What Really Matters, According to Me

I’ve tried to teach my children to be grateful and to express gratitude when having been given a gift. When they were generously given sports drinks (which I rarely buy), while at the home of a friend recently, not one, but TWO of them asked for a second. I was so embarrassed at such a display of poor manners. I realize their behavior is the result of my teaching, or failure to teach, as the case may be. I understand them, though. I receive gifts all the time. Then I ask for more, please. I’m sad because I didn’t get as much as I wanted. I’m disappointed I didn’t have it as long as I wanted. It wasn’t the exact kind I wanted. I’m unhappy because I’m ungrateful. I’ve had a three decade long marriage to a man who loved me. I’ve given birth to nine beautiful children. I’m not unintelligent. Father in Heaven has blessed me with many gifts, for which I'm grateful. I should be only grateful. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself for some intermittent sorrow, now should I? The other evening I...

How many feet and inches below, she doesn’t really remember; it doesn’t matter anymore. Nearly a quarter of a century has come and gone; no mound of soil remains to whisper what happened; to speak words left unsaid. All is settled to even and grown over with blades of green. The place seems as any other patch of earth, except for the rectangular stone; engraved with small hands folded in prayer, roses in full bloom wrapped in a bouquet…a few numbers and words. Words: what do they mean? What do they say? Sometimes everything. Sometimes nothing at all. The words on this stone mean she is remembered by some; forgotten by most. The words tell who she was; who she is...but not who she might've been... Written words…inscribed to speak the words a grieving mother would tell any who pass thereby: she was here…she’s gone. Standing over that small piece of earth, where under is cradled the eternally sleeping remains; she remembers the warmth and scent of a small, wriggly body. She remembers...

I’ve spent thousands of hours reading literally dozens of books trying to answer the questions: What and Why? What is wrong here? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you? Why? Why are you hurting me? Why do we hurt each other? Why is this happening? Why did God let this happen? When I get too far sunk down into what my mom used to call the ‘pity pot,’ I have to remind myself that I’m not the only one to ask such questions as these. I remember One who asked: “My God! My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” I remember he said something about wanting the bitter cup to pass from him; wanting that he didn’t have to drink it. I’ve felt like that. I’ve wondered why I felt so alone. Had God forsaken me? Is he there? Has he removed himself far from me? Have I removed myself far from him? Was he ever there in the first place? Was I ever near to him? I’ve hated the taste of the bitter cup I’ve filled, in some degree, for myself. If the glory of God is intelligence (as is the doctrine of the ch...