THE OLD SINGER SEWING MACHINE

During the Second World War, when my mother was a young bride, she lived and worked for a while in Los Angeles. Along side other war wives, she manned the factories that were being used to keep the country going…and the war going. Imagine losing most of our male workforce today. The men were off fighting in foreign lands, and not only did they need the women to keep the wheels rolling in the most basic ways, but they also needed able hands to build the weapons of war. So the women stepped up. Rosie the Riveter was born on billboards and posts throughout the US, to encourage women to help.

During this time many of the typical comforts of American life were unavailable. There is a set of French doors hanging in our house between the study and the entry hall. The doors were hand made by David’s Grandpa Roy around 1940, for their summer cottage in Michigan. We shipped them out here to put into this house after Grandpa died. They sold the cottage and the new owners remodeled, so we asked for the doors. Grandpa was a builder; very skilled with his hands. Since he could not order glass or doors during that time, he took old glass from other places, cut it down, and created his own doors, each of them having 15 separate pieces of glass placed between wooden dividers. I love these doors because they remind me how Grandpa would not be stopped just because he couldn’t order a set of doors from the factory.

During this time the Singer Manufacturing Company suspended sewing machine production to take on government contracts for weapons manufacturing. Singer factories in the US supplied Americans with bomb sights, rifles and pistols. You could not purchase a new Singer sewing machine during the war. I understand gun collectors will now pay up to $80,000 for a Singer pistol.

When the war ended and factories went back to making their peaceable things, the woman who would be my mother returned to Idaho. Her father, George Washington Parrish, died the day after Christmas that year, 1946. With the small inheritance she received, Mom decided to purchase the first commercially made electric model sewing machine Singer offered. They had learned during the war, apparently, how to make the popular treadle machine electric, and my mom was the first in line (figuratively speaking) to get hers.

The soundtrack of my childhood has a throbbing beat running through it. Like the chug-a-chug-a-chug of a steam engine, the sound of that old Singer sewing machine aligns with my heartbeat.

Mom was a fabulous seamstress. I think she learned from Aunt Ruby, who was known county wide for her handiwork. My children have cherished baby quilts made by my Aunt Ruby. In those days one didn’t just go down to the store and buy a pattern. They made their own. Mom designed wonderful, snazzy dresses for herself, and darling outfits for her seven kids. We used to play dress up in her creations, old dresses that used to fit her in her dancing days. And on Sunday mornings I remember waking up to find three coordinating dresses lined up on the couch; one for Ann Marie, one for Libby and one for me. She had a sense for style, not gaudy or tacky. Our dresses did not match, but the fabrics and the patterns agreed sweetly with each other; like we were not the same people, but we had the same bloodline. Mom was amazing on that machine.

I was not amazing with that machine. When I had to take Home Ec in middle school, Mom made me unpick everything so many times the fabric wore away. Mom was a bit perfectionist in some domestic matters. I did not inherit that trait. By the end of the semester, when Mom realized that indeed, the nut had fallen far from the tree, she made a suggestion.

“Cori,” she said, “why don’t you just play your guitar and buy your clothes.”

So that’s what I did. And I do.

THE OLD SINGER SEWING MACHINE is the story of the fate of that machine. Here are the true details though, since I opted to use poetic license in the song.

As all her kids grew and left home, Mom continued to sell Real Estate in Pittsburgh. She was a fabulous Realtor, one of the top ten agents in Pittsburgh. Many of her former clients are now dear and cherished friends. Eventually it came down to Dave and I being the only ones left in Pittsburgh. Mom moved in with us. That’s where the invisible bond of steel was forged between mom and my kids. Johnny used to sneak up on her as she read the paper in her white upholstered rocker. He’d stand in front of her, mind you he was 2 or 3 years old, and suddenly slap the paper down and poke her belly button, giggling the words “ding dong” as he did it. They lie in bed and read stories together. Mom’s gentle hands rubbed baby Sarah’s back to calm her. She warmed her little baby feet in the palms of her hands. She was as gift to us, and the kids were a treasure to her as she tried to re-define herself. For so many years she was the single mother of some pretty crazy and dynamic kids, and when those kids left it was tough on her.

When Dave and I decided to move to Salt Lake City mom said, “Darned if I’m staying here!” so she came with us. At that point her children were scattered from Baltimore to San Francisco and many points in between. No one lived in PA.

So we loaded up the moving van with our items and what was left of hers. Among those was the old Singer Sewing Machine. The poor machine had not been used for years, since Mom first started trying to put meals on the table after Dad left us high and dry. It was only used when one of us had to take that blasted Home Ec. class.

The machine stood on four legs and looked sort of like a table when the workings were cradled down under the top. So that’s shat we used it for. An end table, only it was a little tall for an end table. It floated through various rooms in the house, eventually ending up as a TV stand.

Not long after we moved to Utah, Mom got her own place a few minutes away from us. A great condo on the golf course. One day we decided to have a Garage Sale, Mom and I. Mom put the machine up for sale. We made a promise to each other that whatever did not sell was going to go to DI. We had to make this promise because our tendency was to sit there all afternoon and look at the items and think, “Hmmm, we really could use that someday.” Then we would have defeated the purpose of the sale…to clean out our junk.

We sat all that Saturday, selling this and that, and we probably made something like $32. But, again, that was not the objective. We were CLEANING OUT! So when the sale was over Dave backed up the old red truck in mom’s driveway and started loading for the DI run. When he was almost done he stood by the old Singer machine. He looked at Mom;

“You sure you want me to take this?”

“Yup. Someone else out there needs it more than I do.”

Then Dave turned to me and asked:

“Are YOU sure you want me to take this?”

