Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

It's that awful sort of weather When my nostrils stick together When my fingers lose sensation; Tingling, numb for the duration Twenty minutes just to dress me Winter's wonders so depress me

I apologize up front for having no photos to post today.  Photos would be crucial to this post.  I just don't take photos.  I can't, as in, I am not capable of it, nor am I allowed to.  Ask my family.  If you and I were on a desert island and you wanted a photo taken of you next to the hut we just built, you'd be better off hunting down some coconut-eating monkey and asking it to take the photo than asking me to do it.  Trust me. Nonetheless, on days like yesterday, I wish with all my heart that I actually owned a real camera, and that I was actually capable of taking an acceptable photograph. My phone doesn't count as a camera -- if you've seen my phone, you would understand.  I don't dare insult it any more here, because it might overhear this conversation, and then I'd be completely sunk. Just trust me on this one, too. It's just that yesterday was a magical day in southeastern New Hampshire, and taking photos would have been apropos. See, ...

In 1969, baseball player Curt Flood, a center fielder for the St. Louis Cardinals, refused to be traded to the Philadelphia Phillies.   He wrote a letter to the commissioner of Major League Baseball asserting that he did not believe that he was a piece of property to be bought or sold with no input or choice in the matter, and asking to be allowed to be a free agent and make himself available to play for other teams. The commissioner refused.   Flood sued MLB, sitting out the 1970 season and taking his case all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.   His case was struck down, and the Phillies traded him to the Washington Senators, for whom he played 13 games in the 1971 season.   His baseball career was over.   Free agency was not instituted until 1975, but Flood’s lawsuit and his willingness to stand up for his rights as a ball player paved the way for other players. The idea that human beings are agents unto themselves is an ancient concept.   Freed...

I read today about the therapy dogs that traveled from Chicago to Connecticut this week to help in the comfort and theoretical recovery of the survivors of last week's tragedy.  These angelic animals have been on loan from Lutheran Church Charities in Addison, Illinois to the community of Newtown since Sunday.  The organization that trains and provides these gentle pets started in 2008 when the dogs comforted those at Northern Illinois University after five students were killed by a gunman. It began with a handful of dogs and now includes 60 dogs in six states, according to the Chicago newspaper. One line in the article stuck out to me:  "Some children smiled for the first time in days as they pet the therapy dogs..." I think about children . . . ages 5 through 10 . . . and how sad it is to imagine any child going four days . . . even four hours . . . without smiling.  I know that these children are not the only sad children in the world.  I know that th...

Human emotions befuddle me.  Maybe it’s just my own emotions, but I’d like to share the confusion with all of my species.  Emotions make no sense, and yet they hold our mortal mini-universe together.  They tie us to one another and divide us asunder.  They split our sides with laughter and break our hearts into tiny shards.  They are manageable, but never truly controllable; as soon as we stifle one emotion it just pops up in another way, generally messier and more virulent than if we had just dealt with it in its pre-gremlin form. The passage of time often softens the edges of emotions, and hopefully that will be the case today, affording more clarity and less drama to my words. A month ago, John had a heart attack.  I’ve been trying to write about it nearly all this time – when I haven’t been taking walks with him or cooking for him, or running errands or trying to pretend that life hasn’t kind of changed around here.  He’s fine.  As a mat...

"It's like 'on-a-car-ah'," is what she told people the first time she met them.  Ana Kare Edwards probably doesn't remember me, but I'll never forget her.  Her name was cool enough to remember all by itself, but she also taught me an important lesson before I ever needed it. She and I were visiting teaching companions back in 1980. Some of you readers know what that means, but for those of you who don't, visiting teaching is a program in our church where women are paired up as companions and are assigned from two to six other women in the congregation to visit every month.  When we go visiting, we take a spiritual message, but mostly we just try to be each others' friends.  We take casseroles when someone is sick, we watch each others' children, or meet on our lunch hours to check in and talk about whatever comes up -- work, school, kids, gardens, sales, our health, our dreams, our hopes . . . and on that day a very long time ago, we were tal...

Five o'clock comes early in the morning.  Too early for me.  And yet, Monday through Friday, almost without fail since last September, I have dragged myself out of bed, gotten dressed and been out the door before six a.m.  I do this so that I can meet with eight-to-ten teenagers each morning and talk with them about the scriptures for 45 minutes.  For those who aren't familiar with this unique ritual, it's called seminary, and members of my church do it all over the world.  High school students study for four years, covering the Old Testament, the New Testament, the Book of Mormon and LDS Church History.  Each course includes the memorization of 25 significant verses or blocks of verses of scripture that help to teach and reinforce the doctrines of the church.  The kids are expected to read the scriptures daily and encouraged to look for real-life applications of the principles taught there.  Sometimes that application is really easy.  Someti...