BE KIND!

I found this shirt in a thrift store. I liked all the colors. I liked the puzzle pieces. and I liked the words, except that I don't know if people can really be anything they want.

While many things can be learned, like how to make pancakes, don't some jobs require a certain skill set? You need to understand how numbers work together in order to be a mathematician, don't you? You need to understand colors and shapes to be an artist, right? 

There may even be some body compositions to consider in certain careers. A skinny bouncer wouldn't be taken as seriously as one with broad shoulders. A tall, beefy jockey isn't likely to win any races. In high school, I wanted to be a stewardess, but I was too tall. Fortunately, I'm not too tall to be a writer.

Neither are you!

And, good news! No one is too tall or too small to be kind.

I regret some of my past unkindesses and thoughtlessness and power trips, but I console myself by knowing I can be kind from now on.

Do you like to be kind?

Or do you like the rush of picking fights?

Snow Angel

After a big snowfall, the snow plow came along our street while I was at work, clearing the road but pushing up a ridge of snow across my driveway in the process. I barely got through with my low-slung Ford Focus, and actually got kind of stuck beside my house, but rocked the car, turned the wheels, and managed to get unstuck after kicking up way too much gravel. 

When I had to leave the next day, I prepared to get a run on it to make it over the ridge by opening my gate first so I wouldn't have to stop in the snow. That's when I noticed that a snow angel had cleared the snow pile away from my gate.

(My dog wishes they'd knocked the gate down while they were at it.)

I don't know who it was, or why they chose me, because for some reason my neighbor across the street didn't get a snow angel visit.

Thank you, snow angel.

Are you a good snow driver?

Or do you do best on clear pavement only?

Be Too Kind!

(This did not happen to me, but I saw this online today and I wanted to share this lengthy story...the message is one worth remembering. We all live in glass houses, so be kind to others - you never know what might happen because you shared a little kindness. Choose to consistently err on the side of kindness. Who knows? Maybe magic happens.)

"I work in a decent sized, local, indie bookstore. It’s a great job 99% of the time and a lot of our customers are pretty neat people. Any who, middle of the day this little old lady comes up. She’s lovably kooky. She effuses how much she loves the store and how she wishes she could spend more time in it but her husband is waiting in the car ‘OH! I BETTER BUY HIM SOME CHOCOLATE!’ She piles a bunch of art supplies on the counter and then stops and tells me how my bangs are beautiful and remind her of the ocean.

‘Wooooosh’ she says, making a wave gesture with her hand.

Ok. I think to myself. Awesomely happy, weird little old ladies are my favorite kind of customer. They’re thrilled about everything and they’re comfortably bananas. I can have a good time with this one. So we chat and it’s nice.

Then this kid, who’s been up my counter a few times to gather his school textbooks, comes up in line behind her (we’re connected to a major university in the city so we have a lot of harried students pass through). She turns around to him and, out of nowhere, demands that he put his textbooks on the counter. He’s confused but she explains that she’s going to buy his textbooks.

He goes sheetrock white. He refuses and adamantly insists that she can’t do that. It’s like, $400 worth of textbooks. She, this tiny old woman, boldly takes them out of his hands, throws them on the counter and turns to me with an intense stare and tells me to put them on her bill. The kid at this point is practically in tears. He’s confused and shocked and grateful. Then she turns to him and says ‘you need chocolate.’ She starts grabbing handfuls of chocolates and putting them in her pile.

He keeps asking her ‘why are you doing this?’ She responds ‘Do you like Harry Potter?’ and throws a copy of the new Cursed Child on the pile too.

Finally she’s done and I ring her up for a crazy amount of money. She pays and asks me to please give the kid a few bags for his stuff. While I’m bagging up her merchandise the kid hugs her. We’re both telling her how amazing she is and what an awesome thing she’s done. She turns to both of us and says probably one of the most profound, unscripted things I’ve ever had someone say:

‘It’s important to be kind. You can’t know all the times that you’ve hurt people in tiny, significant ways. It’s easy to be cruel without meaning to be. There’s nothing you can do about that. But you can choose to be kind. Be kind.’

The kid thanks her again and leaves. I tell her again how awesome she is. She’s staring out the door after him and says to me: “My son is a homeless meth addict. I don’t know what I just did. I see that boy and I see the man my son could have been if someone had chosen to be kind to him at just the right time.”

I’ve bagged up all her stuff and at this point am super awkward and feel like I should say something but I don’t know what. Then she turns to me and says: “I wish I could have bangs like that but my darn hair is just too curly.” And leaves.

