To “Ordain Women.” Let’s talk.

I recognize that there have been a lot of angry discussions lately about your organization’s goals. You have received all kinds of media attention and been responded to by the whole spectrum, from death threats to applause. While there may be a lot of meaningful and serious doctrinal issues at play, I am a practical woman and will be appealing to you from a practical position. 

 

You see, I happen to believe that the priesthood is not a doctrinal issue, but an inherent one. Since we know that gender is innate and not simply a construct of this life. I believe the priesthood, like chest hair, is just a problem for men. Of course, these sorts of theories are the reason that Brother “likes to correct people” (you know the one) always raises his hand in Sunday school immediately after the teacher invites me to comment. He knows he has to correct me quickly to prevent mass, Mormon hysteria.

So, for Brother “likes to correct people’s”   sake, we’ll assume you are right and women are only prevented from holding the priesthood because of cultural bias. Let’s also assume that protesting is an effective way to change this policy. Now, let’s jump forward in time to the point where you have accomplished your goals and the church has begun ordaining women and men to the priesthood. It’s basically utopia, right?  

Remember the concept of “the same ten people?” It’s changed a bit in our inclusive world. You see, Sister “does everything right” has been called as bishop. You know her. She’s the one who has the same number of hands as the rest of us but manages to do so much more with them. This is because she is listening to her upcoming lesson on audiobook while sweeping the floor, one-handed, so she can make dinner for someone who is almost sick with the other. Her left foot manages to fold laundry and her right is painting a mural in her daughter’s bedroom. She is also singing a hymn in preparation for her family musical number in sacrament, during which her dozen children (who you didn’t realize were even there because they were all sitting quietly reading their scriptures and doing calculus in their heads) will each play a different instrument while quoting all thirteen articles of faith in unison. When you ask her how she does it all, she self-deprecatingly says she “saw it on pintrest,” but you are certain that it was only on pintrest because SHE put it there and probably wrote the code for the website as well.  

Okay, back to Utopia. She’s the bishop too, now, and the chapel is, admittedly, much cuter than it used to be. The sacrament trays are handmade of wood, painted with daisies and then coated in mod podge, and there are refreshments served after every meeting. You see, the “same ten people” is now just Sister “does everything right.” Still, she seems to be handling everything well. It doesn’t sound so bad does it?

If you look out in the congregation, you see your first problem. The men are sitting alone with the children while the women pass the sacrament and preside over the meeting. Looking a little closer, you will see my bench. As I try to envision this, I ask myself, “Could my husband take care of all seven of my children during the meeting without me?”  Maybe. If Sister “does everything right” sits with him, as she often does with me, when I’m alone. Oh wait. She’s the bishop. Well, I’m pretty sure he’s doing okay despite that. The kids’ hands and feet are wrapped in duct tape and they’re attempting to grab the sacrament cup with their teeth, but this really isn’t the first time that’s happened, even if we don’t live the utopian future. 

None of this is really that bad. My daughters are dressed in the hijab and full body armor for modesty and their brothers are wearing  minecraft t-shirts with overly polished penny loafers, because that’s how my fantastic husband interpreted the instruction to dress them in their “best clothes.” But I’m quite sure he’s actually capable of learning to brush their hair, eventually. He did it, after all, when I was young women’s president and had to go in early for meetings some Sundays and he does have that youtube tutorial where the dad uses the vacuum hose to make a ponytail now. I suppose Sundays will work out without too much insanity. 

The rest of the week would change too. 

Let's take a minute to examine a typical Tuesday night. Sister "blessed with trials" is having a really hard time. She turns to her husband and asks for a priesthood blessing. Unfortunately, he's gotten used to Bishop "does everything right" taking all responsibilities out of his hands. As such, he's really busy with other things and tells his wife, "I'm sorry, hun. I'm really close to leveling up on World of Warcraft. Can't you call your visiting teachers to do it? They're both much smarter than me anyway." She really can't argue with that logic, and so gives me a call. Knowing the importance of my church responsibilities, I tell my husband that he is going to need to feed the kids and put them to bed. He's very loving and supportive. But after I leave, the apocalypse begins.