I shrugged my shoulders, my head cocked to the side.

“I guess so.”

So Dave loaded into the bed of our little old truck the back-beat of my childhood.

I knew as I watched him drive up the hill and out of sight, that I had probably made a mistake. Nevertheless, I let him go.

That next Mother’s Day I gave my mother this song. It was my attempt to keep the machine, with all its memories, with us. This song won’t bind two pieces of fabric together, but it somehow binds the people in our family. We all remember the machine. Mostly we remember our mom sitting at it, her little ones playing at her knees as she sewed. The song retains the memory, but it is much easier to store.



THE OLD SINGER SEWING MACHINE

Well the fellas from Salvation Army
Drove up to my Mamma’s today
And she opened the door to her basement
Then they hauled half my childhood away

Well I let go the lamp with the glitter
And the chair that was Naugahyde green
But I paused for a moment when they carried away
The Old Singer Sewing Machine

Mmmmm, my mamma’s electric machine
Like magic the fabric would change in her hands
To the prettiest dresses you’ve seen
On the Old Singer Sewing Machine

There were times she would sew through the evening
And well into Saturday Night
On Sunday were three little dresses
With collars of navy and white

Other times it would stand like a castle
And I was its four-year-old queen
And my subjects were Teddy and Raggedy Ann
Beneath the old sewing machine

Mmmmmm, my mamma’s electric machine
Sometimes it would roar like a long distant train
That never did run out of steam
The Old Singer Sewing Machine

Bridge: Now I’ll never buy in a store
The love she had sewn in the dresses we wore

So I like to imagine some other
Who’s struggling out there in the world
Goes into a Salvation Army
With one, two or three little girls
Now she walks past the lamp with the glitter
And the chair that is Naugahyde green
Then she pauses, she smiles, and she carries away
The Old Singer Sewing Machine

Mmmmmm, my mamma’s electric machine
Like magic the fabric would change in her hands
To the prettiest dresses you’ve seen
On the Old Singer Sewing Machine

That Old Singer Sewing Machine.

When Sarah was four years old she took tap dancing lessons in Linda Richard’s basement with a group of neighborhood girls. I found out, after she had been taking lessons for months, that I was expected to make a costume for her recital.

“Are you kidding me?” (I was not happy) I don’t sew! I never would have signed her up for this if I had known I had to sew a costume!”

What made it worse was that the costume was a Fuzzy Wuzzy Bear costume, full body with a hat and ears and all. Made out of purple furry fabric. We could hardly afford the fabric, let alone the expense of hiring someone to sew it.

My friend Debbie Isaacson was a fabulous seamstress. I sat next to her at the recital. Deb’s daughter Camber looked darling in her purple bear costume. Sarah danced next to Camber, and she looked mighty fine in her purple bear costume as well. Debbie leaned over to me as they danced:

“Who’d you get to sew Sarah’s costume?”

“I did it myself.” I answered, trying not to be too smug.

I waited just long enough… enough of a pause for the humor to bubble up in my belly. Then I leaned over to her and added:

“I glued it.”

Indeed.

I had discovered when we moved to Utah, this amazing new tool everyone was using: A hot glue gun. It works just fine on furry purple fabric. And truth be known, all four of my kids played in that costume for years to come. So the seams were a little stiff. It didn’t bother them. And, thankfully, it didn’t bother me.

There is a hidden track on the Pontiac Rocket album. It’s from a cassette tape recording Annie made when she was 4 years old. Annie was always really great at pretending on her own, so it was a joy to me to find this little tape tucked into her Fisher Price tape recorder. She was pretending to be on stage, having a play, and I was greatly honored to hear that the song she performed in her play was none other than The Old Singer Sewing Machine. I’ll put both versions of the song on the music machine below:

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ACROSS THE WOODED HILL

Call it co-dependence – I like songwriters. Though we may personally have little in common, there is something in the nature of a songwriter that makes it easy for me to bond with them. More than a few songwriters and artists have lived with us from time to time. Artists and students, often teenagers trying to cross over rifts between themselves and their parents. It’s been a good thing, in general, for our children to have grown up with a door that is generally open to those in need. And it’s been a good thing for Dave and me.

For a number of months my friend Kendal, a songwriter and musician, lived in the guest room. He had his quirks, like all of us do, but in general he was a good guest. Occasionally Kendal and I sat in the family room and he taught me a few things on the guitar. One of the things he gave me was a small lesson in harmonics. He showed me how, when you softly place the pad of your finger on the left hand halfway up the string, then pluck it with your right hand, as you quickly remove the finger pad…(I know, you’d have to see it or have done it before to imagine what I’m talking about)…this creates a high pitched ringing tone called a harmonic. I use harmonics to tune my guitar and in some songs. But what I had not realized before was that if you are playing a chord on the left hand, then you slap the string halfway up the remainder of that string, you can create that harmonic sound without having to remove the chording hand. Suffice it to say, it opened a new vista for me. Don’t you just love new information? Well, some new information; not all. Anyway, I thought this was particularly groovy new info, so I experimented, beginning with the nice fat E chord, which uses all six strings in its open form. Has a nice deep bass sound. So I did those slap harmonics on the E chord, then tried it with and A, which led naturally to a B7th. I could feel a song coming on, an Irish sort of tune, mournful and old. I remember consciously thinking it sounded like it should be a love song. But there are already so many wonderful Irish love songs, about bonnie lads and lasses and love gone off to war and love unrequited.