And that is the story of the best customer I’ve ever had. Be kind to somebody today."

Be nice to your mom!

Hey, are you nice to your mom? (If you don't have a mom, are you nice to your aunts or cousins or neighbors?) If so, then maybe you, too, will receive a WHOLE PACK of paper towels!

I went to Mom's house and don't even remember what I did for her, but as I was leaving, she said I could have ALL THESE paper towels! (I love it!)
Thanks, Mom.
Now, what will you do for your mom (or aunt, neighbor, etc.) the next chance you get? (You have to do it without the expectation of towels, though. Feeling good is a better reward even than the Quicker Picker Upper.)

Grammy's Cushion at the Hut in the Foothills

When my 7-year-old grandson wanted to hike into the foothills to hang out at his hut, I wasn't going to let him have all the fun, so I tagged along. I found a nice bush casting shade on a patch of ground that was half stickers and half dirt. Carefully lowering myself onto the dirt part of the shade, I watched my grandson, his little brother, and their two friends work on their cool hut. Can you see it? It's fairly well camouflaged. Look above my thumb. Squint a little. Look for straight lines. There! You've got it.

After flirting with prickly stickers for about half an hour, I was surprised and charmed to see the boys holding an un-upholstered square of cushion out toward me. "Here, Grammy," my grandson said. "How would you like to sit on this?" I told him I would like to very much!

When we left the hut, I couldn't help but take a picture of the rough-hewn little gentlemen. (You can see the cushion beneath the feet of the boy on the far left. As many times as you tell them to keep their feet off the couch, I doubt they'll ever really listen until they have to buy a couch of their own.)

What kindness has someone done for you lately? What have you done that was nice for someone else?

As Nice As Pie... er... Cobbler

At a church dinner, random flavors of fruit cobbler were set down at our places. Bob's was glistening red cherry cobbler, mine was pale apple. When I tasted each, the cherry tasted much better, a burst of flavor in a thick, not-too-sweet crust. "Hey," I whispered to Bob, "since I like yours better, can we trade?"
"Uh-uh."
"Well, then, if we both like yours better, how about if we split half and half?"
"No way."
I sat looking at my anemic apple cobbler. Since it gave me nothing to look forward to, I ate it first, feeling mighty unlucky with every soggy bite.
The char-broiled chicken was good, though. Just as I finished it off, Bob's dessert plate came scooting my way. I blinked at the single gleeful bite of cherry cobbler winking up at me. My heart warmed, my tongue tingled, and I enjoyed the last bite of sweet cherry cobbler while falling in love with Bob all over again.
When was the last time your heart was tickled by a small act of kindness?

Heartening SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!

I received a message from talented new author CHERI CHESLEY that really can't be ignored if you have a heart beating in your chest. If her words doen't move you, then you'd better whip out your stethoscope and check to see if you're still alive.
In part, Cheri's message reads "I hate feeling helpless...So I decided I’m going to help. And here is your opportunity to join in the fun."
This can be a great chance for you. I can vouch for the fresh, exciting approach that Cheri takes to literature. We can't keep her book in our library doors. It keeps getting checked out.
Now it's your turn to check out the following link and read the message from Cheri. (I think she's my new hero.) MORMON MOMMY WRITERS

"Santa's Secret" Stole My Heart

by Shirley Bahlmann
REVIEW
After reading this book, I no longer feel the need to make excuses for signing “Shirley Claus” on Christmas cards because “Santa’s Secret” tastefully binds the kindness of Santa Claus with the teachings of the Savior to align the two caring men on the same side of goodness and love.
I was crying by page 16. They were happy tears.
This book is so full of delightful passages that pop up like toffee in a candy bar that the whole thing is a delight to read. Well, okay, if you want to get picky, there are a half a dozen grammar challenged sentences, such as “I knew right away I’d forgot my glasses.” (It should be …forgotten my glasses…) but Christy told me this is to keep it true to the voice of the man who inspired this book.
Yes, this book is an even greater Christmas treasure because it’s based on true experiences of long-time Santa’s helper Phil Porter. It covers the reasons we shouldn’t judge another’s circumstance by what we see, and it aptly demonstrates how giving of yourself without asking for anything in return can be magical. I dare you to read it without needing a tissue. This book comes alive with instances of faith where tough, next-to-impossible situations work themselves out in realistic ways that still come across as blessings from heaven. It’s positively heart-warming to see how the spirit and love of Christmas flowed through so many hands, showing how we can all be part of the magic, even by small means. It’s amazing how little things can end up counting for so very much.
This book is a gift you can hold in your hands as well as your heart. My copy is bristling with notes for passages I wanted to share with you, but on second thought, you’ll like them better when you read this enchanting book yourself.

