This past week I filled out my family’s data for the 2020 Census. I like the feeling of being counted among my people. There have been days not too long ago that I scoured the handwritten census records from 1940 in New York City, looking for clues about my long lost family. Fancy cursive, in worn-out sepia toned ink and faded paper claimed roughly scratched names, including family members and their ages as a timestamp, a mark of being in the great American passport of belonging. I submitted our 2020 Census electronically. The form was short and clarifyingly complex. Three questions, “Who is in your house?” “How old is everybody?” and, “How are you related? We are a family of six, two parents, four kids, all originally belonging to each other. Isn’t it beautiful that there are all sorts of families out there, some who are under the same roof, but offer a more complex story of being connected. As I hit return on my keyboard, I imagine generations forward that may be interested in the living arrangements of their ancestors (me), looking for a clue of their belonging to us. I didn’t get a chance to report that in my Census but wanted to. The census reporting of 2020 came in the midst of a global pandemic, sprinkled here in Salt Lake City with a bout of earthquake. Followed by a spring snowstorm, and the unknowing daffodils making their vibrant show, just on time anyway. More than just a place holder for my people, I wanted to record the triumph of living through the massive upset of shutting down the globe in isolation to help stop the spread of the COVID-19 virus. I wanted to make sure the record told about the healthcare workers, the doctors, administration in our national and local governments who are making strides in keeping us safe. I wanted to record the history of my high school friend Derek, suiting up to work daily in a New York City hospital as a speech pathologist, describing the surreal surroundings of a fully-fledged workforce donning masks, gowns, gloves and eyewear – doing the ordinary grind – in the midst of panic and fear – and an explosion of hard to breathe. I wanted to permanently applaud our kid’s teachers who have adapted lesson plans to meet...
It was a year ago today that Jonny and I took the final steps into the hospital, where our lives would forever be adjusted to that moment, for good or ill. One year ago Jonny’s head was opened and an acoustic neuroma brain tumor removed. One year ago that his severed nerves would be a daily reminder to the life saving and altering course. One year ago that I was reminded poetically and majestically of God’s love for us, individually. One year ago that our path took a winding turn through the gift of ministering, for without others I fear we would not have survived. Since that time I have seen countless miracles. We have received care from at least 30 nurses, two surgeons, one physical therapists, one acupuncturist, two massage therapists, and a functional medicine doctor, and two doctors who specialize in pain management. There have been; 28 acupuncture appointments 40 or so medical massages 10 PT appointments 4 blood draws 1 MRI 10 functional medicine appointments 4 pre-op appointments 5 day hospital stay 4 Surgery follow ups Countless medications and supplements. No flour, no grains, no potatoes, no fruit except blueberries and raspberries, lots of meat, lots of fat, lots of veggies. Yes, to dark chocolate too! Combined loss of 65 pounds between the two of us. We received, at least 45 meals from friends and family Our lawn was mowed at least 14 times Dandelions treated Freezer filled twice Groceries bought Kids cared for and entertained Anonymous money dropped off Gift baskets delivered Gift cards provided Secret Santas Ministry visits Priesthood blessings Referrals for doctors House renovations & remodel to remove mold I am sure I have missed some act of kindness in this list. I know there was more! Pain will most likely always be part of Jonny’s daily routine in some form or another. Despite that, things are better. Jonny’s aunt RuthAnn remarked just last week that she thinks that the word better is the best word in the English language. Better days and better moments are the prizes we hold onto while enduring grueling transformation of character and soul. In stark contrast to last year, two weeks post op he made his first walk to our mail box. His head was spinning, he carried a cane for balance. That wiped him out for...
The Relief Society, Priesthood, Young Men and Young Women were all invited to attend a special class on family history this past October. Brother Sciamarella invited a friend to share her testimony and experiences of doing family history work. I do not even remember her name. I do know that she works at ancestory.com. She is an avid family historian, and has not only the technical skills to do family history, but also a love and...