New Year...

I love starting fresh.  Having moved so many times it has been something I have gotten use to.  I have been able to live in so many places and know so many people.

This year looks bright and I am extremely excited to see how our family will grow as we start again in a new state.

We are very happy in Colorado.  We live by my brother and his family and are now short drive to UT to visit friends and family.

The end of the year was more relaxing, except for the fact that Samuel was sick...again.  Matt and him spent new year's eve in the ER with the Croup.  Man, my poor Samuel gets so sick and he is sick.

The biggest lesson I thought about learning from this year was one I was reminded about this Christmas season.

We had a RS dinner and I brought some food.  It was a treat all of my family enjoyed and something that was a little different, so I thought it would be a good idea to bring it to the dinner.  Well, no one ended up eating it.  I brought a ton because I'm someone who always wants to make sure I cover all of my bases.  I felt humiliated as I saw people talk about my dessert and how unappealing it looked. It kind of made me upset.  But after coming home I remembered a story from President Eyring.

The odd thing, is I had a similar situation happen to me last Christmas when volunteering my time for a Christmas party for the ward.

Here is the story.

To appreciate this story, you have to realize that it occurred when he was nearly eighty and had bone cancer. He had bone cancer so badly in his hips that he could hardly move. The pain was great.

Dad was the senior high councilor in his stake with the responsibility for the welfare farm. An assignment was given to weed a field of onions, so Dad assigned himself to go work on the farm.

Dad never told me how hard it was, but I have met several people who were with him that day. I talked to one of them on the phone the other night to check the story. The one I talked to said that he was weeding in the row next to Dad through much of the day. He told me the same thing that others who were there that day have told me. He said that the pain was so great that Dad was pulling himself along on his stomach with his elbows. He couldn’t kneel. The pain was too great for him to kneel. Everyone who has talked to me has remarked how Dad smiled, and laughed, and talked happily with them as they worked in that field of onions.

Now, this is the joke Dad told me on himself, afterward. He said he was there at the end of the day. After all the work was finished and the onions were all weeded, someone asked him, “Henry, good heavens! You didn’t pull those weeds, did you? Those weeds were sprayed two days ago, and they were going to die anyway.”

Dad just roared. He thought that was the funniest thing. He thought it was a great joke on himself. He had worked through the day in the wrong weeds. They had been sprayed and would have died anyway.

When Dad told me this story, I knew how tough it was. So I said to him, “Dad, how could you make a joke out of that? How could you take it so pleasantly?”

He said something to me that I will never forget, and I hope you won’t. He said, “Hal, I wasn’t there for the weeds.”  

I realized that even though, I donated my time and I felt like it wasn't appreciated, it was because I chose to serve.  I chose to give of my time and talents to help my church.  I chose to help because I felt like I should.

I still get the reward for choosing to serve, even though, I might of thought my work was worthless and unappreciated.

Who am I doing service for? Am I serving so others will see how "awesome and selfless I am?"

I needed to learn that no matter if I think my work is not appreciated by others, it doesn't matter.  My work is appreciated by the only person who matters, my Savior.

This year I would like to try and keep that in mind as I serve.  I would like to be better.

My new year's resolutions for 2015

The dessert that no one ate. I made so much. I felt horrible trashing it but I probably would of had a a heart attack if I ate all of it by myself.