Seeking Authentic Voice

Five generations back, my great grandmother, Hannah, who was three months pregnant, travelled with her young son and daughter, on a rickety small pox infected ship from Manchester, England to Upper New York state. Her daughter died on that ship. She left her husband behind because he had to work to earn money. She also left all of her extended family, parents and brothers, cousins, everyone. She and her son continued their lonely journey across the St. Lawrence seaway by boat and train, eventually ending up near St. Louis. She then walked 1300 miles, in her last trimester of pregnancy, across the plains to her destination, Salt Lake City, Utah. Her baby, my great great grandfather Jacob Chatterton, was born three weeks later.  I think of my five times great grandmother, and her journey of faith, when I think of Mary on this Christmas Eve night.  I think of their strength. I think of their faith. There are differences of course, my grandmother was an extraordinary ...

Although I grew up in a dysfunctional family system, my parents usually managed to make Christmas special. I remember falling asleep to Christmas music from vinyl records playing on our stereo Hi-Fi. Two particular records were played over and over. One had all the famous artists of the day, Rosemary Clooney, Burl Ives, Robert Goulet, Christy Minstrels, and others,  singing songs like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Suzy Snow Flake and I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. The other album was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing traditional Christmas songs.  The music filled the house, softly serenading my brothers and me. My bedroom glowed from the lights on the Christmas tree as the twinkling colors filtered through the small house. My mother would stay up late at night baking cookies and fruit breads. The house was filled with the aroma of Christmas spices. As I drifted off to sleep, all of my senses were soothed with the comfort of home, family, love, and the expectations o...