Memories of Mother
By Devin G Walker
12-27-2020
My mother Marianne Kofoed Walker was a multi-tasker, a selfless servant, and talented teacher, and a savior of souls.
Multi-tasker
Multi-tasking was a necessity with eleven children. She was constantly pulled in so many directions, ranging from changing diapers, to football games, to scouting projects, to church activities, and all the other daily duties of a mother of eleven very active children.
With the four of us youngest boys in the bedroom upstairs next to my parent’s master bedroom, there were many nights that rowdy distractions kept us awake. My mother may have simply resorted to singing us to sleep in order to help us fall asleep faster, so that she could get some sleep herself. But for me, it felt like love washing over me, as she would lullaby my active young mind into a calm slumber. Her soothing voice filled my mind and heart as she gently stroked my hair and face. The effect was mesmerizing. As was highlighted at her funeral, she often sang “When He Comes Again”, “Give Said the Little Stream”, but my favorite was “When Joseph Went to Bethlehem”. This song tells of the journey of Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem, and the birth of Jesus Christ. As the spirit testified to me of the truths in the song, the story of Jesus Christ’s Birth, sung by my mother’s beautiful voice, became a reverent childhood memory and a precious root of my testimony.
As a parent now, I can imagine how annoying it would be to have four young boys next door to the master bedroom, who would come in every few minutes, and complain about not being able to fall asleep. I remember the door to my parents bedroom being locked on various occasions, and I remember wondering why? None of the other rooms had locks on the doors, I thought to myself. So, although I was confused at the time, it is obvious now that it prevented us from disrupting their night time privacy, and their precious little sleep. I remember being disciplined for waking up at night and going into their room. I must have gotten up several times a night sometimes, causing justifiable annoyance. However, there were many times when I was greeted with open arms when entering their bedroom.
Some of my earliest memories were of these times when my legs would ache at night, and it was painful enough to wake me up so that I could not get back to sleep. There were two remedies that my parents used to help alleviate the pain.
The first and most common was lying in their bed while one or both of them (but usually my father) rubbed my legs. The second was that my mother would draw up a hot bath in which I would sit and soak, which eased the aching in my legs. As parents, my wife, Lindsey, and I have rubbed our kids’ legs, but we also give them a little children’s Tylenol, or Ibuprofen, and send them back to bed. However, I don’t ever remember my parents having any medication available for such leg pains. It was comforting to lie next to my parents and have them rub my legs, and I loved the hot baths on cold nights. I could fall asleep quickly in the warm water. I remember my mother drying me, dressing me, and carrying me back to bed. I belabor the point of nighttime interruptions in order to emphasize the point that my mother NEVER had enough sleep! She was a multi-tasker day and night!
Selfless Servant
The Savior Jesus Christ was a selfless servant. He was constantly pulled from one person in need to another. He voluntarily, selflessly made himself a servant of the needs of those around him. Healing, teaching, and comforting others were his daily routine during his ministry. My mother lived her life the same way. She was up late helping teenagers do homework. She was awakened during the night by crying toddlers. Then, she was up early making rice cereal, with biscuits from scratch; french toast, with homemade maple syrup; or a number of other gourmet farm-style breakfasts which all required significant time and effort to prepare and serve. All this to say that through these acts of service and many others my mother placed her children’s needs above her own comforts. She wore out her life in service to her husband, eleven children, and several unofficial foster children. If there were a certain number of hours of selfless service required by heaven for a mother to gain “angel status”, my mother would have earned “angel mother status” many times over.
If daily preparation of gourmet farm-style breakfast for eleven children, a husband, and several foster children through the years sounds like a heavy burden, then you don’t know my mother. She enjoyed it! If you’re saying to yourself, “Whipping up a batch of french toast doesn’t take that much time or effort.” Then you should also consider that she used to make fresh bread from fresh ground wheat flour.
Finishing breakfast was not the end of her morning routine, it was just half of it. The other half was making home made lunches for the same hungry crew. At one point she was making nine home made lunches everyday before sending us all off to school. We would go through six or seven loaves of her delicious homemade whole wheat bread every week! Each lunch was made to order, with the exact right number, and type of sandwiches, according to our request. Young kids might eat half a sandwich. High School age boys could eat two or three sandwiches. I remember that two and a half sandwiches was my regular request, while in high school. Home bottled pickles, or hand washed and sliced carrot sticks from the garden were often the side dish, with a homemade cookie for dessert.