The kids want spaghetti, and that doesn't sound all that hard. Nate takes a pot out of the cupboard and puts the noodles in it, placing them on the hot range because he doesn't realize water is necessary. Still, considering that he's male, he seems to be off to a reasonable start.

While he's looking through the cupboard for the ketchup (which he assumes is what we usually use for spaghetti sauce), our oldest son comes in with his homework, asking for help. Nate stares at the math problem, perplexed. (In his defense, Nate has an undergraduate degree in mathematics, so common core is necessarily nonsensical to him.)

While he's trying to make any sense of the scribbles on the paper, one of my "three under three" wanders into the kitchen, completely naked, and proudly announces that she used the potty. Nate recognizes that as the greater catastrophe and runs into the bathroom to clean up the mess. On his way, he grabs the baby. After plopping the little one in the bath, he turns to the mess around the toilet. Not knowing where the rags, cleaners, or bleach wipes are, he grabs the bath towel. He manages to transfer the mess onto the towel and subsequently attempts to flush it down the toilet.

He doesn't notice the clog, however, because he smells something burning and runs back into the kitchen. The dry noodles have begun to blacken on the bottom and smoke is copiously billowing from the pan. He grabs a glass of water and pours it onto the gas fire that was heating the noodles, not realizing that failing to turn the dial off causes gas to escape into the house. This is probably because he's distracted by the sound of running water coming from the bathroom and the puddle making its way down the hall.

Wait a minute. This is beginning to sound a little offensive, even to me. It occurs to me that my husband is my equal in every way. He's brilliant, sensitive, hardworking and capable of accomplishing anything he sets his mind to. Suddenly, it seems a bit insane to imply that just because I am the one who does something for our family, he's not capable of doing it. I'm starting to think that this whole scenario wouldn't play out like a comedy of errors at all.  Nate is highly educated and an all-around amazing man. He's actually more than capable of doing my job. 

Let's try this again, keeping my husband's exceptional nature in mind. Unfortunately, this version of the future isn't as fun to read. Nate manages to make dinner, help with homework, clean up messes, bath the kids and get them dressed for bed. After the older ones are in bed, he picks up the sick baby (at least one of them is always sick) and sits in his recliner to rock her. 

As he leans back, with his daughter on his chest, softly smoothing her hair and kissing her head, he feels an overwhelming sense of... humiliation. He was meant for more than this. His brilliance, imagination, training and righteousness are being absolutely wasted. Why is his advanced mind not out leading the church, rather than helping with fifth grade homework? Why isn't he called to a service worthy of his talents? Why does his wife get to do what is clearly the greater service when he is my equal in every way?

Why does he feel this way? I dunno. This is your future, not mine. But, if you don't buy into the argument that a woman's calling is different from a man's because she is less than him or vice-versa, (and the doctrine is pretty clear on that-read anything by Pres. Hinckley), then the only reason to demand the right to do someone else's job is because you feel their job is superior to yours. 

Oh, sisters, Satan has never perpetuated a greater lie than this. It is embedded in our culture. It is taught by our politicians. It is preached in our schools. It is, sadly, embraced by so many of us that it is written on some of our hearts. The idea, the fable, the great deception that the calling of motherhood is somehow less than the calling of the priesthood is truly the single most destructive idea Satan has ever preached. Is it less valuable to nurture than to provide? Are these jobs really unequal? Does one require more talent and ingenuity than the other? It can certainly be argued that one is more thankless than the other. But that's just in the short term. In the spiritual, eternal sense, that too, is a lie. 

I suspect that none of the scenarios I playfully shared here will ever happen. Instead, there will be a day (hopefully several) when I stay home while my amazing husband rushes out to give a blessing. And when I sit in the recliner, gently rocking my beautiful baby, I will know, as the spirit continually testifies to me, that I am there because there is no job that is greater than mine, not because I am not good enough to do his. There's certainly no job I'd rather be doing.

