Legacy

My grandpa taught me to fish.

My fondest memory of him was the time he took me to the park to learn how. I was so excited, I could hardly contain myself. With all of my six-year-old bravado, I was just certain that I would catch a fish my first time out. After all, it was easy enough for Bert and Ernie, wasn't it?


But I digress.

My mom, grandma, and aunts gently tried to help me understand that catching a fish wasn't necessarily a given when going fishing per se, but I would not be dissuaded. I was going fishing, and I was going to catch a fish, of course!

Grandpa just smiled at me and said, "Yep, you're going to catch a fish all right!"

And guess what?
I totally did.

At the park, in front of some boys who had been making sport of teasing the little girl with the Dorothy Hamil haircut, a fish was caught. And the boys went home empty-handed.

My grandpa thought this was the greatest thing in the world, and never tired of retelling the story each time I came for a visit-- how I sure showed those boys a thing or two. 

As I prepared to speak at his funeral last week, I was blessed with the opportunity to learn a little more about his personal history. One of the things that stood out prominently in my mind was the way he treated the women in his life.

Even though it was pretty unusual for the time, my grandpa loved having my grandma-- his "Danni," as he used to call her-- with him while he was out hunting, fishing, camping, and even while working whenever was possible. This continued with his three daughters, who shadowed him as fields were plowed, calves were branded, gardens were planted, Christmas trees were cut for market, deer were scouted, and mechanical repairs were made. My mom recalls making truck runs with him on various errands, and when someone would ask about the little girl sitting alongside him he would explain, "Oh, that's my little boss." To which my mom would then reply, "And that's my little daddy!"

As my mom has said before, the only thing little about my grandpa was his stature. His heart was enormous. His home was open to all, and many of my mom's and aunts' friends claimed him as a second father.

He always believed we could accomplish anything we set our minds to.
Doctor? Lawyer? World-class chef? Olympic swimmer?
No doubt about it.

This past week, as I have thought about my grandpa and the loss I feel in his absence, I am profoundly grateful for having men like him and my dad in my life.

Growing up, I never felt "less than" for being a girl. I never felt that I wasn't absolutely equal in every way to the opposite sex. Not in school, not in church, not at home. My dad encouraged me daily in Chicago just as my grandpa did mainly from a distance in Phoenix. In their eyes, the world was my oyster and I could become anything of my choosing. Anything.

It wasn't until I was much older and living away from home that I became aware that not everyone shared this same background. I was horrified to discover that some girls seemingly just like me, grew up thinking that boys were inherently better just because they were boys. Such a notion would have been categorically dismissed in my home. Even now it saddens me to read of others' experiences (such as blogger C. Jane: read her story here) that are so glaringly different from my own.

You see, if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that God loves His daughters and sons equally.
That we are equally important.
Both of infinite worth.

There has been a lot of chatter going on in the Mormon feminist world lately, and while I empathize with much of it, more than anything it makes me thankful for the upbringing I experienced in my life.

Thankful for a father, who taught his daughter that she was in every way equal to her male counterpart.
Thankful for a grandfather, who modeled this same belief in his words and actions to his wife, daughters, and granddaughters.
Thankful that because of their examples, belief in a Heavenly Father's divine love for His daughters is a complete no-brainer for me. It is simply a carry-over from what I have been taught by the mortal father figures in my life these (nearly) thirty-five years.    

While in this world there is cultural bias, ignorance, and even blatant sexism, I rest assured that in God's eyes I am eternally valued. Loved endlessly and divinely.

Just the way I am.

Cheer and Bless and Brighten

There are certain moments in life when you feel undeniably connected to those who have gone before.  This past weekend was just such a moment.  As we celebrated our country's independence and honored those who fought to defend the liberties which we freely enjoy today, I remembered a man dear to my heart, who served his nation with honor during the second World War.

My Grandpa Ensign's service in the navy took him to many destinations, and as a result he spent many Sundays attending church among strangers.  There were many times that he felt lonely, sitting in a chapel where few would take the time to greet him and make him feel welcome in a place so far from home.  After his military service was over, he took it upon himself to ensure that any visitors to his own congregation were given a most warm welcome.  To the embarrassment of my then-adolescent father, Grandpa would purposefully seek out visitors and newcomers alike, introduce himself, and strike up a conversation.  No one would feel alone on his watch.

Fast forward to the present day, and this past Sunday I found myself sitting in the chapel of my sister's ward with my family.  Sitting in a pew toward the back corner by the door, I figured we wouldn't draw too much attention to ourselves.  I was wrong.