With so many mouths to feed at the breakfast table, who would take the time to fulfill such specific requests for a home made lunch? Why not make them all the same, and let “father’s discipline” handle any complaints? I think “father’s discipline” just might have something to say if one of my children had the following lunch request: “I’ll have one half chicken sandwich, one whole peanut butter and honey sandwich, one half peanut butter and homemade strawberry jam sandwich, and one half tuna fish sandwich.” The fact that my mother was eager to make our lunches exactly like we wanted them is an important story in itself, and a great life lesson.
The Story: I may not have all the details right, but I remember hearing that for the first few years of their married life, my father had tuna fish sandwiches everyday for lunch. The kind man that he is, led him to express his gratitude for my mother’s efforts in preparing him a home made lunch everyday. My father may have mentioned several times how much he enjoyed tuna fish sandwiches in the beginning, but he eventually got tired of them. I remember hearing him years later, as he lamented the fact that he had eaten too many tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. He recounted, “I was so sick of tuna fish sandwiches, that I never wanted to eat one again.” It was an emotional moment when he finally admitted to mom that he was tired of eating tuna fish sandwiches everyday. Although I wasn’t there, I heard she cried because she felt bad about making him eat the same thing everyday for so long. But, instead of being offended, she spent the next forty years taking food requests. And so, it was not unusual for us kids to request several different types of sandwiches for lunch. It was nice to have a mother who catered to our requests. I remember getting a bit tired of chicken sandwiches at one point. I also remember sharing my peanut butter and honey sandwich with my cousin Justin. I could have as many sandwiches as I wanted, so it wasn’t an inconvenience to share, and he loved having a little more. The crux of the matter is that her humility quelled her pride enough to turn the “too many tuna fish sandwiches” experience into a lifelong opportunity to minister to many specific lunch requests.
The Life Lesson: Getting to request what I wanted for lunch everyday made me feel loved. Growing up and realizing the propensity my mother had for nurturing our needs while catering to our culinary biases taught me about Christ-like love. She exuded the kind of love that makes you feel like your preferences are important enough to attend to. That kind of love expressed regularly and sincerely like she did, made me feel like I had infinite worth. That kind of love sticks to the soul like no other. I’m not advocating for all parents to cater to their childrens every request, lest our children become overly picky eaters, with diminished self reliance. However, from first hand experience I do recommend trying to make your children feel like their wants, needs, and preferences are valued, because it makes a child feel loved- especially when the service is rendered sincerely, and selflessly.
Running errands for us children, and getting us to our various activities was time consuming to say the least. So it must have been annoying for her to bring my football uniform to school because I had forgotten it at home. I know that this forgetfulness was exemplified by many of my siblings thereby making use of mom’s same-day-shuttle services on a regular basis. This may not be a big deal, until you know that (at least to my knowledge) she never complained, even when it happened way too often through the years. In fact, I don’t even remember her scolding us for our forgetfulness, which forced her to waste time, and gas money playing delivery woman. On the contrary, she felt it was her responsibility to help us be more organized, and prepared before we left home. She viewed her role as a mother like that: a teacher and trainer. It was as if she was thinking, “What can I do to help this child?” Rather than, “This child needs to be more organized, and less forgetful.” I was forgetful, and I really appreciated that she never criticized me. Rather, her Christ-like loving attitude reframed my forgetfulness: She often worried that I was too busy, and involved in too many things for a teenager. She defended me by blaming my forgetfulness on my over involvement. To defend someone even when they are weak, or in the wrong shows that you can truly empathize with them; you see things from their perspective. It shows true christ-like love. I left my brand new (literally day old) astro turf shoes in the dressing room while trying on pants. They were gone when I went back to get them. I left my new (a few months old) levi jacket in the middle of the field at a track meet. She patiently drove me back to the track as soon as I realized I’d forgotten it, but it was gone.
