Since I once wrote for her blog, Hilary sent me a sample of her music and asked me to pass it on to you. “Love Your Life” was released September 16th and is already #7 on the Christian Billboard Charts! It is her 11th CD and the 3rd to make the top ten. I hope you love it as much as I do!
This was a story I submitted this year for a contest. It was a loser to everyone but our family. This was the experience that changed us all forever.
The Christmas Coat
It was an unusually cold snowy winter and I thought we were very poor. I knew our 6 children would want toys for Christmas, but was grateful my mother had offered to buy them new coats, gloves and hats. This year, coats would be their big gift.
Christmas Eve at Grandma’s, I wrestled my two boy’s beloved old leather bomber jackets away from them. They complained as I put on their new “Grandma” approved practical coats, knit gloves and hats. We went out into the freezing air and loaded everyone into our frigid old Volkswagen Van.
We drove our rattletrap on salted slushy roads into Salt Lake’s Temple Square to see the Christmas lights. It was so cold the heater couldn’t keep up. The A.M. radio was crackling Christmas Carols when the local D.J. made an important announcement. Due to record cold temperatures and snowfall, local homeless shelters were bursting at the seams. Residents were in dire need of coats and blankets. They listed several addresses. One of the homeless shelters was only a few exits away.
We quickly decided we would take the children’s old coats to a shelter and donate them. I explained to my children that we were going to make a detour and donate their used coats. I watched my 3-year old and 7-year old boys burst into tears at the thought of giving away their ragged, but well-loved bomber jackets.
I gave them a minute to calm down, and then I reminded them that everything we had was a blessing from Heavenly Father. It was important that we share all the blessings we had with others in need. They wailed, having heard me say it before. No new toys were allowed into the house, until we donated the old ones. No new clothes purchased, until we shared the old ones with those that were even poorer than we were, if that was possible.
We slid down the icy off ramp and putted to a stop next to a snow bank that was higher than the van in the shelter parking lot. The shelter looked like it used to be a supermarket. I decided it would be a good experience for the kids to carry in their own coats. It was with great reluctance and even a little belligerence that they gathered their old things and got out of the van. We trudged toward the shelter doors, which looked like automatic doors on a grocery store.
The doors to the shelter slid open and a man in a lightweight shirt came out towards us pushing a grocery cart full of sheets of newspaper. “All full! All Full!” He shouted at us as he waved one of his arms, warning us it was not to try to check in. “They are totally full,” he explained. “But not to worry. They are serving Christmas dinner under the freeway. It will be hot and good. I can take you.” Then he turned and waved his arms motioning us to follow.
My heart caught in my throat as I realized he thought we were homeless like him. Not only that, but here he was homeless, alone and willing to take care of a family of 8 people. Without a thought, he was caring for us.
“No,” I stopped him. “We aren’t staying, we are just bringing coats.”
He startled, stopped and paused long enough to truly take us in. My children, as shocked as I was raised their coats to show him.
“Look kids, its coats!” He exclaimed. With that, the newspapers in his shopping cart parted and two of the thinnest children I had ever seen emerged wearing only short-sleeved t-shirts. Time stood still, my gut wrenched and I felt my heart tear as tears stung my eyes.
Before I could respond, my children began throwing their old coats into the basket as the small children inside squealed with joy and put them on. Then my kids threw in their new hats and gloves. He thanked us, and hurried off to get in line for dinner under the freeway.
Slowly we turned and were changed forever. We have all talked about it again and again. We learned two great lessons that Christmas. First, no matter how poor you are, you always have something to give, even if it is directions to a dinner being served under the freeway. Second, never judge anyone. You never know who the next angel you meet will be. Just when you think you are working on your wings, a homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of precious cargo will show you the true spirit of Christmas.