This was a time in my life when I felt the changing of the seasons coming on. My boy was 19 years old. He was 19 years old and had just received a call to serve for two years in England and Wales as a missionary for our church. He would leave us soon. Having a son decide to leave his parents…but the reason he leaves is in order to serve his God…this is as good as it gets in the parenting department. John was a beautiful young man, full of life and poetry and music and I adored him. So in spite of the beauty of the reason he was leaving us, the fact that he was leaving was heartbreaking. A broken heart is not an evil thing…it just hurts.

ACROSS THE WOODED HILL is a love song. It's a love song to my son.


ACROSS THE WOODED HILL

Alas my son you come to me where once you did belong
Your gentle face is bolder now your back so straight and strong
And lips that kissed me tenderly they kiss me tender still
And bid me watch you as you go across the wooded hill.

Across the wooded hill, my son and I cannot go too
The song you hear the piper play he plays for only you
So do not tarry here with me for I can feel a chill
And soon the sun will lay himself across the wooded hill

No I have never been, my son, where you are bound to go
I know not if the air is sweet when e’er the wind should blow
But I have prayed you come this far and you’ve a mighty will
So always shall I pray for you across the wooded hill

Oh, ever shall I pray for you across the wooded hill.

Where I grew up, in the woody hills of Western Pennsylvania, we didn’t have the large splashy watercolor-red sunsets that we see every day over the lake from our back window here in Utah. The sun just sort of dropped behind a hill. We simply lost the day, until it returned the next morning. I imagined, in my mother-mind, my son kissing me goodbye, then rising to the top of the hill and disappearing into the series of rolling hillsides, his thick soled missionary shoes on his feet, his well worn scriptures in his hands. I had to trust that he would return. But I knew also that when he returned, he would never again be fully mine. It is a sorrowful and beautiful thing to let go of a son.

In the house of my childhood I grew up hearing this little saying:

A son is a son till he takes him a wife
A daughter’s a daughter the rest of her life.

I had seen evidence of this and felt it to be true. John is our only son, and his absence was profound. The loss was sweetly softened every time I received a letter or a phone call from overseas; a woman with a strong Welsh brogue telling us how much she loved our boy; a mission president saying the same. The mailbox took on a personality of its own, glowing when a letter from him arrived. We squished together around the phone on Mother’s Day and Christmas Day just to hear the familiar sound of his voice. When it was time for him to come home Dave and I travelled to England to retrieve him. The first night the three of us shared a small room in a hotel in Bristol. We had prayed together, and Dave and I had climbed into our bed. Lights out, I heard my boy crawl out from under his sheets and quietly kneel at the side of the little cot next to our bed. I laid in silence and let my pillowcase catch the tears. He looked so young, and so wide-eyed frightened to return to the real world. I ached with the knowing…knowing that the sweetness would rub off soon, that he would once again join the ranks of college boys doing college boy things.

But gratefully, he has kept so much of the beauty that infused into him as he served his mission. I see it when he teaches, when he prays, when we discuss deep and spiritual things. I see it when he interacts with young people. And old. It was a good walk, that one across the wooded hill.

Here’s another good thing. That boy grew to be a fine guitar player and a gifted songwriter and singer. We share the stage pretty often. And every Thursday we unlock the doors to the classroom in the basement of the Farmington Arts Center and we teach guitar classes together. I always say he covers the “hip” factor and I cover the “patience” factor, though truth be known he is likely better at both. How many old lady mom’s get to share this sort of thing with their sons? I am the luckiest!

And here’s something even luckier: John took him a mighty fine wife. She loves him with all her heart. Ashley is a wonderful mother to his three darling children. And, even luckier yet, she loves me… just the way I am.

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I am not particularly in love with this recording. It’s nice to have it preserved, but it didn’t seem to capture the feeling of the tune for me. In all my years of live performance there have been just a few times when I feel like we were one with the song. One of these times was at a concert in the beautiful old First Presbyterian Church in Salt Lake City. It was at a Thanksgiving Concert, the year Johnny left for his mission. It was also one month after the passing of my nephew, Clayton Hansen. Clay had crashed on his motorcycle in October. We kept a vigil at the hospital for 8 days, night and day, praying for him to heal. In that time his beautifully formed body repaired itself. The bruises became lighter, the scrapes turned to scabs then became new flesh again. But he was unconscious, because his head had hit the asphalt without a helmet. His brain was drastically swollen and would not heal. Finally, on the eighth day the doctors told my brother and his wife that there was no hope, there was no brain activity. There is a little corner in my memory bank where the guttural groan of my brother, as he told us the news, haunts me still. We huddled in the ICU waiting room and cried. George and Cyndy chose to extend the gracious spirit of their son by donating his organs. More than a dozen people now live, hopefully in a more perfect state, because of their gift.

Still reeling from the loss, my brother and his family sat near the front in the concert. Clayton had been their first born son. He was about six weeks younger than our firstborn son, who would be leaving in just a few weeks. In the dim light of that church, with the stained glass stories of the Gentle Healer surrounding us, and the century old acoustics echoing our emotion, we offered this song for our sons who, though the hills they crossed were different, took their journeys nonetheless.

John pulls his son Parker across a snowy hill.

GENTLE WORDS

On a typical Sunday morning, a few years ago, I sat with my sisters in a church meeting. It was typical for that time in my life, but not particularly typical for a Mormon gal living in Utah. I had accepted a call to serve my sisters in the Davis County Jail. I served for a year as a counselor in the Relief Society Presidency, and then for two more years as president. We went through rigorous background checks, had our pictures taken, and rolled each of our fingertips in permanent ink, leaving the impression of our uniqueness in a file. Once cleared, we bowed our heads and were blessed by worthy hands to teach and minister to the women who were serving time in jail. This remains one of the most beautiful callings I have been honored to receive. About 20 of us gathered every Sunday morning in a room at a nearby church. We sang a hymn, offered prayers, shared spiritual thoughts and then the priesthood members in our group broke one piece of bread and poured water into small plastic cups and we partook of the Lord’s Sacrament. Then we headed over to the jail. We passed through at least 4 sets of secure doors before we arrived at the computer center in the jail. This was where the women met. We were allowed 17 sisters at a time, so sometimes we held two services back to back on Sundays. We also taught every Wednesday evening.