Always on the run, attending to the needs of one and then another, she was a selfless servant of our needs. From four or five o’clock in the morning until ten or eleven o’clock at night she was occupied with cooking, cleaning, washing, and other household duties. We could have helped a lot more than we did, but she often said she enjoyed taking care of us. As I got older I realized how tired she always was, and how many burdens she had on her shoulders. As I watched her stay up until after midnight helping my older brother with homework, keeping the laundry going, then get up at 4:30 am to make breakfast before early morning seminary, or freshman basketball practice, and make sure the laundry was dry before we were off to school, I made myself a promise. Sometime in my early teen years I decided that I would do everything I could do by myself. That may sound extreme, but I honestly had a deep seated feeling that she was running herself ragged. She was wearing thin, and exhausting herself with all the burdens she bore. I made sure I always had my homework done, so I would not need her help. I kept my own room clean. I did some of my own laundry. I say some, because she would often collect it from my room. I even started cutting my own hair, because of course we never went to the barber, mom cut our hair. When Delton was a senior we had Matt Sanders, and Brett Dillie. The two little girls’ hair could grow without needing a regular trim, but that left nine boys, including dad, who needed regular haircuts.
During football season she washed all of our football game uniforms at least weekly, and often had to wash practice uniforms and underclothing after every use. So when I say that she kept the laundry running day and night, I’m not exaggerating. I could hear it as I fell asleep, or when I woke up in the night. I remember her getting up during the night to switch the clothes from the washer to the dryer, so they would be dry for school the next day.
There were too many burdens for one person to bear, too many needs for one mother to meet. I remember a point at which I realized that she had no personal time, no “me time”. She had no hobbies, no outlets, and no relaxation or relief from her burdens. (Of course she had hobbies, but during this period of her life, she never had time to indulge in such things.) So I promised myself I would not add to her burdens in any way. Over the years she began to notice that I did not need her help, and there were a few times when she expressed the desire to help me. We had a memorable discussion about this, and I came away feeling that she honestly was a bit hurt that I did not want her help. It brought her happiness to selflessly fulfill our needs, and I did not understand that at the time. She voluntarily made herself a selfless servant of the needs of those around her; healing, teaching, and comforting others were her daily routine during her lifetime.
Talented Teacher
My first piano teacher, my first voice teacher was my mother. I just learned the basics from her, but it was enough to set me on a path of musical aspirations, and self reliance. Fifty cents an hour was our encouragement to practice. But, my inspiration to learn to sing came from two things. The first was how I felt when she sang me to sleep as a young child. It was the most peaceful soothing thing as a child. As I mentioned, “When Joseph went to Bethlehem” was one of my favorite songs. I loved to imagine Joseph and Mary making their journey to Bethlehem as described in the song. It had a powerful effect on my testimony of Jesus Christ. I distinctly remember feeling inspired and touched by the message of the song. As there was no room in the Inn, there is often no room in a busy parents life for singing children to sleep, but mom always took the time to tend to our needs. How one mother can do so many of these impactful things for so many different children could be called a miracle of inspired motherhood.
My only lessons in cooking, and my only lessons in sewing came from my mother. I am not a chef of any accomplishment, but I learned many life skills from her in order to be self reliant. One day she told us she was going to teach us how to crochet. We each got to choose a color of yarn we wanted to work with. I chose pink, and although my older brothers laughed, and said that pink was a girl color, she defended me. She kindly informed them that it was ok for a boy to like pink. I was so excited to learn to crochet, and she was coming home with a ball of pink yarn just for me! I remember watching for the car to drive up the driveway, then running down the lawn toward the pine trees to meet her as she drove up the hill toward the house. I don’t remember all the things we made, but beyond basic crocheting skills, I learned how to sew buttons back onto clothes, and I even learned how to use the sewing machine.
One year for Christmas I made a pillow for Kirsten. It was about eighteen inches long, and twelve inches wide, more like a couch pillow, than a bed pillow. It was stuffed with batting cotton, and made with a soft cotton fabric which had a print of a raccoon on it. It was Kirsten’s favorite pillow for quite some time, and she carried it around to play with during the day, as well as refusing to sleep with any other pillow at night. I remember my older sister Lara helping me finish this project because mom was busy with so many Christmas preparations.
