In 1776, after much discussion and debate by representatives from each of the thirteen original colonies (check your history memory, can you name them all?), the text of the Declaration of Independence was signed and independence from Great Britain was proclaimed.

A long war was fought by soldiers who loved their country and their families so much that they were willing to give their own lives to protect the freedom of those they loved.

Today, we live in a country where we still have men and women willing to give their lives for us to enjoy freedom. Not only are they willing to help us, but they are willing to help all who need help.

To me this is the true American Spirit–helping each other enjoy the freedom given to us by God. I love America. I love to say the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, I love to sing the Star Spangled Banner (I even know all the words), and I love to live in this “land of the free and home of the brave.”

Thanks to my mother who empowered me with this great love for my country I feel. I hope to share this love with my children and grandchildren, as my mother has shared with our family.

Here at MPower Generations, we wish for you and your family the blessings of freedom, love, and happiness. Happy Independence Day!

Our guest blooger for this Friday is Davina. She is an amazing woman, balancing genius, dear wife, and awesome mother to three (with one on the way). We are so grateful for her insights on personal motivation and goal setting! Enjoy!!!!!

When I was on the high school cross-country team, I had a coach that would often follow behind us while we were running long distances in his van. Sometimes, he would be there at the beginning, other times we wouldn’t see him until we were almost done. We never knew at what point during our run he would appear and “motivate” us. This unknown led us to run harder and faster than we normally would have chosen on a hot, humid Florida day. Who wants to be the person the coach finds walking and not doing their best?

Unfortunately, as adults we don’t always have someone who’s going to show up at some point and make sure we’re doing our best. No big bearded guy in an oversized van is going to stop by give us water and tell us we’re not living up to our potential. We have to motivate and push ourselves; we have to be our own coach. We have to find the “team” or dream that inspires us and we have to be the one who makes sure we reach the finish line.

Unfortunately, I’m not built like a runner. I’m not tall, skinny, or lean. I’m actually short and a bit chubby. I’m sure when I show up to a race, people might think, “good for her, ” or “it’s great she’s trying something like this.” I’m also sure I’ve surprised them when I’ve walked up during the awards ceremony and claimed my prize. But I have something others might not; I’m my own coach. I know when I’m doing my best and more importantly I know when I’m not. I no longer need the man in the oversized van checking up on me. I’m my own coach.

I challenge each of us to push ourselves just a little harder each day, to find goals that seem out of reach, and to do things we aren’t “built” for while making time to coach our children and prepare them to one day “be their own coach” as well.

How can you be your own coach? What “race” are you working toward?

Recently in a Sunday School class I was really struck at how much a story in the Old Testament related to me–and it really got me pondering.  My background consists of moving a lot when growing up.  I have lived in many places within the continental United States.  The majority of my time has been spent in two states in particular–Florida and Washington State.  Both have great advantages and disadvantages.  While in high school, I lived in eastern Washington and only applied to one college–located in sunny Florida (because I wanted to be in more sun and less snow).  My years in college were great.  I met wonderful people, had great experiences, and a lot of sun.  The disadvantage surprised me:  I missed the mountains terribly.

After college and some random traveling, I found myself back in Washington State again.  Western Washington surprised me at how green it was and how pretty it could be despite being a VERY urban area.   The spring and summertime here can hardly be beat in beauty and the amount of activities that can be enjoyed here.  However, come winter the drizzly and dreariness that the Seattle area is famous for starts to grate on me and my memories of sunny Florida surface.   Seriously, Miami gets more annual rainfall(67”) than Seattle (36”).

Now back to that Sunday School lesson.  We were discussing the Israelites and their inability to be grateful for what the Lord had given them.  They had been given manna daily for their hunger.  Well, after having just manna for a rather long time, those memories of fish and other types of food surfaced.  They wanted something different, some meat.  (This story can be found in the Old Testament in Numbers chapter 11.)  The Lord had to remind them to be grateful–and in not a pretty manner.