It’s an interesting thing to sit next to a woman under these circumstances. The four of us who were called to serve the sisters (others were called to teach the men and youth, as well as inmates in the work release program) …we four Relief Society teachers sat in our Sunday dresses, while between us sat women in orange uniforms, with flip flops or cheap canvas tennis shoes on their feet. They wore no make-up, though sometimes some would show up with what appeared to be eyeliner. The eyeliner turned out to be pencil lead, rubbed on cement until it formed a pile of shavings. This was mixed with toothpaste and applied with the tip of a pencil to their eyelids. Our ladies had to pass by the door to Charlie-Echo Block to get to our room, and the men hovered like animals at the small window to get a look at the girls; so the gals wanted to look their best I guess. I discovered, as a side note here, that the same recipe of pencil lead and toothpaste, applied with the sharpened point of a straightened staple, would make a tattoo so permanent it was as difficult to remove as professional tattoos. We were not allowed to bring stapled papers to the jail…but somehow they got their tools anyway.

The beautiful thing about these women was that they were clean and sober, for many of them this was a first in a long time. They were clean and sober, and they were removed from their sources of weakness. But they were also removed from their children, and this broke our hearts as it did theirs. It’s a difficult thing to teach a Mother’s Day lesson in the jail, let me tell you.

So on this particular Sunday we sat in our little circle and our Branch President was giving the lesson, as he did once a month. The lesson was on marriage, and he was using a manual that led him through an explanation of the divine nature of marriage. It was all good basic gospel truth, but as the lesson progressed I became more and more uncomfortable. It must have been an off day for him, because he wasn’t really looking into the women’s eyes. He was just getting the information out. This can be a problem…and it was. He talked about how the institution of marriage was so sacred it should be preserved almost at any cost. I could feel the energy in the room rise. I could sense my inmate sisters squirming in their seats. I squirmed in mine. Finally, I raised my hand. It took me a while to try to figure out how to be diplomatic with my words. But basically I said,

“I agree, the institution of a family was appointed by God as the pattern by which we should unite here on earth, if not also in heaven. And marriage is the basic unit that begins and preserves that family. We should work to do our part in making marriage strong and healthy. But there are times when a marriage bond may need to be broken, or at least respectfully separated for a time. One such circumstance would be if there was abuse involved.”

Our Branch President paused, much to his credit, and looked up at our circle of women.

“Sisters,” he said, “how many of you have ever been harmed by your husband or boyfriend?”

Every hand went up.

Every hand.

Then the stories started to pour out: He broke both my arms, he beat my children, he held my head under the water until I breathed it into my lungs. I spent three weeks in the hospital, I ran and hid with my kids in a friend’s basement…on and on until our time was almost out. We wept at the intensity of their suffering. I wept at our cultural separation, at the sweetness I would go to in a half hour, while they remained in their cells.

That Wednesday I asked our liaison guard at the jail if we could get permission to bring in some items for a party. We were allowed to bring some bingo cards, and some candies to use as bingo tokens, and we brought some crayons and paper for them to make cards for their families, stuff like that. So we had a good time just being light for a little while, enjoying each other’s company, feeling like just girls, and not inmates and teachers. After our Bingo game ended I stood in the front of the room, by the window in the door. The window had been covered with a lopsided garbage bag, black plastic taped with masking tape around the edges. Someone put it up to keep the men from gawking in when they passed by to go to the basketball court. That garbage bag had been there since I first arrived, and who knows how long it had been there before I came. I stood at the front of the room and put my hands on my waist, elbows out.

“Sisters” I called out…”We are NOT garbage!”

I reached behind me and tore down that garbage bag in one fell swoop. The inmates all stood and cheered. When they calmed down I took out a piece of lace we had sewn to replace it. Gathered lace. I reminded them that though they might not always feel like princesses, indeed…they were daughters of a King. They were divinely made, and their presence in a body of flesh and bones indicated that they had at least once in their existence made a good and noble decision. I begged them to expect more of themselves. And in that personal expectation, they should also insist on being treated by the men in their lives with dignity and respect, if not reverence.

“But we’re just not used to that.”

“Not now. But the child who came from heaven the day you were born, SHE was used to that. Find her.”

“Sisters,” I continued, “you are allowed to choose for yourselves who you will be and who you will be with. Free yourselves from garbage. And you will free your children as well.”

When I went home that night I could not get the thought of them out of my heart. I knew the likelihood of any of them freeing themselves from abusive situations, both their own abuse of substances, and the abuses against them by people around them…I knew the likelihood was slim. We could see little sparks of divine awareness occasionally in their eyes, but more often than not they returned to their own self-destructive environs and behaviors. I told them once, think of it as someone turning on the light in a dark room. Everyone needs light, and of course we say none of us wants to go through life in darkness. But the reality is, if you have lived in a very dark room for a long time, when someone turns on the light it hurts. We squint our eyes and our nerves pinch behind them. If we can just hold on long enough, they will adjust. Sadly, few people hold on long enough. And they live in darkness because it is familiar.

Gentle Words was written for my sisters in the Davis County Jail. I want to understand them, and in the understanding I am freed from a tendency to judge them, because there, but for the grace of God, go I.