INTERVIEW
Shirley: Hey, Christy, it’s a little hard to tell by starlight, but those look like nice sandals you’re wearing.
Christy: Sh! Somebody might hear you.
Shirley: (looking around, then whispers) Who?
Christy: A highway robber.
Shirley: I don't see anyone. All I see is a wall.
Christy: Ancient Bethlehem’s city wall, to be exact.
Shirley: What are we doing outside? How do we get in?
Christy: Through the eye of a needle.
Shirley: Come again?
Christy: It’s a little opening by the city gate. Camels have to crawl through, but I can make it standing up. (Looks me up and down) You, oh freakishly tall one, might have to duck.
Shirley: So, we couldn’t have met here during daylight?
Christy: No. Tonight’s a special night. (Christy grins, her teeth shining white in the subdued light.)
Shirley: Okay, lead the way. Ooo, low ceiling, you weren’t kidding. Hey, I notice your book, “Santa’s Secret,” was written with Phil Porter. Who is he?
Christy: Phil is just a bus driver from Salem, Utah. But he has a special connection to this place.
Shirley: How did you meet him?
Christy: I work for a newspaper, the Spanish Fork News, and a few years ago I was assigned to interview him for a story in the Christmas Special Section. You see, Phil has been Santa Claus for 27 years now, and he has a unique perspective on the Christmas holiday.
Shirley: Ah, we’ve reached the city. Argh! A spotlight!
Christy: No, Shirley, that’s an exceedingly bright star.
Shirley: Oh. Now what do we do?
Christy: Come this way.
Shirley: Okay, I’ll follow along. What made you think of writing this book?
Christy: When I interviewed Phil, I was so touched and overwhelmed by the spirit of his stories, I approached him about coming together to write a novel. He said he'd been approached several times before--his stories are that good--but this time, the pieces just fell right. He is not a writer, but he is a story-teller, so he came to my house several times and I recorded his stories as he told them. I took those, and wove them together with a fictional "season" of Christmastime, to create a setting where his stories can take place. Some of what happens between him and his family in the book is fictional, and though he wanted to keep the names of his immediate family the same, all of the other names are changed. Almost everything else in the book is based on actual events. You really feel that when you read it, too. The stories ring with truth, and go right to the heart because they really happened.
Phil believes in Santa Claus in a different way than I've ever seen before. When he dresses in his Santa suit, he really "becomes" Santa. And because he takes his role so seriously, he has had many opportunities to offer help, comfort and love to people who are struggling during the holiday season. He's a true giver of real gifts.
Shirley: Oh, I must agree, I sensed that when I read it. Hey, what’s that up ahead?
Christy: A stable. I told you tonight was special. I wanted to meet you here on this night to see the real reason for Christmas.
Shirley: You don’t mean…
Christy: Yes. In that stable is born the Savior of the world.
Shirley: Wow. (Looking up) What’s that? I hear bells.
Christy: (Smiling) It’s Santa Claus.
Shirley: Here? Now? (Christy and Shirley watch as Santa lands his sleigh, takes off his hat, then walks into the stable and kneels beside the manger.) That is so awesome. Hey, doesn’t Santa Claus look a little like…?
Christy: Phil.
Shirley: Yeah. I love how they’re both on the same team. Thanks so much for bringing me here. You and Phil… and the Savior.
Christy: You’re welcome.
CLICK HERE TO BUY THIS BOOK!

A Simple Hug

by Shirley Bahlmann
It's Mr. Bahlmann's and my 30th anniversary next month. You'd think after 30 years we'd know each other so well that we could communicate without words. Well, I love my guy, I really do, but human-ness comes in and makes us less than perfect.
I tend to be sensitive to anger. Even mild disapproval makes me want to leave the room and go find the dog to hug. This morning Bob and I had a misunderstanding just before I left for work. But I've recently determined that no matter what, whenever I leave and Bob's still at home, I'm going to kiss him and tell him goodbye. So I walked in to where he sat at his computer chair, said, "Good bye," and bent over to kiss him. That's when he surprised me by reaching up and giving me a hug that told me without words that he still loved me.
So my message to you is to go out and do a simple act of kindness. Don't hug everybody, because even though that's one of my favorites, not everyone likes it, but go ahead and smile at someone, pay them a compliment, or pass along some words of appreciation. It won't kill you, and it might just save their sanity. What power you hold in your decision to simply be kind!

