Today is my mother-in-law's 119th birthday. I loved my mother-in-law. In large part I probably owe my church membership to her. As a non-member, older teenager, several times a week, I often found myself in the evenings sitting cross-legged on her living room floor as she and Dave sat on the love seat visiting with me. Their children were all grown and gone. Marjorie was in Provo, Utah attending BYU. I had just dropped out of Oregon State University, and was at loose ends. They taught me the gospel without intentionally doing so. It felt good there in that home. I'd never been in a home that felt like that. It was a place where I wanted to be, and I loved those two people.

Those two people loved me, too. I didn't realize it then, but I think that Zelma was courting me. I never announced my intentions to come visit them, but Zelma somehow knew when I would arrive. There was always a batch of home-baked bread just coming out of the oven. Zelma would sit me down in the breakfast nook, put a hot loaf of bread in front of me with butter and a jar of her homemade raspberry jam, and I would eat half a loaf. That was the best-tasting thing in the whole wide world.

Then we'd end up in the living room with me sitting on the floor, as Zelma and Dave told story after story, and introduced me to the Latter-day Saint way of living. I can't say whether I relished the bread or the stories more.

One of the stories impressed me very much. I listened intently, and went home and retold it to my parents. They were in bed as I reported and recounted my day.

When Zelma was 41 years old she had the care of her mother. Her mother had severe dementia, and sat and screamed. Zelma was pregnant with my wife. Zelma's mother passed away two months before Marjorie was born. Both of Marjorie's grandmothers passed away on the same day.

On 22 January 1948 Dave's mother, Annie, came to see Zelma and her mother. Zelma's mother said to Annie, "I want to go home."

"You are home," Annie replied.

"No, I want to go to my real home. Will you go with me?"

"Yes, I'll go with you," Annie said.

Zelma's mother passed away that day. Annie went home and cooked a meal to take to her son's overworked, pregnant wife. That evening Dave got a phone call telling him to come quickly because Annie wasn't doing well. When he arrived back home, he leaned against the door jam and said to Zelma, "She's gone!" Annie had passed away. She had gone home with her friend.

Those events threw Zelma into labor. The baby wasn't supposed to come for two more months. Dave put her in bed, and told her to calm down. She wasn't to have the baby yet. Zelma calmed down, and the labor stopped.

March 16th was Zelma's 42nd birthday. Zelma's 14- and 12-year-old daughters set out to bake her a birthday cake. They had never made a cake before. The batter was delicious. They couldn't quit tasting it. When the cake came out of the oven, it was no higher than a pancake. The girls frosted it. When she saw it, Zelma couldn't quit laughing. It threw her into labor. Thus it was that Marjorie was born on St. Patrick's Day, March 17th, the day after Zelma's birthday.

Zelma had a different middle name picked out for her baby (Colleen), but while lying in the hospital after the baby was delivered, she heard a newscast on the radio that mentioned Shannon International Airport. The name "Shannon" caught her attention, and that is how Marjorie acquired her middle name.

Forty six years later, Marjorie found herself caring for her invalid mother. Her mother had severe dementia just like her grandmother had had 46 years earlier. Marjorie was pregnant, just like her mother had been as she cared for her own mother. They both had babies that became great treasures.

They say that history repeats itself.