What Really Matters, According to Me

At the root of the revolution in my life this past year 2014: What is love? Some have defined it as a feeling. I suppose the way we feel is part of it...but, if you feel something inside...if you say you love me because of how you feel about me; tell me how that affects me? I will tell you: It doesn't affect me. Just like what you think. Don’t believe me? Go ahead and think something right now. Are you thinking it? I can tell you honestly, it has had absolutely no effect on me. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know what thought you were thinking. And you know what? Not only do I not know what you're thinking, I don’t know how you feel, either. So, do your 'feelings' really matter to me? Well...if you’re significant to me, they do matter, but the point remains: HOW you feel has no effect on me. Now…WHAT you do about your feelings may affect me. Actually, it’s WHAT you do about your feelings that lets me know how you really feel…it’s what you do that may actually affect ...

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...

by my sister Melinda Marie Antuna retold humbly and with gratitude by me: Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a king who was young and powerful. Though he was a peace loving man, he had no choice but to war with those who would threaten his kingdom, and when war came to his land, he vanquished every foe, so that, in time, there were none who dared to threaten the peace of his people. He was strong and noble; kind and fair. He was wealthy beyond description, and he was very handsome to behold. “King Thunderbolt” he was called, because whenever he approached to survey a given village or hamlet, the clamber and tumult created by the young women of the place was thunderous. You see, the young king was the most desirable bachelor in all the land; in all the world, to hear the young women speak of it. Every young maiden in the kingdom desired to be his chosen wife. And it came to pass that King Thunderbolt determined the time had come he should choose a wife. He rode upon his...

Last night I held a keepsake in my hands; I looked at it, opened it, considered what it meant to me... Until this morning, I owned a little box with a hinged, locking lid. Inside the box are many small, colorful, polished stones...and one translucent, red marble. I've had it for years. I purchased two somewhat similar 'trunks' along with stones and marbles, along with some other pretty little things, when I bought my first and only house in 2003...which house I no longer own. I wanted to make the house look pretty. I wanted it to feel happy and good when people entered therein. Though I lost the house, I kept some of the little pretty things to remind me of what I once had, and how it was beautiful, and how I used to think it was mine... It really wasn't mine. I was passing through. None of this belongs to any of us. We are only temporary stewards of the things we think we own. Even if only parted by death, we will be parted from our things in time. The things I've ...

Pine trees in a forest are beautiful; tall and strong, reaching ever upward, standing close together, casting shade together, insomuch that the whole of the forest floor is cool and close. On the other hand, consider the lone oak standing on a hill; appearing gnarled and crooked against the sky, hot beneath the blazing sun. The roots of the mighty pines are intertwined, you know...if any one of those majestics were separated, and transplanted, it would fall. The roots are shallow in comparison to the height of the tree. The first big wind would topple it. The oak, on the other hand, has been growing in that singularly lonely place atop the hill from the moment the acorn was deposited in the soil. It has grown crooked, without support against the winds that blow, against the burning sun, the beating of rains...it has sunk its roots deep into the soil and has taken hold of the earth to support it. It has not attached to the roots of another tree for strength. It has sunk its own roots de...