Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Covered in Chocolate Icecream and I Don't Care

We took the kiddos to Dairy Queen on Saturday after we visited the very overcrowded Como Zoo.  We got icecream cones and they went a little nuts.  Jake would not give me a bite of his icecream sundae and then used his hands to protect his chocolate and carmel so I couldn't sneak any of it.  I tried to grab the icecream cone out of Zayah's hand but grunting noises and a red little face stopped me from doing so.  In my defense, I was just trying to stop the dripping.  After wiping off the cone, I gave it back to him and he smiled at me with those big blue eyes and leaned over toward my white shirt and opened his mouth and gave it a big "MWAH".  That'll teach me to mess with his cone.

I went to the grocery store after that.  With my chocolate DQ battle scar worn proudly ~ my badge of courage. I didn't even care that my shirt was probably beyond saving.  It was so worth it.

And then I remembed one fine woman, who married one fine man and they were all kinds of good for each other and for the world.   

I don't want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully, tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails.
I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels
from taking kids to scout camp.
I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my
shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbors children.
I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails
from helping to weed someone's garden.
I want to be there with children's sticky kisses on my cheeks
and the tears of a friend on my shoulder.
I want the Lord to know I was really here
and that I really lived

— Marjorie Pay Hinckley, 2004

1 comment:

  1. I love Sister Hinckley. I don't think she could have said that one bit more effectively, or eloquently.