Put me in the nursery. Ask me to serve with the scouts. Call me to the library. Or release me from everything and let me be just a mother. Demanding a different calling is a search for glory, not value. I know the value of my service; please stop trying to make it seem like less than it is. As the Savior taught, the glory belongs to the Lord. I am privileged to be trying my best to heed the Savior’s call to “feed his sheep.” I am so grateful for my womanhood and it’s divine, exquisite, sacred calling.

Let Them Be Children (A mother's plea)

I want to share a precautionary tale to parents. We live in a competitive world. We all want our kids to be the best that they can be, but many of us tend to gauge that according to their talents as compared the children around them. It is this innate competitiveness that drives parents to put their very young children in academic preschools, push concepts beyond their learning capacity, and accidentally show their own disappointment if their children are not as advanced as the neighbors.

I am guilty of this more than most. As a young mother, I put my three year old son into preschool. I wanted to give him a competitive edge. You see, to my young mind, more school had to be better. I didn’t want him to start out life behind. My oldest son was everything I could have hoped for. He started reading at the age of four. He was doing geometry in first grade. He won every trophy his school awarded and I certainly took all of this as proof that I was a great mom. 

I started my second son on the same path. And he was equally brilliant. He was tested and placed in GT classes in first grade. He got to attend with his big brother. They are only 13 months apart in age, so I pushed him hard so he wouldn’t have to feel inferior to his excellent older sibling. It wasn’t until we moved to a new state that I started to question my own parental brilliance. In Idaho the standards for GT are different. When we were in Texas, both my sons were given a battery of tests and evaluated by a panel of educators before being allowed into the program. In Idaho, they are given a single IQ test. If they score in the 98^th percentile, they are put into GT. My oldest qualified. My second received a letter stating he was “only in the 95^th percentile.” 

My perspectives began to change that day. You see, I knew that both boys were equally talented, if in different ways. And I suddenly began to wonder if I had been judging them as absolutely as that IQ test. I assumed early schooling was better. I assumed I should get them reading before kindergarten. I assumed that both boys needed the same things. 

When it was my daughter’s turn, I decided to do a little research. What I found shocked me. Long term studies on the benefits of preschool found none. The countries that have the latest age for mandatory education also have the highest literacy rates. Children who are pushed to read early are less likely to read for fun. Changing from the overly competitive mother to the one that looked at her children’s individual needs is definitely a process. But I tried. My daughter, however, chose her own levels and she was reading before kindergarten. In first grade, she was tested and placed in the GT program. She had much less intervention from me, but chose her own talents. 

Then came my sweet Quentin. My fourth child was just as quick as the others in his growing up years. He proved himself bright and capable. I was impressed by his early grasp of rhyming and his cleverness with speech. But he didn’t really understand reading before kindergarten. I taught him what I could, but the concepts proved elusive for my third son. My paranoid inner parent took over and I jumped right back into my habit of researching everything to death. I made myself remember that pushing too hard too young is a bad thing. I knew he’d be okay not starting kindergarten ahead.

At back to school night, the teachers told us that they would actually be teaching the kindergarteners a “first grade curriculum.” This set off a few alarm bells with me. Although I once would have embraced the idea of further advancement for young children, my recent research had proven in my mind that such pushing could be dangerous. I had even started to read some research that indicated it was best to wait until first grade to actually read and that kindergarten should just establish the framework, such as letter sounds and names.  Still, Quentin was bright and I was confident he could handle the work. 

Halfway through the year the teachers implemented a “reading at home” program. They sent home two books a night and the child would need to read the books until he/she could do it fluently. After achieving fluency, the child could write the book into a log. There was going to be a party (the “lunch bunch”) and every child who had reached 60 books would be invited. 

Right away I noticed problems. Quentin didn’t want to read the books. I encouraged him to and we did the two books every night, but he became increasingly sullen. Even when we weren’t doing homework, he would make comments like, “I hate sounding things out,” and “Reading is SO boring.” It was a lot of work getting through those two books a night. Since he had to read them to fluency, he would often have to go through them 3-4 times. This was on top of a very lengthy list of sight-word flash cards that the teachers had asked us to read daily. So, when, after a few weeks, the teacher sent out a clarification that the children could record the books twice if they came back and read them at another time in the evening, I concluded that Quentin did not need to do that. Once was enough.