Gentle Words

Where did they go

Those gentle words you gave to me

Fell down like rain

Upon the thirsty ground

Look what they’ve done

Those gentle words you gave to me

They’ve left a stain

Upon the thirsty ground

Now what am I supposed to do

This alters everything

The Winter I’m accustomed to

Has turned to Spring

Who would have known

Such gentle words would get to me

Who would have thought

That I would come around

Where do they go....

Fall down like rain

Upon the thirsty ground

They’ve broken through this ever thirsty ground

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BROKEN

There was a time in David’s education when he decided to take a semester off at Yale so he could visit his friend Karl in Utah and see what it was that made Karl tick. Dave had met Karl their freshman year at Bethel Park High School in PA. It was the first year Dave attended a public school. Up until then he had been with the same forty kids, from kindergarten on, in parochial schools. It was a new experience to be taught by non-wimpled women or by the priest in their parish.

This was in the day of student tracking in public schools, and it turned out that Karl (now a heart surgeon in AZ) was in many of Dave’s classes. They also played football, basketball and track together. Dave says he noticed, when they were at parties, that Karl never drank or smoked. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, he just didn’t do it. Out of respect for Karl, and often because he had the only car and was the designated driver, Dave most often chose not to “partake” as well. He and Karl became the best of friends, their homes became each other’s homes, and Dave knew that Karl had something of a peace and joyfulness, though I think they rarely talked about it as teenagers. After high school graduation Karl headed off to BYU in Utah and Dave headed up to Connecticut.

This was at the tail end of the tumultuous 60’s and early 70’s, when Dave’s weekends were spent driving his motorcycle to Dump Nixon rallies in DC, or peace rallies in other places. Came a time when he got to thinking about his own beliefs, his own sense of peace and direction. That’s when he thought of Karl, and wanted to know what drove him to be who he was. So he arranged for a leave of absence from Yale and headed out to BYU. It’s a long and a beautiful story, which ended up with him deciding he wanted to join the LDS church. But he knew he could not make a clear minded and unbiased decision about baptism until he left the comfort of his friends, including Karl. So he went back to Yale. The first day there he was sitting in a class waiting for the professor when he struck up a conversation with a beautiful young girl named Katrina. He mentioned his recent return from Utah, and she asked him if he was a Mormon. “No” he replied. “Not yet.”

“My sister’s a Mormon.” Katrina’s sister Annette was also a student at Yale. “They have some sort of class for Mormons on Wednesday nights, here on campus. You should go.” And so David and Katrina and Annette went to what turned out to be a small institute class on campus, with a handful of students. It was taught by a grad student they called Brother Jeff. Bro. Jeff was earning his Doctorate at Yale.

Brother Jeff’s last name was Holland. Jeffrey R. Holland. David received an amazing education, a the feet of many notable professors, decorated scholars, renowned mentors in the ivy halls at Yale and other schools; but he says the finest teacher he ever had stood at the front of a small class of students on Wednesday nights and taught him about God.

Jeffrey R. Holland is now an apostle, set apart to lead all to Christ. We listen to him speak when we are lucky enough. At least every April and October at our church’s General Conference.

(here's a link to his Conference talk in April 2006: Broken Things to Mend:

Jeffrey R. Holland Broken Things to Mend April 02, 2006 BYU Broadcasting)

I remember hearing Elder Holland speaking about how the Lord must have a special place in his heart for broken things. Brokenness brings us to humility; humility makes us needy; our neediness opens our hearts to be filled by the Great Filler of Hearts.

This is one way He is able to make “weak things strong.”

With these thoughts planted in my mind and heart, I read an article one day in a newsletter for antiques dealers. I used to deal in antiques until I eventually sold all the furniture and bought recording equipment. There was an article in the paper about a collector of antique Roseville vases. The reporter noted the hundreds of valuable vases this person owned. When he asked her which was her favorite, her response was,

“Well, my favorite isn’t here. It’s on my piano.”

She took him out to her piano. Sitting atop it was indeed, a Roseville vase called the Bleeding Heart, but it had absolutely no monetary value. It had been broken in over a hundred pieces, and then glued back together.

“I love this,” she said, “because it is obvious to me that someone cared enough about it that when it shattered, they labored to find where each piece fit. It just says something to me.”

It said something to me as well.

Broken

I. It was made out of clay It was shaped like a heart

And “I Love You” was written inside

But I fell after school And the gift broke apart

So she gathered it up while I cried

Build: Then I watched as my mother pieced it together

Said she just might like it better this way

Chorus: Broken clouds give us rain

Broken ground opens up and lets it in

Broken seeds growing wheat

Make the bread that we break and eat

So much good can be grown from

What has been broken

II. By the light of the moon He kissed me goodnight

And I looked up and wished on a star

He swept me away Then he shattered my heart

So she gathered me up in her arms

Build: She said “You won’t believe this But one day you’ll see this

And be thankful it happened this way.”

Repeat Chorus

Bridge: Sure as the stars above I found a truer love

And made him my own

And he was at my side The day the angels cried

And carried her home

Repeat Chorus :

Broken clouds gave us rain Broken ground opened up and welcomed her in....

Tag: So much good has been grown from what has been broken.

When Pontiac Rocket was first released a friend called obviously upset.

“Oh dear, dear…I am so sorry I did not know you had lost your mother!”… he was quite distraught.

He was used to my songs being true to my history. Thank the Lord this one was not! My mother is alive and, happily, still the matriarch of our family. But this is how she is, and how she was. She taught me many true and beautiful lessons.

