A Miracle of Music

Lyn Rogers

West  Bountiful, Utah

February 2011

My daughter-in-law's grandmother died unexpectedly and her family found themselves putting a funeral together.  My son was asked to sing the hymn “Abide With Me Tis Eventide”.

As I play the piano, my son suggested that I could accompany him and from there I was asked to also play the congregational hymns that would be sung.  Of course, I willingly agreed. I left the house more than an hour before the funeral to make the twenty minute drive to the church where the funeral would be held.  Somehow I missed seeing the church and found another one a little way down the same road but of course no one was there.  I drove to the house of my son's parents-in-law but again, no one was there.  I had forgotten my cell phone and with no clear idea of where I was going, I drove away from the house and turned onto the street where the church was.  It seemed like I looked up and suddenly the right church was in front of me.  I felt like I had been led there.

I went into the building about thirty minutes before the funeral started.  My son and I went into another room to go over the hymn he was to sing.  We hit a snag, the notes was too high for him to sing comfortably.  I needed to transpose the notes down but I have never been able to transpose, my mind just doesn't work that way.  To transpose you need to be able to think of the notes in terms of higher or lower.  You play the same pattern but not on the same notes.  I needed to play a step and a half lower so my son could sing.  I tried, the first two lines were okay but after that the music was more complicated.  Finally I asked for a few minutes to try and work out the new notes. 

As soon as my son left the room, I bowed my head.  My prayer was short and to the point.  “Father,” I said, “I can't do this. I know the Thou can.  Please help me so that I can too.”  For about fifteen minutes I practiced and found myself able to work out the notes.  It wasn't easy, but I could do it.  Now I still had to remember the notes.  I again bowed my head and asked for help in remembering and playing the correct notes.  I had five minutes before the funeral started and I went into the chapel and began playing prelude music.  When my son got up to sing, I began playing, playing the correct notes.  I made a couple of small mistakes but I was able to remember the notes I had worked out and played the hymn in the lower key.  I know I never could have done it by myself.  I know I had my own miracle, small though it was, and it let me know the Lord was mindful of me.

My Father Hated Hippies



by Jake Jacobsen

Seattle, Washington

February, 2011

My father hated hippies.  At least, that is what one would think from listening to his tirades against long hair, beards, open sexual expression, drug use and sloppy apparel.  As a “child of the 60’s” with a desire to at least look like my peers, I was frequently on the receiving end of his outspoken displeasure with the counter-culture movement. 

The Original Paragon



My father Erling Jacobsen, was a commercial fisherman.  He was born in Norway in 1917, the eldest son of one of the few LDS Norwegian families.   His father died in a Whaling accident in Antarctica when Erling was 10, so he went to work to support his family, becoming a whaling ship captain in his early 20’s.  He was in Antarctica during WWII when the German army occupied Norway.  He took his boat to Newfoundland, joined the US Navy, married, and (after the war) moved to Seattle to become a fishing legend. 

He had built up a fleet of small trawlers and a fish processing company on a downtown Seattle waterfront pier, but by the late 1960’s he was down to one boat – the Paragon.   Built as a 98-foot wood halibut schooner, the  “Paragon” was converted into a stern trawler, with an aft net reel just outside the galley door.  

My father was one of a handful of experienced Washington trawl fishermen.  In the late 1960’s my brother and I, and even our older sister, would work on the boat during summer break.

The Love Family, 1972, Courage Israel on drum



The hippie movement spawned many communitarian social experiments.   One such movement in the Seattle area was The Love Family, also known as the Church of Jesus Christ at Armageddon.    Founded by Paul Erdman - also known as Israel Love (or Love Israel) - as a religious hippie community, they purchased some real estate and eventually began to prosper.   They acquired assets, including a fishing boat. 

I first heard of the Love Family from my father – and to be sure, it was not complimentary.   To an active, conservative Latter-day Saint, they represented a tragic degradation of modern society.   So I was surprised to find my father down on their old dilapidated boat, teaching them how to operate the engines and machinery.  Courage Israel, the vessel master, and his crew had little experience on boats, and even less experience fishing. 

Over the months of preparation for fishing, my father was the only fisherman who helped the hippies in their new venture.  Despite being competitors, he taught them how to operate their vessel. They had little money, even for necessities – so he gave them gear, parts and whatever else they needed.  Sometimes he would instruct me to go to the galley, prepare a box of food and bring it to them as they were hungry and lacked money for groceries. 

He “sold” them one of his very expensive nets.  The terms were simple – pay when you can. 

When their boat was ready, they followed us out of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and onto the fishing grounds of the Pacific west coast.   They set out their net where my father told them and hauled it back when he said to.   Over the months of fishing, they were our shadow. 