Church activities consumed much of our time. I remember giving talks in primary before I could read. She helped me plan out my talk with pictures. We practiced until I could say a sentence or two about each picture. She would stand beside me and hold up the pictures for the rest of the children to see as I gave my talk. On a few occasions we used several pictures that illustrated a concept like the plan of salvation, which we put all on one page. She then laminated the page, so I could hold it up myself and give one explanation after another following the diagrams and pictures on the page as I explained the plan of salvation.
My last day in primary, I sang a solo. We spent significant time practicing and preparing the song which was called “A Young Boy Prayed.” I had it learned perfectly, and the performance went flawlessly. The primary children and teachers were all very complimentary, and so was mom. That experience gave me confidence to perform, and built my self esteem.
In my early teen years she taught me two songs that I still sing today. “O Holy Night” and “Oh Divine Redeemer” have both been songs I’ve loved performing on many occasions throughout the years. What a blessing it was that mom was a talented enough teacher to accompany me on those songs, and teach me how to sing them.
Hinge Points toward Salvation
I believe that the way we live and interact with those around us has a significant effect on the salvation of their souls, as well as our own souls. There are turning points in everyone’s life, experiences that affect us so significantly that they could be viewed as hinge points in our progression toward salvation. My mother was the type of person who created those hinge points which set people on a trajectory toward salvation. Pointing people toward the Savior Jesus Christ in word and deed, she created hinge points toward salvation for us children, for several foster children, and others in the community.
One of those hinge points in my life was at my mission farewell. She spoke about a time when my younger brother Dan and I had helped a girl from school. I had forgotten about that experience, which occurred more than a year before. Furthermore, it didn’t seem that significant to me at the time. However, when I heard it from the perspective of my mother, it changed me. In the way she spoke, I could hear and feel how pleased she was, and how important it was to her as a mother that her boys had the kindness to do what we had done. Dan was a junior in High School, and the starting quarterback. I was a senior, the team captain, and the star running back. Some might say we were the popular kids. I would not personally emphasize our popularity, but others saw it as unusual that the football stars were willing to go out of their way to help someone in need. The girl was overweight, and although I knew most everyone’s name in our High School of 600 kids, I did not know her name. Dan was driving, and I was in the passenger’s seat. As we turned onto hill road headed toward the High School, I could see that this girl had just wrecked on her bicycle. I told Dan to pull over. I got out, helped her brush the gravel off her bare knees, which were scraped and bloody, and then helped her sit in the passenger’s seat of the truck. I hopped into the back of the truck with her bicycle, since there wasn’t really room for three in the cab of the little red pickup. Once we arrived at school, I parked her bike in the bike rack and walked her to the nurse’s office. After telling the office staff that she had wrecked on her bicycle and that she needed some help cleaning and bandaging her scrapes, I forgot about the whole experience. I did not feel like a Good Samaritan at the time, nor did I feel like I had done anything significant. It wasn’t until I heard my mother tearfully recount the experience, as if I had been a “Good Samaritan”, that I realized how significant it was to her to see her son do as the Savior would have done. It was then that I realized that she – my mother, and my teacher – deserved as much credit for raising good kids, as I did for doing the good deed. The retelling of the experience from her perspective opened my mind to the depth of her love for me. The satisfaction she felt for our willingness to help someone in need was evident as she retold the story. I had lived up to her expectations, and that made me feel worthy of God’s love and respect as well as her admiration. That kind of spiritual validation from my mother did something inside me that I can’t fully explain. It was a hinge point which pointed me toward the Savior.
Great and talented teachers are inspired. They have an ability to say the right thing at the right time, to teach the most important lessons of life amidst the most important moments of our life. She told that story about the girl on the bicycle at my mission farewell. But for me the most impactful thing she said during that sacrament meeting was. “I never had to do anything to raise Devin.” That was a hinge point toward salvation. My clandestined introspective promise to “never do anything to add to her burdens” had materialized at the perfect moment into the greatest maternal accolade I had ever received at that point in my life. She did not hand out compliments like hors d’oeuvres at a party. She was honest, straight forward, even critical at times, and did not throw praise around lightly. The greatest compliment, and the most impactful thing she ever said was on her deathbed. It was personal enough that I won’t recount it, but I will just mention that when she complimented someone, she was sincere. My mission farewell was the right place, right time, and it was the perfect thing to say at the perfect moment! It was a truly inspired compliment, because of course she never knew I had made myself the promise to “never do anything to add to her burdens”. I’ll never forget the feelings of spiritual validation I felt that day, thanks to the inspired teaching of my mother.