It is the pattern God designed for all of us to be broken. All of us. But like the hands of the person gluing together the Bleeding Heart vase, He can correct our brokenness. He can make us whole, completely whole, like-new whole. Elder Holland knows that, my mother knows that, David knows it, and I know it. The knowing is a gift, and so is the mending.

Here's a YouTube video of BROKEN, by Seminary teacher Kevin Oviatt:

SISTERS

Bad things happen. They happen to all of us. And we don’t usually get to pick them…they pick us. Bad things sometimes come in waves and grab the wheels of our ships. Sometimes they stand alone with their heavy shoes holding down the strings of all the good things trying to float above us. However they arrive; however large or small they are; however life changing they become; bad things happen.

I was given the grace of finding a small diary one day in a cleaning-out mode. It was pink and orange with flowers and a funky little caricature of a girl on the front. It had a lock. The lock was broken. I found it in a box in the basement, with random items of miscellany, all of which held special meaning to the young girl I used to be. I stopped cleaning, (this is always a problem for me – I get far too interested in what I am sorting) and I read.

I was hurled back, as diaries allow us to be, to our house on Old Clairton Road. Eleven years old. I appeared like a ghost in a dream, blonde hair to the shoulders, barely out of a training bra, complete self awareness just around the corner. Inexperienced cursive gave way to scribbled block letters, back to cursive. On good days I tried to write the way cool girls wrote, with their e’s and a’s all swoopy; but by the end of the entry I was always back to my own sloppy handwriting. I named my diary Jenny Lou Marie.

This is how the typical entry went:

Dear Jenny Lou Marie ~

Today nothing much happened.

I think I like Mark Mower, and we had to pick partners in science and I was right next to him and So-and-So came up and just weaseled in beside me and now I have to be partners with What’s-his-name and then we went…and then we did…and then….

See ya tomorrow,

Cori

Every day started with “nothing much happened”. I was obviously on the threshold of teenage hood.

As I read I noticed a marked difference in the tone of my entries, right around March of that year. The lightness was gone. The words were fewer. Then the entries tapered off. Then they ended altogether.

That night I lay in bed and re-read the diary. Bit by bit my history returned to my memory. It was a most interesting visit to my past, one I had not focused on since I had grown. I realized as I read that three pretty major things had happened within a few weeks of each other. Looking at the events from an adult perspective, I wept for the little girl who went through them. It was rather cathartic to find that diary. I am gentler with myself since I found it.

I won’t go into detail about the things that happened. Suffice it to say they were bad. Bad things happen. But one of them, a situation involving a visitor and an abuse, occurred in that fateful month, just after my 12th birthday. It was the kind of thing that should never happen to a child. In retrospect, I should have told my mother. But she had so many of her own heavy burdens I decided not to. Besides, I felt dirty, and sometimes we are made to think some things are probably our own fault. So I kept it hidden, even from my diary. I kept it in; my grades plummeted; and I stopped writing to Jenny Lou Marie as I sat in my bed each night. Instead I curled up on my side and tried to find comfort in my pillow.

Across from me, in the twin bed just three feet away, was my best friend. She could sense something was wrong, though she was only 10 years old. I can see her lying there now, in my minds treasure box. We shared a lot, Libby and I. I remember lying silent and still as we listened to our parents argue, looking straight into each other’s eyes, tears rolling into our feather pillows. There is a bond between people who can cry so safely together.

“You OK?” she asked one night.

“Yeah.”

Then a few minutes later:

“Cori?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?”

Those words, wrapped in the familiarity of her voice, are medicine to me. Truly, besides the comforting sound of my mother’s voice, there is no other sound that moves me so deeply. It’s probably the ancient familiarity of it. It’s the sincerity of it. The safety.

I finally let out the evil deed. Like a tiny pinhole in a balloon, the pressure released for me.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

And she didn’t.

Looking back, I think the trust was what I needed, probably more than anything. She gave me that. She still does.

In the song Sisters, the demons were the haunting effects of that abuse. And there were tears upon her pillow that matched the ones on mine.

SISTERS

Before the angels came and brought you down to me

There was an empty place where you were meant to be

And what is so clear now I couldn’t see back then

If you were not you I would not be who I am

CHORUS I: There were flowers on your pillow that matched the ones on mine

There were Madam Alexander dolls and traded Valentines

Oh, you were faithful… we were crazy…sisters.

We had a grand old tree, her branches opened wide

And our imaginations traveled side by side

Then in my thirteenth year, when my demons came

In the silence of the night you shared my pain

CHORUS II: And there were tears upon your pillow that matched the ones on mine

There were Madam Alexander dolls and faded Valentines

Oh, you were faithful…we were crazy…sisters

Bridge: You knew my best,

And you knew my worst

And all of the in-betweens

Some dreams have come, and some dreams have gone

And some remain… just dreams

REPEAT CHORUS I

Libby was the gift the angels brought when I was 15 months old. Neither of us knew, consciously, what a gift that was. I came to a family of 5 girls. All four of my sisters are gifts from heaven. They know all my flaws, and they know my triumphs, and everything in between. Friends get some portion of that, old friends especially. But there is no friend like a sister. A part of the bond comes from shared history, but I believe another portion is sent from the Divine and does not need to be analyzed or explained. It just is.

All of my sisters: Sherry, Sue, Ann Marie, and Libby – are evidence of God’s love for me. When I cross over, when my moments on earth are spent and I get to see face-to-face the Maker of all good things, I imagine the first words I speak will be of thanks: for people…not things:

for a good and unconditional husband,

for a mother who remained faithful to her children,

for two dear brothers,

for loving children and grandchildren,

and for friends.

And I imagine my lip quivering as I whisper four blessed names –

those who shared my home, my heart, my dreams –

my sisters.