I need to be more grateful for the things in my life, not what I think I am missing.  Running across this quote summed up what I need to do:  “The gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored to bring blessings to our Heavenly Father’s children. You are planted in your country, your community, your family to facilitate these blessings. I urge you to bloom where you are planted!”  (Dieter F. Uchtdorf, “Bright as the Sun,” New Era, Jun 2006, 2–6)

I am studying to become a special education teacher. I learn that all of my students will learn differently, and I think everyone learns differently anyway. So, if everyone learns differently why when we get a paper back do we say, “What did you get? What did you get?” You know you have been there before: when someone gets one point lower than you, and this person always gets a higher grade, but when you get that extra point you sort of smile inside and think “haha I win.” Yet, if we all learn differently, why are we comparing ourselves to each other?

I have done that my whole life. Stressed for success, I call it. This semester has been the worst. I have skipped church and Sabbath rest days (or rest times cause some of my friends cannot take a whole day so they take 1/7 out of everyday). I have pulled all nighters and skipped meals. Just to have the best grades, and to make sure I was the best. I would cry when I got and A- because it wasn’t perfect.

Then I read this… “Pay careful attention to your own work, for then you will get the satisfaction of a job well done, and you won’t need to compare yourself to anyone else” (Galatians 6:4). Wow! What an amazing and powerful statement. Father wants me to pay attention to my own work, and try my best, and that is all he asks. He knows I am different from everyone else, and he knows what my honest best is, and he doesn’t care about the letter grade. I would never expect my students to be perfect all the time, so why do I hold myself to such a secular standard instead of God’s standard?

A few weeks ago I heard a talk about this woman who wanted to go medical school. She wrote to an to her friend and said, “Now I have time to go medical school but it will take forever, after all the field experience and the classes, it will take ten years, I will be forty.” Her friend replied, “You will be forty in ten years anyway.” This conversation really hit me. Why am I not living my life? Why am I so worried about a letter that by the time I am forty won’t matter?

So, I pulled out a post-it note (an orange one) and on that post-it note I wrote Sundays are for resting, spending time with God, and building upon relationships. I look at that post-it when I am stressing over homework or a test I have. I think to myself it doesn’t have to be perfect; just try your best, because that is all that Father asks, and Sundays are his time to grow in him and rest!