I love music. For some years I lived in Utah, where I met Scott. Many years ago I worked near Temple Square at Christmas time with my dear friend Yvonne. We both sang in the Bountiful High Choir. My favorite carol was and still continues to be, “O’Come, Emmanuel. We worked at the Lion House or old Governors Mansion. After serving we worked in the Kitchen, where the acoustics were best. I remember singing the following sweet song after all the guests had gone home. Today, I found this version and wanted to share it with my friends and family.
The Symonds Family has a long-standing tradition of trying our hardest to keep Christ in Christmas. Every year, when I wrap packages, even though I sign them, “from Blessings.” This year is no different from any other. It has been full of miracles, exciting changes and new babies. It has also been a year of great loss. Because of that great loss, I am more grateful than ever before this Christmas for the gift of the Savior, the atonement for my sins and eternal life.
The Savior gave his life and in doing so gave us the greatest gift of all time, the gift of more time. I am grateful for eternal life, and with that another chance to hug lost family members and be a friend to those we lost this year. Good-bye Maggie, Mark, Mike and Tryg for now, only for now.
Here is a wonderful family version of the The True Story of Christmas: The Nativity by LDS.org. This is how I pictured the Savior. He smiles, he touches everyone he blesses. I believe it was his arms that welcomed my friends home.
With every year our family grows. Fisher Symonds weighed in this year at 10 pounds. Joe is proud and Lindsay is amazing. Maya calls him, “my Fisher.” He is a typical Symonds, big and content.
The Symonds also have another long-standing tradition. It is the tradition of believing in miracles. We pay our tithing, do our best and trust. This year, Scott opened his business doors full-time and thanks to our generous and beloved Seaside has been busy. He continued to teach at the college and loves each and every student.
Erin and I have been writing. Together and separately we have published 184 pieces this year for Deseret Digital Media’s Familyshare.com. I also published a few for Hilary Weeks website Billionclicks.org/blog.
For my day job, I am working at Providence for the best boss I have ever had. I have the privilege of working with people I truly love. I love my job. They let me write on the walls!
Yesterday, Scott cut a hole in a wall for me, and I will be setting up a full-time art studio so I can paint more often.
This year Scott Donated a 300 dollar detail from the “Scottys Can Do Shop” to the Providence Seaside Festival of the trees.
Our Christmas Miracle will be all 6 children coming home for Christmas. I believe it is the first time in almost 5 years. Time for another torturous family photo, right guys?! (Don’t tell them about the picture or they won’t show up.)
Just a quick run down of the Symonds kids for the year:
Erin and Mark bought a beautiful new home in Farmington Utah.
Jamie and Alan finally came home to Seaside. Jamie has her own little studio and is painting and doing woodwork. Alan is landscaping.
Joe and Lindsay had Fisher. Joseph finished Lineman’s School and Joe is working near Salem. He will commute.
Joel is recovering from a tumor removed from his foot and in the Army in Colorado Springs, Colorado. That is Charlotte holding him up. She is living in Longview and we love having her visit! Hope we see you for Christmas Charlotte.
Jodi and Becca have rented an adorable house and Jodi got a job this year working for the Department of Human Services – Child Welfare (like her Mama). AND guess who can cook! Jodi is an amazing cook!
Trish is just finishing a term of School while trying to be a Mom. Oh soo hard! Russell is about to start in January. They rented a cute house and he works in a Potato Chip Factory.
So just to leave you smiling. Here is a little movie from my funny sister Sara. She always makes me laugh and smile.
P.S. Next year…..Temple Square in December. Start saving kids!
“Trusting that Christ loves us and wants to gather us back to Him inspires involvement to the best of our capacity. Actively striving to remember Him always – even in our ordinary and mundane tasks – helps us to experience His Spirit more fully and motivates us to strive to obediently keep his commandments. These actions bind us to the Lord – and Him to us.”
Jennifer Brinkerhoff Platt, “Living Your Covenants Every Day“
I love tradition. I love it so much that I had created an enormous amount of Christmas traditions and a monster load of work for myself. After hearing Jennifer Brinkerhoff Platt speak about living intentionally and focusing on the rituals of our daily tasks, I asked myself how my traditions led my family closer to Christ and positive living.
