Since I entered my forties a few years back, I’ve been offered masses of conflicting ‘truths’ and ‘knowledge.’
Everything is downhill from here.
You’re still young! Forty is the new thirty!
Well, you’re in your forties. Increased injury and weight gain is just normal.
Oh, you have no idea. Wait till you hit fifty. Then your body really starts to fall apart.
And um, not a single one of those is comforting. Because my forties have hit me hard. Really hard. I feel nothing like thirty and if I continue at this pace I will be three hundred pounds and barely crawling by fifty (wearing my knees raw trying to run my six miles, lift weights and eat my pound of raw veggies every day).
With all the negative talk and my own fairly dramatic symptoms, I’ve been looking around in wonder at all these healthy vibrant happy gray-haired people. Can it really be that hard for everyone?
So you can imagine my delight yesterday when my widowed friend, Florence reassured me, “I feel better now than I did at twenty-eight!”
And look, I just happen to have a photo of Florence on her eighty-third birthday two weeks ago.
You’ve heard plenty of moving anecdotes about Pres. Hinckley’s August of 2005 challenge to read or reread The Book of Mormon by the end of the year. My story is a bit less inspiring.
We completed the final chapter, gathered our wild little tribe in a circle to pray and I asked, “What did you feel? What did you learn?”
My oldest son, with one sibling bellowing in his ear and another stomping on his toes answered, “I learned I don’t want to have so many kids when I grow up!”
The boys laughed, I cried and we forever changed our pattern of scripture study. Continue reading
After spying this tempting pie on Instagram, I begged my friend for the recipe. But when she sent the list of ingredients over, I thought, “This can’t possibly be right! It needs something else– cream of tartar or gelatin, more cream.”
My sister had the same reaction, “Are you sure this will work?” Continue reading
7:30 a.m., girls’ hair twisted into messy buns, boys shirts looking more than a bit rumpled. I don’t blame the kids for dozing a bit at the Stake Youth Meeting. But when the visiting General Authority began to discuss dating, heads popped up from their neighbors’ shoulders as every eye focused on the podium.
Most of his message echoed For the Strength of Youth (forever and always hereafter known as FSOY) as he outlined guidelines. But then…
“You know what would be really great?” he enthused, “If your very first kiss was over the altar at your temple marriage. Not that I did anything like that, but wow, wouldn’t it be neat?”
As a rule, I respect anyone’s efforts to be righteous. When one friend confides she never reads magazines, even in doctors’ offices, in order to keep her mind pure and another discusses her five-year supply of food, clothing and fuel, I think, “Good for you.” But when someone, even a General Authority promotes their faux-orthodox ideas over the pulpit I tend to bristle.
And kissing? Kissing is simply glorious. Continue reading