Stripling Warriors' Mom: Photo collage

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Remembering my mother, Elena Sanchez

Carlos and Elena late 1970s

Mom & me the day she came home from the hospital after having my sister Martha

Elena & brother, Albert and Recio Cousins in Harlingen, Texas

Margarita Barrientes--Elena's maternal grandmother she lived until April 1943 to age 94 the year of and months before I was born

This is Nestora Garcia, Elena's maternal grandmother, who raised her and her brother, Albert. She died when my mother was 12 years old.
Anita Recio, Elena's mother dressed in her Indian Princess show costume.

Elena Sanchez as a young bride, at age 19
Today is my mother's birthday. I want to post more about my mother, Elena. Lately I have been more aware of her influence in my life and appreciate her so much. I know mothers are so connected to their children even beyond the veil. NO DOUBT, and thank her with all my heart for still being there for me, blessing my thoughts with her wisdom, humor and laugh. Yes, laugh...amazing how my laugh mimics hers at various and sundry times.

She always said, "I didn't raise any dummies." Thanks, Mama. I love you.

Power to Act in God's Name

I believe and know very strongly that, " A man, young or old never stands taller than when he is doing his priesthood duties or responsibilities. Be it station as a Deacon, Teacher, Priest, Elder, High Priest, Home teacher, priesthood holder husband, father, son or grandfather, Bishop, or Prophet of God. He has a mantle about him that emanates and gives him the authority to act in God's name, and uses it in righteousness. It is a blessing to him and his family. To this I know that he raises the bar in doing his duty to God and his fellow man.”

" I stand in awe of the goodness that pervades within that soul who honors and lives up to his priesthood calling with a pure heart. It is evident to me and cannot be hidden. I believe that quality shines in their countenances and His image is radiated in their face's.

Insights by Anna 11.22.09

Touch of The Master's Hand

And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
" It was battered and scarred,
Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

Myra Brooks Welch