The Symonds Family 12 Traditions of Christmas:
Cut a fresh tree on a tree farm the day after Thanksgiving.
Spend every day in December together baking cookies, candies and treats while watching old Christmas Movies.
All Family members must participate in the family Christmas Eve beach walk.
Take plates of goodies to friends and neighbors Christmas Eve.
Invite every friend, neighbor and missionary to our home that doesn’t have anywhere else to go Christmas eve.
Dress children up and reenact the Nativity on Christmas Eve prior to opening any gifts.
The Elves bring new pajamas to the stockings on Christmas Eve (so the kids look like their mother cares in Christmas photos).
Stay up all hours setting out treat tables, laying the fire, wrapping gifts and making homemade cinnamon rolls.
All gifts are labeled from blessings not Santa. If it is labeled from Santa, you have a gift from a relative, friend or your parents have re-gifted.
One person is chosen to be the elf and pass out gifts. They must wear a stupid elf hat.
We open gifts one at a time and take turns in order of age, youngest to oldest. We take time to be gratefull and really enjoy each package. It can take more than an hour, way more….
We eat until we are sick and sleep all day Christmas due to paralyzing exhaustion.
As I thought about living intentionally and bringing my family closer to the Savior, I wondered what all this work and fun was teaching my family? I decided to take a poll.
First I called my oldest child Erin.
Erin said, “It is not what you get, but what you give that really matters. A few weeks after Christmas what we received wasn’t fun anymore. What we gave to friends, family and people in need still makes me happy. The feeling that I got from giving stayed with me longer than the gifts I received.”
So I thought, all that shopping for just the right gift was a lot less important than the time I took to take them to donate at the homeless shelter and other service opportunities. Wow, I had raised a great girl!
Then I wondered what all the hysterical laughter was in the back ground of our call. “What are you doing?” I asked Erin.
“Making Madeline (her 18-month old) chase a laser pointer. It’s very entertaining.” Yup, a great girl.
I called Joseph and asked what he learned from our family Christmas traditions. He said, “It was the preparation….cutting the tree. On the years we prepared ahead, it built up to a good Christmas. It brought the spirit of Christmas… all our gifts were marked from blessings.”
Trish said that Christmas and reenacting the nativity story every Christmas Eve taught her that the scriptures were real. She said Christmas was the first time she became interested in what other stories might be in the scriptures that were also real.
Joel said it wasn’t about the gifts he received but the time we spent together.
Wow! I wish I would have known no one was appreciated the gifts! l thought about all the years, that unknown to our children, we worried about how we would make their toy dreams come true and realize we did not need to worry.
And so…after talking with my family, I have decided to keep the 12 traditions of Christmas. However, this year as I bake, decorate and make costumes for Mary and baby Jesus, I will do it with intention. I will be focused on the positive importance of each sweet and simple thing that brings my family closer to Christ and each other.
Today Joseph and Lindsay brought another sweet spirit into the world. Fisher will be one of the luckiest children on earth. He was born to two parents who will love and protect him at all costs. They will teach him about God, honor, family and how to be better than good. He will be loved by a big sister and many, many cousins. He will be surrounded by family just waiting to pick him up when he falls and cheer for him when he walks.
Just yesterday Fisher’s father was born. My mother Beverly was in the room when he came into the world. Beverly and I can tell you about every special second of his first day and every day that followed. Time will fly for Fisher and his family as it has flown for me and mine.
So Fisher, here is our promise to you. We promise to love you unconditionally for all eternity. We promise to do our best to keep cookies in the jar. And even though we know you will live long beyond us, we promise to keep watch over you near or far. Welcome to a family that believes in love.
And the wind ceased, and there was a great bcalm.”
Today when I rose to run, I was running into the wind. I thought how like my life this storm was. Some days are blue sky and soft breezes and others I am running into the wind and rain. The storms feel like they will push me to my knees.
