether it was homemaking skills or how to play a hymn the proper way or prepare reflective prelude music for the organ my mother had a great deal of influence over the way I do things. I called on her ability to “use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without” when cash was short and needs were long with my children.

My mother was a woman for all seasons.  She set the tone for the family and left a legacy of memories and teachings that I will always cherish.  In this day and age when women are intent on making their mark in the world, it was a privilege to know that I had as my mother a woman who guided the destinies of, not one or two, but nine children.  Her influence, or mark, will be felt for generations to come as I emulate those same sterling qualities she mentored for me. 

I close with verses from Proverbs 31........which must have been my mother's guide, whether she knew it or not. 

Proverbs 31

10 ¶ Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.

 The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.

 She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.

 She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands...

 She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens...

 She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms.

 She perceiveth that her merchandise is good: her candle goeth not out by night.

 She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff.

 She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.

 She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet.

 She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple...

 Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.

 She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

 She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.

 Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.

 Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.

I pray that I may reflect her teachings in my own life so that others will be better for having known me because she regarded her calling as mother to be sacred.

I will be forever proud to say--"She was my mother!"

In the name of Jesus Christ.  Amen.