Inspired Warnings
My mother had a knack for giving inspired warnings. There was a swing which hung from the beam in the downstairs family room. We often swang too high on it, so that our feet would touch the ceiling on both sides as we swang. One day she warned us not to swing so high, and shortly after one of the kids fell off and got a bit banged up. The swing came out of the J-Hook lag bolt because we had swung too high. The family room floor had thin carpet without carpet pad underneath, so it was almost like landing on cement. If we had listened we would have been free from harm. These kinds of inspired warnings preceded many of our childhood traumas.
Changing hand sprinkler lines for Rod Panike was a common summer job for several of us boys. The Honda NightHawk 650 Motorcycle was my mode of transportation the summer before my senior year of High School. The 5:00 am late August morning air was quite cold. Although I had been riding without a helmet all summer, one evening near the end of the summer, mother said, “You know Devin, you really should wear a helmet when you ride to work.” We never, ever wore helmets when riding dirt bikes! If she had asked me to wear a helmet to ride up and down the dirt hills at Uncle Wendell’s house, I doubt I would have listened. However, it made sense that riding to work on pavement was different from riding the dirt hills. So, as I walked out the sliding door of the family room early in the morning, the words of caution that my mother had given me the evening before, sprung into my mind like a prophetic warning.
It was an unusually cool morning. “The helmet would keep the wind off my ears…It’d keep me warm,” I thought, as I paused in the doorway feeling the cold breeze on my face. I turned around, went back to the coat closet, and put on a heavy winter coat, gloves, and (thanks to my mother) I grabbed my Dad’s old orange helmet.
I had hardly noticed the two feet wide strip of pavement which had been dug up to lay a pipe under the road the day before when I passed over it. However this particular morning, after a bit of settling, and a light rain during the night, the gravel-dirt they had filled the trench with had settled enough that the road was now quite uneven. Just past Norm & Joan Wood’s house, I rode over the now sunken, and uneven trench across the road. With a light grip on the handle bars, the uneven trench was just enough to wobble the front tire. Riding at somewhere between 60 and 70 mph, the front tire flipped to one side, and the Honda NightHawk Motorcycle laid down flat on it’s side, while I soared into the air, head first toward the pavement. Instinctively, I curled into a ball, doing a front flip as I was thrown from the motorcycle seat. I landed on the right side of my head, cracking the faceplate of the helmet, and on my right shoulder bruising the top of my shoulder bone. Landing on the cold hard pavement just as I curled into a ball, I rolled along the pavement- as if parkour summer-salts were second nature, of course they were not. I don’t know how many times I rolled, but after several turns I found myself on my feet, running, then jogging, and gradually slowing down to a stop. In disbelief I stood in the middle of the road – on my feet – processing the fact that I had just Superman dove off a motorcycle going roughly 65 mph, and I was alive!
They say, “There’s a first time for everything.” It was the first time I’d wrecked on pavement; First time I’d done a front flip going roughly 65 mph; (I had done many front and back flips on the ground, and off diving boards, but never going 65 mph, and never starting from a motorcycle); First time I’d landed on my head in a motorcycle accident, and miraculously for the first time in my life, I had been wearing a helmet! I think there may have been an occasion or two as a child that I had worn a helmet, but as a grown boy, I did not own a helmet, and I had never worn one before this tragic, yet miraculous day when I needed it most. It saved my life! My mother had saved my life with her inspired warning to wear it! Obedience to her suggestion had saved my life.
And, let me be clear…nothing but the miraculous power of heaven could have planned and orchestrated the acrobatic front flip onto my father’s durable helmet, absorbing the most dangerous portion of the blow, and then the following summer-salts dissipating the potential road rash that could have skinned me alive. Then in some strange feet of cat-like reflexes transitioning from a human bowling ball rolling down the road onto my feet at the exact right speed to be able to run the last few yards as I gradually slowed to a stop. Nothing but heaven could have caused all those devilish details of speed, inertia, force, impact, and rotation to come together in such perfect harmony in order to preserve me from serious injury.