I became scared that Quentin was really developing a hatred for reading and I went back to the internet to find a solution. I made a deal with him that if he read me a book, I would read him one from our home library. This was less successful than I’d hoped. After getting through the books he was assigned, he really didn’t feel like being read to. But, we did our best.

I was surprised, then, when Wednesday of last week rolled around and Quentin looked at his list of fifty books he’d read and mumbled, “The lunch bunch is on Friday. I’m NEVER going to make it.” I actually didn’t put much thought into the statement. Quentin must be mistaken. They wouldn’t have the reward party when they hadn’t even sent home 60 books yet. But I should have paid attention to the dates on the letters the teachers had written, because I was the one that was wrong. 

When I went to pick up my son from school, I found him in the hall awaiting pick up with two other children. The rest of the kids were in the classroom, staying late for their reading party. The teacher assured Quentin that he would be able to come to the back up party that would be held later for the kids who had not already met the requirements. But that really wasn't much comfort to my little six year old. As we were left the school, he started to cry. Among other things, he said, “I guess I’m just a dumb kid” and “I bet all the other kids in my class will have a great time at lunch bunch without me.”

The truth of the dangers of pushing these tiny children too hard came crashing home. I know that teachers are under tremendous pressure to show certain levels of progress in their students. I know that they are being judged, often unfairly, by arbitrary bench marks placed by government agencies. I think that these kindergarten teachers, who I have loved and Quentin has adored, were falling prey to the same sickness that I suffered from as a very young mother. This is not a failing of the teacher, who has been nothing but loving and encouraging to my son. I don't think it's even really my failing, although I should have been more attentive to the requirements instead of assuming what we were doing was good enough. This is a failing of our culture and our political process.

You see, I don't see this as an incident, but as an example. How many of our most valuable and impressionable are feeling dumb just because they are progressing at a different level than another child? How many kids can sense their parents disappointment in their inability to keep up with ever accelerating requirements, even when they do their best? How often does a child say inside his head, that there is no point in trying because they are not good enough? How often could all these things be avoided by just giving a child a little more time to grow?

This is truly the danger in our current educational system. This is the real danger of the language used by a president who is mercilessly pushing for younger and younger kids to be put into school. Pushing these children to be doing more than they are ready for is setting them up for failure of the worst kind. It is preparing them to give up before they are even ready to start. 

I am not someone who thinks that kids should be sheltered from all disappointment. I do not have a problem with awarding trophies to some children and not to others. Indeed, I think it is vital that children learn to experience and deal with disappointments in life. I am the mother who lets my children fall down and knows that they will be stronger for it in the end. But this is not a soccer game. This is something that every child needs to be successful at. The current state of our education system and the current mindset of our culture are absolutely failing our children. 

I wish I could take my 23-year-old self by the shoulders and explain to her how wrong her mindset is. I wish I could stand before congress and tell them what they are doing to our impressionable young children. But I can’t. So, I will just write this here for any other young mom who might be walking my path. Be very careful. Your children need to be children.

My Great, Wasted Talent.

We all have them. As young people, we cultivate them. With dreams of notoriety, we hear the “Parable of the Talents” and feel certain we are meant for great things. As we grow, they are the stuff of broken hearts. Even when we’re perfectly happy with our lives, there’s that lingering regret that we have left them behind. We were once so certain they were our purpose, our destiny. 

 

Perhaps you are a musician. Maybe your instrument is hidden away, protected against its need in the future, but largely forgotten in the present. Perhaps you are an academic who still gets excited when you see bits of calculus in the real world, even though you never use it for your work or family. There are athletes out there too, a championship trophy gathering dust in a basement somewhere. They sign up for marathons to remember the thrill they get from competition. But they always find that the time for training isn’t as readily available as they had imagined. For my sisters, it is dance. They teach when they can, but mostly they just feel the occasional sense of loss sandwiched in between thoughts of their to-do lists and actually carrying out the daily tasks. For me, it is writing. 