On days like this when I run, I try to remember that I never run alone. Sometimes I catch myself looking to my left and smiling. I hope I am always on the right side of the Lord. I know he knows my heart and cares for it. When life is the perfect storm I know I never run alone.
One of my favorite stories begins when the Savior walks into the perfect storm. In John Chapter 8.
4 They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act.
5 Now Moses in the alaw commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?
6 This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger awrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.
7 So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without asin among you, let him bfirstcast a cstone at her.
8 And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground.
9 And they which heard it, being convicted by their ownaconscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last: and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.
10 When Jesus had lifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?
11 She said, No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do Iacondemn thee: go, and bsin no cmore.
12 ¶Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the alight of the world: he that followeth me shall not bwalk in cdarkness, but shall have the light of life.
I choose the light.
Only one person knew the woman who lay on the ground. Only one person knew her heart and he stood between her and the stones. He loved her, he protected her and invited her to go and sin no more. He didn’t say the sin or whatever was happening in her life was acceptable. He forgave her, loved her, protected her and later atoned for her sins.
He is the great example.
The question I asked myself this morning is what will I do with the stones that come into my life. When all my world is a storm. When I find myself laying on the ground will I remember the Savior is beside me? Will I remember, when anger is blowing my way that I need not cover my head, because he will stand between me and the stones?
What will I do with the stones that are meant for me? Will I pick them up, the angry words, the gossip, the hurt and carry them with me, heavy on my soul? Or will I hurl them back at those I believe threw them? I hope I can hand them to the Savior who offers to carry all the burdens I cannot.
I hope I remember to be thankful. He stands between me and all the storms and stones of life.
I ran six miles today. At the half way point I turned around and tried to see the storm and the story from the other side.
What if I am like the Pharisees? Am I the one carrying stones and waiting for my chance to storm, to throw them and the hurl accusations at others? Do I create a heavier burden for the Savior? If I had a rock in my hand right now would someone’s name be written on it?
I ran home on the beach and thought about all the stones I needed to leave in the sand. I realized that in my life there are stones that I will never fully understand and I can only let them rest in the Savior’s wounded hand.
Storms come and go in my life. This one will pass. I will run and you will see me. Watch as every once in a while I look over my left shoulder hoping I am still on the right side of the Lord.
This is an excerpt from a book I have written and would like to publish.
Save Me Grace
Chapter One: September
Amber lay in her bed monitoring the voices. They were dark, raging, a familiar background music in the night. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she knew that her Stepfather Berk and her Mother Emily were in their bedroom; and her mother was in trouble. The voices rose and fell; one voice was angry, growling louder, then lower, a menacing rumble. The other voice was soft, soothing, trying to make peace. The peacemaker was losing.
Amber sat up. She had been here before. Even though she couldn’t see Berk, she knew his putrid smell. She knew what was happening; he was large, drunk, spitting mad, spewing alcohol soaked air into her mother’s face. She quietly pushed back the covers. She needed to check on her brother and sister. The voices got louder. Her mother couldn’t stop him when he got like this.
Fear and anger mixed into a poison that ate her heart. No matter how many times this happened, she was still afraid; she was still angry, angry with Berk and mad at herself for being a coward. She opened her door and slipped out into the hall. She stood between Greta and Bjorn’s bedroom doors and decided to look in on Bjorn first.
She opened Bjorn’s door and saw his sweet small body, head up, hands on the rail of his crib, silhouetted in the streetlight. He let go with one little hand and reached though the bars for her, falling on his side, out of control. He whined in frustration as he tried to roll onto his stomach to see her. She quickly crossed to the crib and picked him up, shushing him, franticly rocking and holding him close.
She quietly went back to Bjorn’s open door and listened to the argument, making sure her parents were still in their room. She hastily crossed the hall and opened Greta’s door. The hinges squeaked loudly. Amber stopped breathing, afraid to look down the hall. The argument stopped. He had heard her. She pushed the door the rest of the way open and ran into Greta’s room.
