LANDON'S TALK

1:30 AM Dave helps me carry the five pans of lasagna I have just made out to the fridge in the garage. Tomorrow is family dinner day, an every-other Sunday occasion that involves feeding between 20 and 30 people. It is joyfully exhausting.

I find great satisfaction wiping down the countertops after days like today, when I’ve baked multiple loaves of artisan bread, simmered a massive pot of ragu sauce, hand grated cheeses and mixed up a tasty blend of ricotta, then layered it all between rows and rows of lasagna noodles. It smells divine, but it sure makes a mess of my kitchen.  When I finally get to push all the drips of sauce and clumps of cheese and stray strips of pasta off my island with a warm, wet dishcloth, I am a happy gal. 

Finally, I take my aching feet through our bedroom, through the bathroom and into our closet. I exhale happily as my nightgown floats over my head and shoulders. Bed is beckoning! 

As I am brushing my teeth, it hits me:

“Oh no!”

“What?” Dave calls from the bedroom.

“I still have to do my writing.”

Sometimes this commitment to write every day is almost more than I can handle.

So here I sit, with my computer on my lap, and I remind myself that I have actually written quite a bit today. I’ve composed a letter of support for the Utah Voices Choir in their grant application. My family room clock chimed through six 15 minute rotations for that one. And then this evening my sister called asking if I had written down the story of our grandmother’s miracle, and if so, could I send it to her ASAP. Apparently, just as her grandson Landon, who lives in Boston, was crawling into bed for the night, he mentioned to his parents that he was supposed to give a talk in church tomorrow. A talk on ancestors.

I knew that if I had written the story down it would probably have included all sorts of overly descriptive words because I (as you may already know) tend to over-write. So, I told her I’d just write something that would work for a kid. Which I did. And sent if off to Boston through the cloud.

And so, since it is now 2 am and church is at 9 am, and since my Lenten commitment is to write every day except the Sabbath, I am making the executive decision to share 9-year-old Landon’s talk.

And here it is: 

My Great Grandmother Lizzie

My grandmother never met her grandmother. She had died before my grandma was born. 

Her name was Elizabeth Mae Wood Parrish. Her grandparents were pioneers who travelled from Nauvoo and settled in Utah. Though her full name was Elizabeth, they called her Lizzie. When she was a new baby the Prophet asked them to go and settle a new town in Idaho, so they loaded their wagon, hitched up their horses, and said goodbye to their family in Utah. It took them a long time to make the trip. Baby Lizzie slept in her mother’s arms as she sat on the buckboard of the wagon. Her father, Daniel, held the reigns as their horses led them over the dusty trail. 

Somewhere along the road the front wheel of their wagon hit a large rock in the middle of the path. The wagon jerked up into the air and baby Lizzie was tossed from her mother’s arms. The tiny baby landed in her blanket in the road. Before Daniel could stop the horses, the rear wheel of their heavy wagon rolled over the baby’s head.

Her mother screamed, and Daniel quickly called to the horses to stop as he pulled the long wooden brake handle. He jumped from the wagon and ran back to the baby. The heavy wagon had mashed the baby’s head. He lifted his daughter carefully and cupped his hands around her head, trying to make it round again. Brand new babies have soft heads, and he was able to form it back into the right shape. Then the young parents knelt there on the road beside their wagon, and Daniel used his Priesthood to give a blessing to his baby girl. He blessed her to live, and to have proper use of her body. He blessed her that her brain would recover, and that she would grow, have a fulfilling life, and one day raise children of her own.

My Great-Great-Grandma Lizzie did survive. She had a happy childhood, married, and eventually had eleven children. She was a lovely singer, and she enjoyed fishing and the outdoors. She was a hard worker, and kind hearted, and was loved by her whole community.

That baby became my grandmother’s grandmother. I am grateful for the Priesthood, and for the faith and courage of my ancestors. 

Just like her father said in his blessing,
Lizzie grew to have many children.
This is Lizzie and George Parrish with their surviving children. (Two had died)
The young girl in the front row, far right, is my mother.