Preparing to move can seem daunting, to say the least. You would think someone who has moved as often as I have would be better prepared. There are many thing to consider in making a major move across the continent, which I have done 5 times and am about to do again. I have complained and fought most of these moves, but have come to realize they have helped to make me who I am today. I have lived in the following places in consecutive order (coming home in-between, as you will see):  Lakeland, FL (1957 – 1960); St. Petersburg, FL (1960 – 1963); Lake Wales, FL (1963 – 1967); Lakeland, FL (1967 – 1980); Memphis, TN (1980 – 1982); Lakeland, FL (1982 – 1983); Anniston, AL (1984 – 1985); Augusta, GA (1985); Panama City, Republic of Panama (1985 – 1988); Odenton, MD (1988 – 1991); El Paso, TX (1991); Lakeland, FL (1991 – 1993); Las Cruces, NM (1993 – 1994); Lakeland, FL (1994 – 1995); Chandler, AZ (1995 – 1997); Lakeland, FL (1997 – 1998); Albuquerque, NM (1998 – 2000); Sacramento, CA (2000 – 2005); White Mills, PA (2005 – 2007) Lakeland, Fl (2007 – Present). I am now preparing to move to Gilbert, AZ. The first and most important step in this process for me is to pray. I pray to Heavenly Father for approval of this decision, physical strength to either direct the movers or for me to purchase the supplies and pack our belongings, emotional strength to enable me to accomplish the many tasks involved in a calm manner, and wisdom to not miss anything that must be done. I then make a general list of things that need to be done, which gets refined many times before the feat is accomplished. The way this has worked for us is that my husband goes ahead of the family and secures a new dwelling place for the family to follow. The corporate moves were the best because there was a moving company that moved everything including the vehicles, and I just had to monitor the packing and loading of all my worldly possessions and then clean the home we were leaving, stay in a hotel until time to get on an airplane to fly to my new home, then again monitor the movers as they unload and unpack everything. That was great! I have, however, had the daunting task of researching the cost of self moves, then creating and implementing a plan of action. There are so many things to consider:  schools for the children, proximity to a congregation of my faith, access to shopping, rents within the budget, etc. My husband and I each made these initial researches, then we would discuss the most viable option from the information we had obtained. This next move does not require as much investigation since the kids are now grown and we don’t have to worry about the best area for them to adapt to the new climate. You wouldn’t think that a move within the bounds of America would be a culture shock, but I can attest to the fact that it is. Each area is part of a neighborhood, which is part of a city or town, which is part of a region, etc. Each one of these divisions or separation has its own characteristics. There are generalities that exist, but we have moved east to west and south to north, from small rural communities to large metropolitan areas — and they have left their impressions upon us. We have lived in conservative areas and liberal areas, lower-income areas, middle-class American areas and just about anything in between. The kids complained:  they were leaving their friends, they wouldn’t fit in, they couldn’t go on, etc. It was my job to make each move an adventure, a new beginning, and to encourage continued contact with old friends and making new friends. It was not easy, and over the years I have found that we have become accustomed to moving every 18 -24 months.  If we don’t, there is a restlessness that sometimes goes undefined until someone mentions that it is time to move again. Then, everyone says, “Ah, that is what that nagging feeling was!” I, on the other hand, am tired and don’t want to move again. We had thought this last move would be just that, the last move. However, with the current economic climate, it is a matter of survival. I will miss many things from Lakeland, many people…but I will make new friends in Gilbert and find new hobbies and adventures to make this move a new experience. The key is to make the Lord the head of every decision and the center of your family, remaining optimistic, looking at newness as opportunity and encouraging love and acceptance of things different.

        The hymn “Each Life That That Touches Ours for Good” is a sweet song. Verse three says: When such a friend from us departs, we hold forever in our hearts a sweet and hallowed memory, bringing us nearer, Lord to thee.  When it says “departs,” it refers to death, but I would like us to think of our friends who have moved, as well.

        Long about two years ago the ward (congregation) I attended was split into two wards.  This caused strong feelings as friends and, in some cases, different generations of a family would be in different wards.  Now we will be back together again. We will be the same and yet different, for we have individually and collectively gone down the path of life.

        During the season of separation, we had choices to make.  Who did we stay in touch with and how?  This experience allowed those who had children as well as those who taught them at church to learn and to teach lessons on friendship, change, loss, and comfort.  It  also provided opportunities for making new friends and for strengthening relationships with those whom we may have only been acquainted. It provided new opportunities for visiting teachers and those who were visited.

        As I stated earlier our wards (congregations) are coming together again.  Yet we will not all be here as before. There are those who have passed and live on in our hearts and memories.

        Economic times are hard in this area–as they are in many parts of the country. Out of necessity, families have moved and may continue to do so.  In their new wards, they have been welcomed and have made new friends while keeping some of the old.

        I feel in my heart that a loving Heavenly Father allowed us to choose to learn to stay in touch with each other when the wards were changed and we were still nearby. If we have learned the lessons well, they will help us during this season when friends are farther off physically, though still close at heart.

        Karen

Needing

Her grandmother used to knead by hand
                On a floured surface
                Removing treasured wedding bands
                In exchange for dough-covered fingers
She can remember Grandmother’s punching

                                                                      and shifting

                                                                                and pushing

                                                                                              and turning

Filling the dough with joys
                                                     or                             frustrations
Whatever were the feelings of the moment, the day, the week, the month

Now years later

                                                                  with no floured surface

She carefully measures her wheat, honey, water,
                                 Yeast, oil, gluten                             into her bowl
Breadhook attached, machine plugged, timer set,
                                 the mixer does all of Grandmother’s work
                                 to the tune of ten minutes.
The timer sounds, the kneading is done —or is it?