Streetlight shone through the bedroom window, silhouetting Greta’s tiny seven-year old body. She stood back against the window, silent and shaking. When she saw Amber, she ran to her big sister like a child to its mother. “Shush....” Amber said as she pulled Greta towards the door. Amber froze. Her parents were coming.
“Berk,” her mother whispered urgently, “Berk, please…don’t wake the children.”
“Shut it! My house! That little brat should hear this!” he roared. “Greta!”
Amber looked around the door and saw him coming toward them. He was lurching down the long hall. Instinctively she pushed Greta into the bedroom closet. She didn’t have time to shut the closet door before her mother backed in the room, her hands on Berk’s chest, pushing back at him, begging him to stop.
“This is my house! Get out of my way!” He growled and shoved her. Amber watched her mother’s forehead hit the doorjamb, it sounded like a melon smashing on the wood. Her mother’s body fell hard, arms at her side and lay still. Amber gasped loudly. Dark liquid ran down the white doorjamb in the gray light.
Berk’s drunken body swung around to see his wife’s motionless body. He staggered backwards and fell against Greta’s pink bed. Greta’s large eyes reflected moonlight from the closet door. Before Berk could get up, Amber took Greta by the hand and yanked her out of the closet. Carrying Bjorn and dragging Greta, she ran for the stairs.
Behind her, she heard Berk coming. Amber glanced over her shoulder and saw she had a small lead. Berk growled, “Come back here you little …” he swore and swayed from one side of the hallway to the other.
Amber pulled Greta with her free hand, held Bjorn like a football and took the stairs so fast Greta slipped and was being drug. Bjorn started to scream. Berk was calling her foul names. She didn’t take them in. She was planning her next move.
On the ground floor she pulled Greta to her feet and ran into the kitchen. Amber heard Berk yelling as he made his way down the stairs. She let go of Greta long enough to pick up the remote telephone and dial nine one one while running for the door to the garage with Greta on her heels clutching the back of her nightgown. She pulled Greta into the garage, locked the door behind them and turned on the light.
“What’s you emergency?” She heard the operator say.
“Berk’s hitting my mom again,” Amber screamed into the phone as she went down the wooden stairs into the large garage and began looking for a place to hide. Berk was on the other side of the door pounding and yelling.
“Miss, Miss, are you all right?” the operator asked.
What a stupid question, Amber thought as she dropped the phone to free her hand. It shattered on the cement. She tried the car door, it was locked. Frantically she tried the other car. Both cars were locked. The keys were in the kitchen with him. Bjorn wiggled crying in breathless jagged screams. Greta stood frozen looking at the door to the kitchen; sure it would splinter as it threatened to give way to his violence. Amber adjusted Bjorn on her hip.
Suddenly he stopped pounding on the door and the only noise was Bjorn’s cries. The silence frightened her more. He must be going for keys, she thought, or the garage door remote. She took Greta by the hand, pulled her along the back of the garage, past his refrigerator full of beer, and headed for the door that led to the back yard.
Amber had her hand on the doorknob and was turning it when she felt it twist hard in her grasp. She jerked back and Berk pushed the door open, she turned to run and he grabbed a fist full of her hair. Bjorn screamed slipping helplessly from her grasp, clawing at her nightgown. Berk yanked her around, leaned down and pulled her face close to his, blowing fetid breath into her eyes, while Bjorn screamed in terror at her side. He began lifting her by her hair slowly. She rose to her tiptoes, feeling her scalp pulling free from her skull. She clawed at his hands trying to get him to let go, her mind spinning. She realized no matter what she did it would be like pouring oil on an inferno.
Sirens sounding in the distance broke through his rage. He dropped her, pulling his rough hands away with strands of long dark hair hanging between his fingers. Wild eyed, he backed out the door into the dark. Staggering, he turned and ran in an erratic line into the woods behind the house.