I love to write and I’ve spent the years since all notoriety vanished nursing unspoken hopes. At first there was college. I was able to use my talent and get credit for it there. It lacked the trophies and praise I was used to, though, and so it was harder. After graduation, things got even worse. As I supported my husband through graduate school, I got my fix by writing his papers, keeping journals and helping friends and family with their work. I wrote beautifully-worded letters to the youth when I worked with them at church. I took delight in writing talks for anyone who would let me. When we moved away from family, and I was home with young children all day, I wrote a book. I just knew I’d find a publisher and fiction writing would replace the sense of loss I felt as I saw my talent slipping away from me. 

My guilty little secret, the one that I didn’t share with anyone, was that I did try. I sent the manuscript to publishers and agents alike only to receive form rejection letters. They wouldn’t even read it. It tore my heart out. I didn’t want to let go. I wrote a sequel to my unpublished book. I started on a third. My inspiration came from the occasional compliments I received. I would get weeks worth of encouragement from a family member telling me they enjoyed what I’d written. I kept a blog. A single comment would keep me writing, wishing for more. 

It took time for that to change. I received my last rejection letter on the day I discovered I was pregnant with my fourth child. I didn’t have time for it anymore. I didn’t want the discouragement to interfere with being the mother my children needed. 

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t give up. I self-published the book with help from a friend whose great talent is art. I wrote personal statements for my husband and his friends as they applied to residency. I cherished comments they shared with me from their interviewers if they touched at all on my writing. But four children turned into five, six, and, finally, seven. 

I don’t blog much anymore. My third book remains unfinished and my second, unpublished. I do occasionally have a neighbor or friend say something about my writing and my heart still leaps as it used to, but even the regret is not what it once was. 

This past week I sent an email to a new friend. A relic from another season of life, my emails still bear the URL to this forgotten blog in the signature line. She came over a few days later to tell me how much she enjoyed my writing. It stirred up familiar feelings and made me reflect on how each of us has a “great, wasted talent.”

This past weekend, my babies were sick. I spent an inordinate amount of time holding them, rocking them, singing to them. I’m not a naturally patient person. I hate being idle and I’m a lousy singer. But, as I found myself enjoying the things for which I have no talent, I started to wonder how much of me is really wasted. 

The hands that could be typing were, instead, rubbing a tiny back and smoothing down crazy cotton hair that had been rubbed against a pillow until it stood straight up. The mind that used to dream up new concepts to write was, instead, taking mental pictures of the children I love so desperately, grasping hold of a moment that will never come again. The heart that used to yearn to be heard by strangers, now felt completely content in my own home. 

And what of my talent? Is it truly wasted? Of course not. When the Master in Christ’s tale returned to see how the talents he had given were invested, he did not go to his neighbors to ask about whether his servants had made an increase. He went to the servants themselves. That is because our own abilities are not measured by how much attention they gain. I realized I was never really looking to improve myself, but to gain notoriety. It wasn’t the writing itself that I was seeking, but the praise that came with it.

As I write this, my sweet little ones are sleeping off the sickness that I had the privilege of tending. I am writing, because that is something I love to do. But even though I’ll never be as good at it as I want to be, I love being a mother more. This blog probably won’t see another post in the next year, but I no longer see that as a loss. I’m cultivating other talents now. 

I think the young me would see this as a sad tale. But that’s only because she truly did not understand, as she was making her big plans, the joy that would come from just being a mom. Heavenly Father led me down this path because he knew much better than me what it would take to make me happy and that was his plan all along. I should have known. Parenthood is, after all, what he chose as his great work.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

I am going to ask you to ponder how you would answer the question, “Who are you?” while I tell you a little bit about who I am.

In 1979 my mom was expecting her forth child who she hoped to call “Celeste.” My dad favored, “Amy.” It wasn’t until mom did some research on the two names that she relented. She found that Amy was a Latin name that meant Beloved. She knew that my dad’s name, David, also meant Beloved. And so I was named Amy, after my dad.