She longs to touch the dough
                                                              like clay in the artist’s hands
Bringing life into element through the hand-builder.
Pulling out the flour, she dusts her counter and hands
                      Ooooooo—wow. How could she know it would feel so fresh in her hands? She turns in her sorrow for the fussing she did to John who wouldn’t put on his shoes and head to kindergarten class in time for the bell and pats in her smile she shared with the baby this morning. She infuses the bread with her spirit
                                                   as she feels
Grandmother near.

The futility is passed. She embraces the past, and

Making bread is now a joy.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

How can this poem MPower you today?

I have been asked to contribute to this blog and share my experiences as a female in the world of athletic training and to celebrate Athletic Training Month.  For those of you who don’t know what an Athletic Trainer is, you are not alone.  We are the best kept secret in the health care arena.  We are the medical professionals that you see running onto the football field to attend to an injured player.   The football field or basketball court is where we are most recognized.  Emergency care for an athletic event is only a portion of what we do on a daily basis.  We take care of all the health care needs of high school, college and professional athletes.  We prevent, treat, and rehabilitate injuries.  We deal with nutrition, eating disorders, heat illnesses, and every other condition that may affect an athlete.  We care for those same athletic injuries and illnesses in sports medicine clinics, in the performing arts (like the Radio City Rockettes, Cirque de Soliel, professional dance companies), the military and industry.  We care for astronauts, soldiers, factory workers, and week-end warriors.  It is a fun, exciting medical profession that allows us to work with motivated, temporarily disabled people and get them back to play or work as quickly and safely as possible.

I started as an Athletic Training Student at the Ohio State University.  I had no idea what an athletic trainer was, but it sounded pretty cool.  It was a combination of working with athletes and “helping people.”   My students still tell me that is why they go into athletic training.  Thirty years ago, women only took care of female sports, and males only took care of the men’s sports.   There were only a handful of female athletic trainers in the country.  I had no idea at the time that I was a pioneer in the field.  Today that realization just makes me feel old!  I fell in love with athletic training and set my goals very high.  I wanted to eventually work as an athletic trainer at a Division I University.  I was told at Ohio State by my male counterparts that I wasn’t as good as they were because I didn’t work with football.  Few women in the country were allowed to work football.  This made me more determined that I would break that barrier. 

After earning my masters degree at Purdue University, (and working with the football team), I spent a year at East Carolina University on my way to fifteen years of working at the University of Kentucky.   I was hired to work with the women’s basketball team and with football.  The Head Athletic Trainer needed help with football and was happy to accept a woman onto the staff.  There was a newly hired football coach at UK, Jerry Claiborne, a disciple of Bear Bryant.  He was an old school football coach that had no desire to break barriers and have a female on his all-male staff or to work with his 150 football players.  There had never been a full-time female athletic trainer in the South Eastern Conference (SEC) who worked with a football program.   Coach Claiborne was a tough, hardnosed coach, but was a great and fair man.  He allowed me the opportunity to work football and to prove myself.  He respected hard work and liked the relationships I developed with the players and their families.  The football players didn’t care about gender.  They cared if I was good at my job and if I was worthy of their trust.  I loved working football.  It was a new challenge every day.  I have to admit it was very cool running out on the field in front of 100,000 people and to be on national television.  What I really loved the most were the players.  They were such big, tough guys to the outside world.  We were lucky enough to see them as young, sensitive, kind, funny kids who entertained us every day.  The movie, “The Blindside” was a great movie and really hit home to us.  We gave a lot to our players, but they gave just as much back to us and touched our lives in so many ways.  Coach Jerry Claiborne was a wonderful man.  He provided me with an incredible opportunity, and it was up to me to succeed or fail.  He and I became great friends and admired each other tremendously.  I learned so much about honesty, fairness and values from Coach Claiborne. 