Go To FileFactory.com

ECLIPSE

ECLIPSE

I asked the moon to lend her light here
To lend her light, for I was lost
I was lost, and in the darkness
And in the darkness all alone

The moon she answered, I will give you
I will give you what I can
But what I can give is only borrowed
Yes it is borrowed from the sun

But sure the sun will send his light here
Will send his light, near bright as day
Bright as day, I’ll send it on Dear
If you will not get in the way

For what we seek when dark is deepest
When dark is deep, and deep is night
It’s not the moon, it’s our own weakness
Our own weakness blocks the light

So spinning, spinning do we dance here
Do we dance with all that lives
And all that lives, in day or night, Dear
In day or night takes what he gives.

Fiddle Solo

I asked the moon to lend her light here
To lend her light, near bright as day
Bright as day her mirror shines here
If we will not get in the way.

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Before I can explain the meaning of this song we need to get one thing straight. I am not a scientist, and what I understand of eclipses is limited, but here’s an explanation of LUNAR ECLIPSES (from Answers.com):

A lunar eclipse occurs when the moon passes behind the earth such that the earth blocks the sun’s rays from striking the moon. This can occur only when the Sun, Earth and Moon are aligned exactly, or very closely so, with the Earth in the middle. Hence, there is always a full moon the night of a lunar eclipse. The type and length of an eclipse depend upon the Moon’s location relative to its orbital nodes. The next total lunar eclipse occurs on December 21, 2010. Unlike a solar eclipse, which can only be viewed from a certain relatively small area of the world, a lunar eclipse may be viewed from anywhere on the night side of the Earth. A lunar eclipse lasts for a few hours, whereas a total solar eclipse lasts for only a few minutes at any given place.

OK, so now I’ll try to explain myself.

First, the basics of form: This is not a story song, as many of my compositions are. It is sort of allegorical;. the moon and the sun representing something more than the moon and the sun. The format is pretty earthy as well, and follows a poetic form where the last words of a line repeat as the first words of the next line. I follow this format generally, though in looking back at it I break from the form sometimes. I probably should have studied the lyric more before I recorded it. Hmmm. The music came in a dream. I am not professing to have been given this pretty average music by some sort of revelation. I just woke up one night from an Appalachian themed dream (I dream a lot and rather vividly) and this music and lyric started evolving.

Anyway, here’s what I mean to say in the lyric, despite its flaws.

I am lost. We’re all lost on some level. I’m lost and it’s dark and I ask for light. I ask the moon.

The moon says, “Sure, I’ll give you light, but you know it’s not my own light. I can only reflect the light of the sun. But the sun is very dependable, He always lets me use his light. The only reason I would not be able to give you the light from the sun is if you get in the way. So don’t get between the sun and me, or I won’t be able to give you light.”

And I, being a selfish human, curse the moon when he does not give me light, when in actuality it is me getting in the way that is the problem.

Of course there is a spiritual analogy here. I have a flash-back memory of myself sitting in the front of the row in my English class, raising my hand to explain what Keates or Browning or Frost or Milton could have meant in their poems. There’s usually something more if you are willing to find it.

So here’s the something more: We curse the source of Light for not providing, for leaving us in darkness. The truth is, the light is always there. We just turn away from it, like the earth rotating away from the sun. But even in the turning away He provides light, through the reflection of the moon. If there is ever a time of total darkness it comes because we have chosen it, consciously or unconsciously. Our weaknesses, our sins, our faithlessness, our doubt…they all put us between the source of Light and the Reflection of the Source. We curse God, when in truth he is constant. I could have taken the story further and reminded us that there are always stars to give some light regardless of where we stand. But that’s too much, too deep, too far for the simple message I wanted to put in this song.

If I am in emotional or spiritual darkness, if I am feeling loveless, lightless, hopeless, it is likely because I am getting in the way of the Lord showering his light on me. My task, then, is to find a way…to get out of the way.

MEMORIA

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It was late. Not necessarily “late” in the Connors household, but late according to the normal world. We tend to burn the midnight oil around here, and always have. (Just check out the time I usually post on this blog.) The day had wound down to where the steady heartbeat of the rocking pendulum on the Grandfather clock was heard throbbing against the wooden floors. David had gone to bed, but Kate and Annie and I sat up in the family room, talking. Through all the years our kids were growing up we never had a television in our family room. We were lucky enough to have another room where we could plant a TV, so that when we wanted to watch a show, we could watch a show. Otherwise there was other stuff to do and the “all seeing eye” was not staring at us, tempting us with diversion. The family room, where we gathered most often, was used for guitar playing and conversation, with an occasional couch-nap under an open book.

I cannot recall what the topic of discussion was this late spring night, but I remember it ended up with reminiscence. Kate had recently wrapped up her performance in the high school musical, Footloose, where she played the role of Vi Moore. Annie remarked how beautifully Kate sang Can You Find It in Your Heart; and how crazy it was that Kate was the mother of someone Annie’s age in the play. Kate started remembering all the good times in rehearsal, and in performances, and then Annie talked about sharing music together. Memories started bubbling up and the two of them began reminiscing about sharing other classes together; about softball and basketball and madrigals and choir; about friends they shared; about teachers they loved and some not-so-much. The pace quickened as memories rose, like the pages of a photo album turned themselves before us and they were trying to keep up. I remember sitting there on the red couch, watching them curl their legs under them and lean into each other as they talked. Kate paused for a moment, then in an almost-whisper she said, “In a few months I won’t see any of these people any more.”

“Yes you will,” said Annie… “Well… maybe…oh dear, maybe not!”