I wonder how many people have wrecked on pavement, no broken bones, no other serious injuries, ended up on their feet, and walked away without any visible injuries. I wouldn’t be surprised if I were the only one.
The motorcycle had slid 20 or 30 yards further ahead off the road and into the fence.
I left the motorcycle in the barrow pit and walked back to the Wood’s house. Joan answered the door, and did not notice that anything was wrong, because as I said, I had no visible injuries. I casually asked her if I could use her phone. She led me into their kitchen, and handed me the phone. When mom answered, I asked if she could come and get me at the Wood’s house.
“Why?” She asked. Not wanting to cause Joan Wood to faint, who was within ear shot, but who had stepped away to give me a bit of privacy, I replied to mom’s question, “I’ll tell you when you get here.” And then with a seriousness in my voice I knew my mother recognized, I emphasized, “Can you please just come and get me as soon as you can.”
I could tell I was not seriously injured, so I didn’t want Joan to call an ambulance. I felt it was best to just have mom come and pick me up. But, I was sore, my right shoe was ripped open, and my toes were bleeding. I could feel the scrapes and bruises on my knees and back. Most of all, I was scared, and a bit faint. I had just escaped death, due to the inspired warning of my mother to wear a helmet, but emotionally I was frazzled. After picking me up, I recounted to her what had happened, and to my surprise she was calm and told me I was lucky. She took me home, and dressed my wounds.
Below is the poetic rendition of the motorcycle incident which I prepared for her funeral:
En Route to the Farm
By Devin G Walker
En route to the farm one autumn morning
My life was saved by my mother’s warning
Riding helmet-less each previous warm day
One crisp fall morning my mother did say
“You know Devin, you really should wear a helmet when you ride to work.”
As I stepped outside cold breeze chilled my face
Her words recalled to mind like heav’nly grace
I’d heard her warnings before and took note
So I grabbed a helmet, my gloves and coat
Not far from the house my tire hit a bump
I flew off the bike onto my head with a thump
I rolled, and rolled with a clunk and a clang
Then slowed to a jog while to my feet I sprang
Standing there stunned, motorbike in the weed
I had flown through the air at freeway speed
But now stood on my feet alive and well
Oh what a story to mother I’d tell
Her warning had saved me from certain harm
My first day with helmet en route to the farm
©01/08/2021 Devin G Walker in loving memory of my mother Marianne Kofoed Walker
One day we were looking at pictures, and several of us children were laughing and talking about the family pictures. Mom made a point with significant emotion to tell us to never make fun of the way someone smiled. She said that while they were growing up one of her siblings had made fun of the way her brother Kay smiled in one of their family pictures. He was a young boy at the time of the picture, and he had a big gummy, and toothy smile in the family picture. I don’t know exactly what was said, but I remember how deeply my mother felt about kindness among siblings in family life. The comment hurt Kay’s feelings, and she said that he never wanted to smile again in a family picture. “I love my brother Kay, and it really hurt his feelings. I don’t want that to happen with any of our kids,” she said. This was an occasion where it was not so much what was said, (the above quote may not be exact, but it’s close) but it was how she said it that affected me. It might sound like she was scolding us, and in a small way she was. She was constantly correcting us as most mothers do. However, in this instance the love I sensed in her, for her brother Kay, and the empathy she felt for his embarrassment was so powerful that it sunk into me and tattooed onto my soul the importance of sibling kindness. It was a typical childish comment turned into a profound teaching moment by a wise mother. Again, it was not so much what was said that impacted me, as it was the depth of her love for her brother Kay: pure, and profound like the Savior’s love for us.