Logan, in the spirit of his great-grandpa, was determined to greet each and every family as they came to worship.  With an enthusiastic "hi!" and a hearty wave, he was the unofficial welcome committee for the day.  Immediately my thoughts turned to Grandpa and I felt a warm feeling of peacefulness-- as though he were smiling down on us at that very moment.  I'm certain he approved of Logan's cheerful efforts in carrying on his legacy.  I looked down to smile at my baby boy and received an adorably cheesy grin in response-- a perfect little ball of pure joy.

What a wonderful example to follow.
For that and so much more-- thanks, Grandpa.

An Ensign, Waving

Over the last several weeks, I've had several experiences that have taught me a great deal.  Some have caused me to change my direction in writing.

The end result is that I have decided to take all three of my blogs and condense them into a single entity.  So, here we are.  Welcome to the new digs!

You might be wondering about the name.  A little background is in order.


I am an Ensign. 

Not as in a nice gospel metaphor, but literally.
It's my maiden name.

Growing up in the Latter-day Saint Church, I always loved my last name.  It stood as a constant reminder of who I am, and to stand as a witness of what I believed.  I love the pioneer heritage of my name.  For example, my great-great-great-great grandfather, Samuel Ensign was a carpenter on both the Nauvoo and Salt Lake temples.  He gave his life in service, literally, as he died in a tragic accident during the construction of the latter.  Those beautiful wooden doors on the west side of the Salt Lake Temple where countless wedding photos have been taken?  They are his handiwork.  Over the years I have thought a lot about my name and the legacy I have the privilege and responsibility of carrying forward.

When I was a baby, my paternal grandparents were killed in a small plane accident along with three of my father's siblings.  While I never had the honor of getting to know them in this life, I often feel that they are near.  I feel connected to them, and try to live my life in such a way as to make them proud.

Back in the late nineties, I happened to cross paths with Elder Dallin H. Oaks, who was a good friend to my grandparents.  We were at the Salt Lake International Airport, and my aunt saw him across the way and pointed him out to us.  To this day I am not exactly certain what came over me, but-- completely out of character-- I approached him and introduced myself.  I can still remember the details of that conversation so long ago.

"Excuse me," I inquired, "but are you Elder Oaks?"
He stopped and looked down at me.  "Yes." 
"Well, my name is Tiffany Ensign," I explained, "and I believe you knew my grandparents, Dave--"
"And Carol!"  he exclaimed, finishing my sentence for me.

He graciously spent the next couple of minutes chatting with me, telling me what wonderful people my grandparents were, inquiring after my parents and my current experience as a student at BYU.  It has been one of the most pivotal conversations of my life.  Believe me, hearing an apostle praise your grandparents' legacy really drives home the importance of honoring your family name.

I am reminded of the experience of President George Albert Smith, who in his youth was visited in a dream by his grandfather, George A. Smith, who had passed away.  He asked young George, "What have you done with my name?"  President Smith responded, "I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed."

Now, unfortunately, I cannot say that if my grandparents or other beloved ancestors asked me that same question that I could respond in the same manner that President Smith was able to do.  I have deep regrets in my life.  I am terribly aware of my imperfections and weaknesses.  But I can say that today, here and now, I am doing the best that I can.  I continue daily to do as President Gordon B. Hinckley frequently counseled-- to try and be a little better.  Certainly, some days are better than others.  But, as we are often reminded, it is not necessarily where we are on the path that matters so much but rather that we maintain an upward trajectory toward our ultimate destination.

As we press forward in this manner, we honor Him whose name we covenant to take upon us each week when we partake of the sacrament.

I love the words of Elder Mervyn B. Arnold from the October 2010 Conference:

In that glorious day when we stand before our beloved Savior to report what we have done with His name, may we be able to declare: “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” “I have honored Thy name.”

That is my wish too.

So, what's in a name?
A whole lot.

Just recently during this last General Conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland chose to speak on being "an ensign to the nations."  In the closing minutes of his address, he spoke of messengers called from before the foundations of mortality to wave the Gospel to all the world.

As he said these words, Bryson suddenly grabbed my arm and started waving it in the air.
I looked at him in complete and utter bewilderment. 

"Ummm, what are you doing?"  I asked.
"I'm waving an Ensign," he grinned back at me.

At that moment I groaned and rolled my eyes, but over time I have thought about those words more than once.  Now, I certainly don't claim to be an "ensign to the nations."  Not in the slightest.  But I do strive to become a disciple on whom the Lord can rely.  I work each day to do my family's legacy justice.  I study and pray so that I will be a mother who, as Sister Julie B. Beck has described, stands as a "lioness at the gate." 

I am a work in progress.
I am reaching, I am growing.
I am becoming.

And so here I stand, an Ensign.  Waving.