The next year, the Paragon burned to the waterline and sank at sea.  Fortunately, all hands were rescued.   This event created an opportunity for us to venture to the Bering Sea, and embark on long and storied careers as Bering Sea crab and trawl fishermen.  I don’t know how long Courageous and his crew of hippies fished, but years later a letter came in the mail.  It was from The Love Family.  It was a check for the net they had purchased – paid in full, with interest. 

Landing Pot, 1972

My father is a hard man.  He does not display emotion.  But as he read their letter of gratitude for his help, and held the check in his hand –tears formed in his eyes.  He didn’t need the money; by this time he was a successful and wealthy Bering Sea fisherman with two large steel crab boats.  The check meant more than money.  It was a token of integrity and gratitude from people he loved and selflessly served: hippies. 

Erling Jacobsen serves as a worker in the Seattle Temple.

Read more of our adventures on the Bering Sea at http://www.stormandsong.com/

Sailing with Saylor

Brian Rogers

West Bountiful, UT

2/2011

I have a grand niece. Her name is Saylor. She is only seven years old. But she is an eternity ahead of me when it comes to being a child of God.

I am struggling to find the words to describe what I am thinking, what I feel about this tiny angel. You see, Saylor was born with spina bifida. Her legs do not work for her. She has other complications which endanger her mortal existence, wounds which she so softly carries, and that endears her to the very core of my soul. And I have spent less than five hours of my life with her I am ashamed to admit. I am not worthy of the honor of having her as my niece. Her parents, Nate and Audie, certainly are worthy of having her as their daughter.

I remember learning of Saylor’s health shortly after she came to grace her family and by extension, mine. I remember feeling somewhat singed, sorrowful that anyone one, any parent would be burdened with the care of a child that does not arrive to the world in what we mere mortals call normal. To my shame, I was momentarily thankful that none of my children were thus and I moved on with my life. Saylor was out of sight, out of mind and far away.

I visited Nate and Audie a couple of times over the next few years, each time with my father and then only for an hour or so. Probably not even that long. Then, my older sister Shauna attempted to renew a family tradition of annual a Christmas party that my grandfather had begun more than half a century ago. As I travel much, too much, my attendance at these annual festivals has been limited, which only continued for a couple of years.

Two years ago, I was home for the holidays and was able to attend. I wanted to be there. I was looking forward to it. My sister has some granddaughters that I thoroughly enjoy tormenting in every way I can think of. We banter, tease, and chase each other around the house, interrupting whatever else is going on, much to the chagrin and chastisement from my cautioning wife among others.

Saylor was there, watching it all. Her little legs prevented her from joining, from laughing, from chasing and being chased. Finally, in my arrogant, stupid hubris, I realized that Saylor was not part of the fun. I stopped and attempted, very feebly, to enjoin her.

We, the other children and I, had been doing what I called the family smash. It is a game I have played with my own children as they were growing up. It consists of the oldest person in the group sitting on the floor, legs spread wide apart. The next oldest (or largest) then sits between the legs of the first person, back to chest as close as possible, spreading their legs as far apart as possible. The next joins in, and the next, as many as is safe. Each person then wraps their arms around as many people in front of them as possible, building an interlocking chain of humanity, with the smallest, youngest at the furthest end, with no one to hold on to. Then, the largest person leans back until they lie on the floor, lifting everyone in the line upward, until all are stacked one on the other, facing upwards. The family smash! The object is to stay erect as long as possible. Of course the children are laughing, wiggling and wailing in anticipation of what is about to transpire. The stack is impossible to hold and soon all tumble to whatever side, giggling with each other. The game is repeated until a parent says to stop before someone gets hurt, ruining all the fun. At moments like these, I am not a parent. I am a child on the floor with the other children.

 I invited Saylor to join the stack. I was confident I could protect her, but I desperately wanted her to feel part of the group, a member of the family with her cousins. But, in a still, small, sweet voice, she gracefully declined. She merely said, “I’ll watch.”

My heart broke. To this very day, long after it occured, I remember her voice, the sound of it, the tone, the humility, the acceptance of her condition. I am not worthy of this, patient, loving,  mortal goddess.

Recently, Saylor has undergone some very painful surgeries, correcting some complications she has been living with every day of her life. I cannot imagine her suffering. If your heart has compassion, or if your heart needs compassion, please, read about it here. Scroll down to June 2, 2009 and find a box of tissues. http://hollandrocks.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html

So what does all of this mean? That is for you to decide. I know what it means to me.

The rest of my life, whatever remaining days God has granted me until I go to be with my fathers, I will never meet a human being as sacred as Saylor. I will never be able to sail life’s waters as well as she and I look forward to the time when, in the eternities, I will witness her sail free from the burden she carries for me.