Near the end of high school there was an event planned which I did not want to attend. I had never been rebellious. I don’t think I ever refused to attend a church activity before, but I did not want to attend this camping event. I was busy in school, and other things were more important at the time. The event was planned as a multi-stake young men camping activity called “The Big Event.” The first thing that turned me off was the name, which seemed absurd. I was done with scouting, and I was not interested in camping. I told her I wasn’t going, and she kindly talked it over with me the night before. I don’t remember all that was said, but I do remember her saying that she “felt” -referring to personal inspiration- that it was important for me to attend. So, I went. It turned out to be the most memorable, most fun activity I ever attended as a youth. There were many different stations/activities which were mostly oriented towards physical skills. There were obstacle courses, rope climbing, hiking, and good food. The Caber Toss, or the “log throw” was a traditional Scottish athletic event in which a log, called a “caber” is thrown end over end. It was a test of strength to see how far the log could be thrown. The log was roughly 8 to 10 inches in diameter, and roughly 8 feet long, weighing nearly 100 pounds. It was heavy enough that some kids didn’t even try, and most could just barely hoist it up with help, and give it a shove over the starting line just to have it lay flat a few feet ahead. With the log leaning onto the shoulder and chest extending over the shoulder behind and above the head, with both hands at one end of the log situated between the knees, the athlete squated at the starting line with the log extending several feet above the head. With about 3 feet from hands to shoulders, the majority of the log was leaning up over the shoulder making it top heavy. The technique was to gradually lean the log forward, then thrust up with legs and arms at the same time as the log passed the vertical point and began to fall forward in front of the athlete. Ideally the athlete would throw the log upward and forward at the same moment that the log reached a 45 degree angle in front of the athlete. If thrown at this precise moment the log would optimally spin in the air so that when it hit the ground it would fall forward yielding a longer throw. It was heavy enough that you really couldn’t do much with the log other than get it situated between your knees, and stand up with as much force as you could so as to throw it forward at the 45 degree angle as described. I did it a few times and got the hang of it enough to win, having thrown it maybe 20 or 30 feet.
The athleticism of all the events was what I enjoyed. A few high school friends and I hiked to the top of one of the nearby mountains, and sang “Angel Eyes” at the top of our lungs because we felt we were so high up, and so far away that no one would hear us. When I came home, I thanked my mother for encouraging me to go, and told her that it was surprisingly fun, and I was glad she had insisted that I go.
If I were to highlight a dominant characteristic which I felt impacted my life the most, It would be that Marianne Kofoed Walker was inspired. She was inspired in her teaching, inspired to give life saving warnings, and inspired as she cared for others’ needs in crucial moments to create hinge points toward salvation.
Below is a poem to illustrate this concept written for her funeral:
Mother’s Inspiration
By Devin G Walker
My mother’s inspiration saved my soul
On more than one occasion kept me whole
She knew just how to teach my youthful mind
And helped me strive to leave the worst behind
You might say intuition played a roll
But I know inspiration had control
She often warned of dangers just ahead
And lives were saved by heeding what she said
Through her I’ve felt God’s perfect love and peace
The lessons learned from her will never cease
Now angels sing while she makes her ascent
Mother’s inspiration was heaven sent
©Copyright 01/07/2021 Devin G Walker in loving memory of my mother Marianne Kofoed Walker
In the last few days of her life I had the opportunity to serve her by attending to her needs. I had many moments of inspiration on how to help her be comfortable. Her feet hurt the pressure of the couch, and her tail bone was sore from the lack of movement. Typical Marianne, she did not want to inconvenience anyone, so it was hard to draw out from her how I could help her be comfortable. I had to convince her that I was strong enough to lift her, and hold her while she got up from the couch to use the bathroom. She was so modest, and never viewed herself as the miraculously inspired mother that she was. She undervalued the selfless service she rendered to those around her. She was not self aware of the christ-like love she exuded on many occasions. “I wish you weren’t so far away,” she said, during one of our final conversations.
Devin: You’ve been an amazing mother.
Marianne: Oh I don’t know.
Devin: You did great! You did so many things other mother’s could not have done.
Marianne: I tried. I loved you so much! (It was how she said it that made such an impact! The sincerity accompanied by a heavenly power was unforgettable.)
Then she complimented me for being a good husband, and what she said, and how she said it was revelatory! It was the greatest spiritual validation of my life! So as she had done throughout her life, she ended her life saving souls by giving inspired counsel and compliments that will last an eternity, with a sincerity and love that makes eternal families the ideal to which we all look forward.
6/6/2021
