Ancestors & Gratitude

Today is the 24th of July, which always causes me to reflect on my ancestors and the heredity I have been blessed with. This is a difficult post to write without watering my eyes. I have such vivid memories of childhood. I loved my grandparents very much -not because of anything they did really, just because of the connection I naturally felt to them. Family connection is something I have always felt deeply. I know it is difficult for people to read wordy blogs, so although I am tempted to write about each grandparent, my parents, my husband, and each of my children, today I will limit myself to write about an ancestor on my mothers side. My mother is Danish. A combination of Jensen and Christensen heritage. I will start with the beginnings as I know them. Much of this story is taken from the book "The Jensen Family Saga" by the children of Andrew S. and Caroline Jensen.

On April 8, 1830, Peter Mogensen (Americanized to Monsen) was born in Denmark. When he was a young man, he worked for a wealthy landowner by the name of Christian Nielson. Peter met Christian's daughter Dorthea Marie and fell in love with her. They were engaged to be married but about that same time, Peter was converted to the Mormon church and was baptized March 9, 1853. Soon after his baptism he baptized several members of his own family including his parents, his sister, and his fiance Dorthea Marie.

The young couple soon made plans to join the members of the church in Deseret, in the Mormon Territory far from Denmark in the Americas. As you can imagine, Dorthea Marie's parents did not want her to leave. If I put myself in their position and imagine never seeing my daughter again, it is hard to imagine the pain they must have been feeling. It is said that her father offered to will all of his vast properties if they would give up the idea of going with the Mormons and stay in Denmark. If they gave up his offer, however, they would get nothing. Their minds were made up; nothing could influence their decision to join the Saints. By now they were married with a baby named Christian.

They set sail for America with their baby son, Christian, on the vessel "John J. Boyd" on the 6th day of December 1855. There were 508 people in the company; 437 of them were Scandinavian Saints. The Voyage across the Atlantic brought many sad experiences of hardship. A dreadful disease broke out among the people, and many of them went to a watery grave, little Christian being one of them. This loss brought a deep heartbreak and sorrow to his parents, who had great hopes for this little soul. I can't imagine the pain of leaving my parents in Denmark knowing I would never see them again, and then losing my only child at sea. I imagine as a woman, that the only possible way to survive such a hardship would be through great faith in Jesus Christ and the Atonement. I would have to completely surrender myself to the knowledge that I would be reunited with those I love after this life is over. The Spirit would have to bear me up completely, and fill my soul with peace, because there is no possible way that I could bear such grief without faith in Christ, and the powerful gift of the Comforter.

These painful experiences served to strengthen my ancestors and gave them the strength they needed to endure the many trials of leaving a life of wealth and comfort, to face life as a pioneer -both crossing the plains and living the rugged and challenging life on the frontier. This is just one story in a pile of stories of my ancestors that each are a part of me. I am overcome with gratitude for those that came before me. They are examples of courage, integrity, ingenuity, determination, and an undying faith in the Lord.

I Still Miss My Dog

How can a grown woman become so attached to a little animal? I grew up on a small farm on the west perimeter of town in Brigham City. We were hard-working, industrious people. My daddy purchased that land with the express idea of teaching his children the kind of work ethic he believed in.

Our dogs were family pets, but if they caused trouble with the farm animals, they were taken out and shot. That is the way of the farm. So when my oldest son Aaron was around the age of 8 and started begging for a dog, I REALLY fought him on it. 

We had tried our hand at owning a dog once before when he was little. It was a Yellow Lab named Chopper. He was a nice dog, but he was big, and he shed, and we could not keep him fenced in. Our home was new, our yard was not yet finished, he barked if chained up, but I didn't like his hair in my house. Then I got pregnant with my 3rd child, Hailey, and for some reason I began to despise him. The sight of his hair or the smell of his body would set off my gag reflex and trigger the pregnant mommy vomit. He had to go. But by then My husband was too attached. 


Fortunately, Lady Luck was smiling down on me. We went on vacation for a few days and left a neighbor to care for Chopper. He escaped, and though we searched high and low, he could not be found. We checked the pound regularly, scouted neighborhoods, posted signs, -all to no avail. We moved on. I had my baby. 


Eight months after Chopper had disappeared, my husband left for work one morning, and 10 minutes later he returned. "Nettie!!!" he cried out, "Look who I found!!!" And there he is with that dog. I have to say I was less than enthusiastic. He had found the dog jogging with a man. Chopper was now Charlie (his real name had been Charlie Choplicker anyway so that was pretty amazing)and he ran with this man everyday. He was in prime condition. He was a happy dog. He slept on the man's bed. 


Within a week I made my husband give him back. We just were not set up to care for a large dog, and anyone that was observant could tell that the dog was not as happy with us as he had been with the other family. My husband was NOT happy.


So it was with great trepidation that I embarked on this hunt for a new dog that would be more suitable for our family. It had to be a small house-dog, it could not shed, it could not be a yapper, it had to be kid-friendly. After much research we settled on a Shih-Tzu, and set out to find the one for us. It took a few weeks, but we did manage to find him. 

We registered him with the AKC as 'Bilbo Bag In' and called him 'Bubby'. He was with us for more than 17 years. He raised my kids. He slept on the bottom of my bed. He was in every family photo we took for 17 years. If I cried, he cried with me. When Dave spent 8 years caring for his mom, Bubby was my companion. In the end, I knew his time was near, but letting go was SO hard! I wanted to be sure that he was no longer enjoying life -that I wasn't putting him down just because he was soiling my floors and 'inconvenient' for me.

Domesticated companion dogs have absolutely the most exemplary personalities when it comes to exhibiting unconditional love. I am so grateful for the 17 years of love that he gave me -no matter if I was grumpy and mean to him or not. In the end, I awoke one morning to find him on the floor in the throes of a death rattle. Dave and I bundled him up and took him to the vet where they anesthetized him as I held him in my arms and he kept his eyes open, staring at me -his momma, his best friend.

If you are not someone that has ever connected with a companion animal on that level, then this seems like silly drivel to you, but if you have ever been fortunate enough to have an animal love you the way my Bubby loved me, then you know. And every time Sarah McLachlan sings while the TV shows the pitiful pictures of abused animals I feel that lump rising up in my throat, and I know that Bubby left a mark on me that nothing can erase.

Summer

Summer. The 4th of July holiday has come and gone, and with it a fear is setting in that summer will be gone before I have had the chance to find a rhythm. Being a schoolteacher has many inherent rewards. The first and by far the most rewarding is that of making a difference in the life of a child. I try very hard to remember each day that the children I serve are God's children, and there is a chance that I may be the only one in their life that is kind to them that day. I LOVE to work with the kids.


Another benefit is that my hours are basically the same as the hours I had as a child attending school. The holidays and weekends are spent with my family. I am home pretty early each day (though I often spend hours after work at home on the computer). There is that familiar rhythm of holidays and seasons that are the underlying fabric of school culture.


But summer, now that my children are grown, has become a challenge for me. There is plenty that I SHOULD get done, but not much that I WANT to do. I feel lazy. I lack motivation. MOST days I avoid even looking at my email! I am officially a slug.


So, what I WANT is to have a friend that will hike or go rock-climbing with me. I want to be fit, but I want to PLAY to become healthy. I don't want to just go to the gym or do mundane exercises. I want adventure. Why did everyone grow up?