I had several women mentors along the way who empowered me to set my goals high and to work hard to reach them.  Linda Daniel, my head athletic trainer at Ohio State instilled a strength in all of “her girls” to stand up for themselves and to prove women can be as good as men in athletic training.    My fellow athletic training students at Ohio State fought the gender battles side-by-side with me and are my best and forever friends today.  It turned out the males that I worked with at the University of Kentucky and in the SEC were the ones who empowered me to be the best athletic trainer I could be.  It is important to note that I worked hard to be the best athletic trainer, and not the best female athletic trainer.  I always wanted to be known as an athletic trainer who just happened to be a female.  My friends and colleagues were the ones that encouraged me to become involved in athletic training at the national, district and state levels, to travel all over the world with USA Basketball, and to eventually teach the profession I love.  That Head Athletic Trainer that hired me to work beside him on the football field….  I married him 17 years ago.  He and I were the first couple inducted into the National Athletic Trainers Hall of Fame together 5 years ago, and I was the sixth woman ever inducted.   He and I are back working side-by-side at Florida Southern College, just like we did for so many years at UK.  Today we also share the joy (and challenge!) of raising our 14 year old daughter, Logan.  My athletic training success has everything to do with the support I received from both male and female friends and colleagues, plus the determination and responsibility I felt to break the barriers to make it easier for the females who follow me into the wonderful profession of athletic training.

Sue Stanley-Green – Hall of Fame 2004

Motherhood is a daily lesson in humility, at least for me. Take, for example, the little experience I had just a few years ago. I was doing my daughter’s hair for church one Sunday morning (a rare act for me at the time) and—horror of horrors!—I noticed something move. I wanted to rub my eyes. Was I hallucinating? Nope, there it was again. A tiny looking bug, smaller than a grain of rice. In her hair. Yup, it was head lice. Suppressing my desire to jump up and down and scream, I took those ten calming breaths they used to natter on about, and tried to calm down.
I was powerless to prevent a shrill tone in my voice. My daughter knew something big was occurring as I demanded of my husband, “Look, here! What do you think? It’s lice, right?” He muttered something non-committal as I went into full-combat mode. I requested that my husband stay home with the kids—I had church responsibilities, and we didn’t want to infect anyone else—and calmly suggested that he shave the boys’ heads, military-style.
After my due diligence at church, I decided my “ox was in the mire”, and went to our local large-mart to acquire every last lice removal product known to civilized man. Here’s the lesson in humility. Forget buying family planning or feminine hygiene products…true embarrassment is achieved with the perusal and purchase of lice-removal shampoo. To compound my problem, it wasn’t found in the shampoo aisle (where it should’ve been, and I could have been pretending to examine the merits of full-body versus moisturizing while in reality studying the brands of lice shampoo.) No, it was in the First Aid aisle! So, I had to pretend to study bandages (Antibiotic included? Fabric? Plastic?) while surreptitiously gathering intelligence on the various brands of lice shampoo. In the end I purchased a dozen of the most likely-looking boxes, (with overly-optimistic names like “Lice-B-gone” and “Lice-X”) wishing vainly that I had brought a hat and dark sunglasses inside the store. Ah, mortification at its finest!
Long story short, we eradicated the lice threat. As a bonus, I believe I actually learned a few things from the experience. I learned that those so-called lice shampoos don’t work, but that the combs do a fair job getting the nits. Also, five gallons of olive oil worked through the hair, and the application of a cheap shower cap (overnight, or at least four hours) does a fair job at sending those little buggers to their eternal rest. Marathon combing sessions are a great way to bond with your daughter. Additionally, any promises made to your teenager who comes to complain after you made him cut his hair (even though he didn’t have lice), and the subsequent teasing at school forces you to promise (rashly and emotionally) that you will never make him cut his hair again, will be remembered each and every time you make a comment about the hair for the rest of his life. It’s those rash promises that you remember the most. Good times.