My dad changed jobs a lot when I was young because of the nature of auto-mechanics. He often had to work two jobs or my mom had to take on odd jobs to take care of their six kids. There came a point, though, where my parents were sure their prayers for a good job had been answered and my dad started a business selling large equipment to auto-shops throughout Utah. He had to travel a lot and he slept in his little car, but things went well for a while. Within the course of a single year, though, my dad was in the hospital four times. He shattered his wrist installing a hoist and had to have pins put into his arm and later taken out. That same year he had emergency gall bladder surgery and an appendectomy. It was during those months that his largest client declared bankruptcy and he knew he would loose his business because of the money this client owed him. Still, my dad refused to declare bankruptcy himself, insisting that if it took his whole life he would pay off his debts. Somewhere during that year my dad taught me an important lesson. Our car had broken down and we went to a parts store to buy what he needed to fix it. As my dad and I walked out of the store, he examined his receipt closely and declared we had to return. I grudgingly followed him, not finding auto parts to be all that interesting. At the counter he handed the salesman his receipt and said, “This is for my personal car, I need to pay the taxes.”

I never said anything to my dad about that experience, but I have thought about it often since. How many people would have just walked away? How many would have reasoned that they certainly pay enough taxes or that it was a small amount and not a big deal? He certainly wasn’t likely to be called to account for it. Even as a young girl this experience made me profoundly grateful to be named after my dad, a man of amazing integrity. My parents struggled a lot when I was young, but I was never very aware of it. I think that’s the ultimate example of gratitude. My mom and dad were so engaged in service and love that they didn’t have time to complain.

President Benson explained that, “Today we are aware of great problems in our society. The most obvious are sexual promiscuity, homosexuality, drug abuse, alcoholism, vandalism, pornography, and violence. These grave problems are symptoms of failure in the home—the disregarding of principles and practices established by God in the very beginning.” I confess that I didn’t know much of these problems growing up and the credit for that belongs to my parents and the example they set. When we think about who we are, we ought to be profoundly grateful for parents who taught us the gospel and, if they did not, they certainly deserve credit for in some way instilling in us the values that brought us here today. Parents, teachers, church leaders, and friends all deserve gratitude when we consider who we are.

My middle name is Jensen. I have always been glad my parents didn’t give me a real middle name because I didn’t want to give up my family name when I married. To me it represents all my ancestors. Naturally, I cannot carry with me the names of all the ancestors who influenced who I am, but I want to tell you about one of them. Baint Johnson was a farmer in Sweden when the missionaries came to his home. He accepted the gospel and his family was baptized. It turns out that the Swedes weren’t much more accepting of the church then the people of Illinois at that time, because his neighbors organized a mob and came to his house where he was alone with his seven-year-old son. He pushed his boy under the bed and instructed him to stay there until it was safe. The mob forced their way in and beat Baint so severely that his son would later tell people he was baptized in his father’s blood. As soon as Baint was well enough to travel he and his family took what they could carry and walked to Stockholm. There were other saints there and he thought to settle but word came from the mission presidency that he was to move again to Denmark. He moved his family again and prepared to start a life in Denmark, but was told he was supposed to take his family to America. He packed again.

On an over-crowded, rickety old boat he headed for the east coast, but was soon put way off course by a huge storm. Instead of landing where they expected, the little boat went around Florida and forced all the passengers off in New Orleans. He worked there for a time to earn money to take his family to St. Louis and from there, to Nauvoo. Once again he was told he could not stay and he began the long journey across the plains to Salt Lake City. Brigham Young then sent him to Provo where he again began to farm. This trip took over seven years. It was the beginning of the gospel in that line of my family. When we ask who we are we need to remember those that sacrificed to bring us the true gospel of Christ. Remember your ancestors, and be grateful for them. If you are a first generation member, be grateful for missionaries and friends who helped you get to where you are. Be grateful for loving mothers that sent their children to answer the call of a living prophet. To the youth and primary children, take advantage of living grandparents. I remembered that story from speaking with my grandpa when I was very young. When I called him to ask him to refresh the details for me, I discovered my own mom didn’t know it.