Kate got that far away look she gets in her deep dark eyes when tears creep into the corners: “I am not likely to see these people who have meant so much to me…Who have spent every day with me for so long.”

Then it got quiet.

And Annie started to cry, a big tear rising up over her cheekbone as she gasped “What will I do without you?”

The three of us sat there in the quiet of the family room, the Grandfather clock ticking away in the hall, and we wept.

All three of us knew we were on the cusp of some mighty changes. Kate would leave for college, Annie would be the lone child at home, I would chisel away another part of me in the process, losing what most defined me, one child at a time.

I tried, I’m pretty sure, to impart some sort of adult wisdom on the moment, though I am quite sure none of it helped much. We, all three of us, ached with anticipation. Finally we hugged each other, kissed good night, and the two of them climbed the stairs to their bedrooms.

I remained in the family room in silence, pondering the beauty of this portion of my life, quaking at the loss of it. It was one of those moments where life presents itself like a movie. I saw my two littlest girls from birth until that moment, all their laughter and sorrows and antics, all their struggles and triumphs; in a flash. And I picked up my guitar. By morning I had most of the words and most of the music, and I had preserved the memory of that night with my girls. When I got to the very short Chorus I was at a loss for the word that should fill the last line, which would also be the title of the song. I knew it must be 4 syllables, and I knew what I wanted it to mean, but I could not find it. Since it did not rhyme with anything it was pretty much a gift spot, meaning I did not have to fit words into parameters that were so limiting…but still it had to be 4 syllables, and the emphasis had to be on the right syllable, and it had to represent the song. I went to bed, just before the sun rose, without that word.

The next day I worked on the song, tightening lyrics, shifting images, the way I usually do. I completely neglected the dishes and the vacuuming and probably making dinner. The next day, and the next, and the next. It takes me a long time to get the songs where I am comfortable with them. When I am writing a song I end up going CRAZY because I cannot get the thing out of my head. And to top it off I don’t generally share my work until it is pretty much complete, so it’s sort of like I am possessed by a melody and lyric that won’t leave me alone. Really, it can be awful! Non-songwriters will say things like “It sounds so simple it probably just comes that way to you, huh?” And I usually smile and say, “Not really.” If they only knew!

After a couple weeks of working on this song, still not having the hook line, or in this case “hook word”, I felt like I should pay a visit to Tery Binkerd.

Tery Binkerd is a gift of a woman, one who I am sure has no idea how many lives she has changed. She is a teacher at Viewmont High, and the stage manager for the extraordinary musicals Jeanne McGuire oversees every year. She is the sister to Jax Rogers, Jeanne’s assistant and a personal high school savior to so many kids. Tery loves languages. When Kate was a sophomore Tery convinced the school administration to let her offer an after school class in the study of Latin. Kate and a few of her friends decided to take the class, probably as much because they loved Ms Binkerd as anything. Every other day Tery taught, without compensation, a dead language to a class full of high school kids. The next year, when Kate was a junior, there were just a handful of students taking Latin II. By her senior year, it was just Kate and Tery. I visited the school one afternoon, after the school bell had rung. I made my way to Ms. Binkerd’s room and peeked in the door. There was Tery sitting balanced on the back legs of her chair, her legs crossed at the ankles and slung over the top of her desk. Kate sat opposite her, her chair leaning in the opposite direction, her legs slung up on the desk as well. Both of them cradled AP Latin books in their laps. I stood there in silence long enough to preserve the picture in my heart. Long enough to think a prayer of thanks for Tery Binkerd.

Finally I cleared my throat and they turned to me. We talked and laughed about random things, and Kate left to get something from the choir room. Finally I asked Tery if there was a word in Latin that means “remembrance”. She was looking down at something on her desk and without looking up she said “Memoria.”

Four syllables. With the perfect weight on the appropriate syllables.

Memoria is a song for my girls, for all my children, for all my family and my friends and the world…so I will not forget. I can keep them here…right in the safety of my heart.

And it is my silent personal tribute to Tery Binkerd.

I pictured three sisters on a starry night, looking up. And I imagined the dreams of those girls in the stars…they swoop down and scoop up each girl in her own time. Three sisters…Ann Marie, Cori and Libby. Three sisters…Sarah, Kate and Annie. The symmetry was moving to me.

I thought of my three little girls, of their separate and collective dreams, of the opportunities and stumbling blocks life sets on their paths. I ached with desire to walk with them always. But knowing how paths are marked for individual feet, I knew I could not interfere with their destinies any more than my own mother did mine. I realized that particular night, in the solitary space of our family room, that it was coming on time for me to let go of their soft little girl hands. Though I would have lingered there longer, I knew instinctively that timing in these matters is important, and a parent who holds on too long will ferment some of the sweet juices of memory. So I let go.

But I keep them here…I keep them here…in the remembrance of my heart.

Memoria
(Remembrance)

Since we’ve come this far, take a look around
It’s a beautiful road we have been walking down
And all that good born of yesterday
Has gathered here today
Who can tell about tomorrow
It could all be swept away

CHORUS:
So I will keep you here
I will keep you here
Memoria

II.

When the moon rose up and turned the blanket down
And the night rolled in, stars came shining ‘round
There we stood our necks stretched heavenward
As the dreams came out to play
One chose you, and one has chosen me
And they carry us away

REPEAT CHORUS

Take a look around
Here we are, born of yesterday
Together here today
Come what will tomorrow
They can’t take this away
REPEAT CHORUS

My friend Debbie Williams told me, when my kids were little, that if I wanted an intimate and communicative relationship with my teenagers I would need to stay up after 11:00 pm. She was right. I cherish the memory of that night, and of many nights before and since.