Chapter 2: Finding Grace
In the shadowy night, a cool ocean breeze blew white curtains in the open bedroom window of the weathered Victorian. The house was silent except for the ticking of a cuckoo clock and the rhythm of the ocean washing in and out of the window.
One thirty in the morning the phone rang loudly shattering the silence at the James home. Eyes closed, Grace rolled towards the edge of her creaky old bed and reached for her cell. Her eyes opened when she realized she was falling in the darkness off the side of the bed. She managed to snatch the cell from the table and as she hit the hardwood floor. She rolled onto her back and raised it to her ear. It rang again and she realized she hadn’t answered it. She answered and said, “This is Grace.” She sat up against her night stand and knocked her water bottle onto the floor where it began to leak.
“Crap!” She jumped up.
The voice on the phone said, “Grace? It’s Gladys. I have a call for you.”
“Put them through.” Grace couldn’t help but laugh as she wiped up the water with her robe and tossed it in a laundry basket. She crawled back onto the bed. She opened the nightstand drawer and began searching for a pen and paper more by feel than sight.
“Hello, Grace?” said a familiar gravely female voice. It made Grace smile. Necanicum was such a small town on the edge of nowhere in Oregon, Grace knew all the dispatchers. This sexy voice belonged to sixty-year old chain-smoking Roxanne from the Necanicum Police Department Dispatch. “This is Necanicum Dispatch,” Roxanne said officially.
“Hey Roxanne, it’s me. Morning.” Grace laughed her easy laugh. “Well, sort of morning, almost.” Roxanne continued, “I have officers out at 1239 Skyline Drive requesting a response from D.S.A.T.,”
Grace turned on a lamp and scribbled the house number on a post it note. She supervised the D.S.A.T. team, which stood for the Domestic Sexual Assault Team. It was her eight-year old baby. It was a project that paired advocates with law enforcement to provide care for victims of violent crimes. The team responded with law enforcement to the scene, or went to the hospital. They responded whenever there was a domestic or sexual assault.
“Do we know who the victim is?” Grace asked.
“No, but I can ask.”
“That’s alright, don’t bother, I am sure I’ll find out soon enough,” Grace said sarcastically shaking her head.
“Let the officers know I’ll be there in ten minutes. That’s the new housing development at the top of the hill, Ocean View, right?” Grace wondered out loud.
“I think so,” Roxanne answered.
“I’ll call you if I get lost.”
“Oh don’t I know it,” Gladys laughed.
“Talk to you later, Roxanne.”
Grace said a prayer. It was her ritual, like a baseball players lucky socks. She never went out without what she called her Angel Armor.
When she ended her prayer, she phoned her mother, who lived in a small apartment attached to the back of the house. “Mom, gotta go,” she whispered.
“Ugh,” her Mother groaned. “I’m coming.”
“It’s only a domestic,” she whispered. “I should be back early. If I’m not, will you drive Mary to the dentist?”
“Sure,” her mother mumbled.
Grace dressed and padded down stairs, wordlessly passing her mother coming up the stairs. Her mother went into Grace’s room and crawled into her bed to sleep.
Grace turned on the light in the bathroom and caught a look at herself. She shook her head. “Ouch,” she said aloud, “It’s a good thing you’re beautiful.” Sarcasm was dripping from every word.
Grace was in her thirties. Her hair was a long mess of unmanageable streaky blond ringlets that complimented her naturally tan skin. He eyes were an unusual shade of sky blue. People told her she looked young for her age, but she did not believe them for a minute. She thought she just looked tired. She had perpetual dark circles under her eyes.
Anyone that knew her said her face was an open book. Her mother described her as a strong woman with great intuition and a deep sense of right and wrong. Sometimes her brother called her the, “little General.” Her mother said she was too thin, too pretty, way too smart for her own good and “holy cow” clumsy. No wonder, she thought, I am alone.
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