Sometime before the restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ a young boy was orphaned and went to live with his uncle, Thomas Hancock. The boy later grew to become the first signer of the Declaration of independence. While none of John Hancock’s children lived to maturity, his cousins passed the Hancock name down a few generations to prominent members of the church who lived in Nauvoo who carried it across the plains and eventually passed it down to Nathan Hancock who, six years ago, asked me to share it. While Governor of Massachusetts, John Hancock declared a state holiday which he called, “A day of public Thanksgiving.” I want to share with you a bit of the article Gov. Hancock wrote as his declaration. He asked that on this holiday the people should,

“devoutly and sincerely offer to Almighty GOD, the gratitude of our Hearts, for all his goodness towards us; more especially in that He has been pleased to continue to us so a great a measure of Health—to cause the Earth plentifully to yield her increase, so that we are supplied with the Necessaries, and the Comforts of Life—to prosper our Merchandise and Fishery—And above all, not only to continue to us the enjoyment of our civil Rights and Liberties; but the great and most important Blessing, the Gospel of Jesus Christ”

This, like the other’s I have discussed, is a legacy we all share. Not only was our country founded by men who were blessed with a profound understanding and gratitude for Jesus Christ, it was created by the Hand of God to be the place he would restore his gospel. Elder L. Tom Perry explained, “Among other things, the Constitution guarantees the religious freedom that allowed the Reformation to continue and flourish. The great religious reformers began to throw off the rituals and dogmas that had been attached to Christianity during the dark ages and sought to return to the pure and simple truths of the New Testament. “

Joseph Smith said, “The Constitution of the United States is a glorious standard; it is founded in the wisdom of God. It is a heavenly banner.”

Brigham Young said, “[The Constitution] was dictated by the invisible operations of the Almighty.”

Spencer W. Kimball added, “One of the reasons America is great today is because those men who formulated the Constitution had vision. They looked ahead to today, and all of us here are recipients of their wisdom and foresight.”

How grateful we must all be to be partakers of the blessings lavished upon those Heavenly Father brought to this promised land. I am grateful for freedom and for those that made the United States a part of who I am and those who continue to fight for it today.

My final name is one that I chose to take upon myself, but also one that came to me as the result of the divinity of all Children of God. At the age of 8, I was baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ and on that day I covenanted to take upon me the name of my Savior. When we are considering the inconceivable blessing of being chosen to bear the name of Jesus Christ, we ought to be humbled by so great a trust and responsibility. And, in turn, we need to ask ourselves how we can live up to that name, the same way we should always be striving to live worthy of the other sacrifices people have made so we could be all that we were born to be. I think even as adults we sometimes tend to become casual in our behavior, our language and actions may be more to receive a desired reaction from the people around us then a reflection of what we believe. But even when we are less then diligent in reflecting our Savior, we still bear his name. When we stand before him someday, may we be proud of the way we represented him.

President Hinckley further explained this principle when he said, “As His followers, we cannot do a mean or shoddy or ungracious thing without tarnishing His image. Nor can we do a good and gracious and generous act without burnishing more brightly the symbol of Him whose name we have taken upon ourselves. And so our lives must become a meaningful expression, the symbol of our declaration of our testimony of the Living Christ, the Eternal Son of the Living God.”

While we are counting our blessings this year, may we also list those things that make us who we are. Ignoring all that I’ve said today, I could stop after listing Nathan’s wife and already be in great debt to my Heavenly Father. Adding the mother of Ryan and Sean kind of makes me the proverbial poster child for the unprofitable servant. But then I am also a daughter, Member of Christ’s Church and, of course of the Gurnee first ward, an American, a Child of God and the list could continue forever. I became who I am not because of anything special about me, but because of the amazing sacrifices of thousands of people who prepared the way, most long before I was born. And I will be forever grateful for that. And I pray the Lord will help me live up to it.