The Gentleman Toweler

by Shirley Bahlmann
A lot of people wonder where authors get their ideas. Here's an example that worked for me.
I was at the LDStorymaker's Conference in Salt Lake City this past weekend. I wound up sitting by a door that author Candace Salima's husband, Alvin, opened to let me in. He saw me tippy-toeing around the corner after trying to get in behind the presenter's screen. (There was an actual door there, but no one opened it for me. They probably thought I was a crazy lady, tapping on the glass, yelling with blue lips, "Let me in!")
But Alvin is big, Alvin is brave, he knows me, and he STILL opened the door!
Alvin gave me one of his big, warm Samoan hugs to thaw me out. I appreciated that the room was warmer, but not by much. After a bit, Alvin got up and left the table. He came back a few minutes later with a white hotel towel. At first, I thought something had spilled. Then he walked over behind me and draped the towel over my shoulders. I looked up in complete surprise. "How did you know I was cold?" I asked.
"Because I'm hardly ever cold, and I thought it felt a bit chilly," he replied. "I tried to get you a blanket, but they didn't have one, so I hope you don't mind the towel."
"No," I said, snuggling into the soft, warm terry cloth shawl. My grandma never had it so good.
Now, how's that for character? Can you see how that event could be worked into a book in so many ways?
Thanks, Alvin, for the inspiration.
And the towel.

May I Sit Here?

I was only looking for some human company at a craft fair when I carried my bowl of soup to an empty table, then glanced at the next table where a lady was filling foam bowls with soup from a quart jar for her two sons. I had opted to buy a single bowl of soup, not only to help the fund-raising dance troop that was selling it, but to help my empty stomach as well. "May I sit with you?" I asked the woman.

She looked up, her blue eyes round with surprise. Then her face softened into a slightly crooked smile. "Certainly," she said. "I'm Kathy."

"Thank you. I'm Shirley." I set my soup and breadsticks down and pulled up a chair. Just then, her husband, Kerry, came to the table with a loaf of bread from the food counter. I introduced myself. The first thing he said was, "Would you like some bread?"

I indicated my stiff breadsticks, which didn't look nearly as fresh and nice as his thick fluffy slices. "I've already got some," I said. As I ate, I found that if I dipped my breadsticks in my soup, they were more palatable and really quite filling.

My dinner companions and I talked about where we were from, how we enjoyed the craft fair, and what we did. I never expected Kerry to make me cry. As a home health nurse, he told me of a 106 year old man he'd taken care of for eleven years. "You get attached to them," Kerry said. "It's hard to see them go." His voice wobbled, and he picked up a napkin and dabbed his eyes. He went on to mention a pair of brothers with muscular dystrophy. "They depend on me," he said. "I get them up, get them washed, dressed, and fed. They can't do any of that for themselves. The older brother, well, when he turned 20, he said to his mother, 'I'm not a teenager any more, Mom.' That made her cry, because neither of her sons were expected to live past 20."

"How old is he now?" I asked.

"Twenty Four. He likes to listen to music. It's all he can do to push the button." Kerry made his hand into a claw shape. "He gets as close to the stereo as he can, then he reaches out and pushes at that button as many times as it takes to turn the stereo on." Kerry made jabbing motions with his clawed hand, then shook his head. "He loves music. He's an amazing kid."

I stared into Kerry's eyes. "I'm so glad you care so much for them. They're lucky to have you."

Kerry's eyes filled with tears that escaped his eyes as he said, "I'm lucky to work with them. I love my job. It's just so hard, because I get attached to them."

Things were getting misty, and I blinked. Things seemed so much clearer now. For the past few weeks, I'd bemoaned many facets of my life, a life that now bloomed as a spectacularly blessed one. What a selfish outlook I'd been harboring. Then along came this saintly man, caring for people who would die without help for the simplest tasks, things that I took for granted every morning. I blinked again and said, "You make such a difference in the world. And you've just told me what I desperately needed to hear. Thank you for letting me sit by you."

I placed my hand over his in farewell, said goodbye to his wife and sons, and, walking on my own legs, my flexible hands obeying every signal from my brain, I went to throw my soup bowl away.