testimony

Sacrament Meeting Today

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A lot goes on in a sacrament meeting in my ward. Babies cry and parents take them out of the room to calm them down. Toddlers toddle in the aisles or between pews. People play games with their smart phone. There are always a lot of announcements and someone is always in the hospital or had a baby or received a mission call. We sustain and release people to and from callings. With everything that happens, we can certainly appreciate the quiet moments during the meeting.

Today, people used the 70-minute block to bear their testimonies of the gospel. We do this every first Sunday of each month. The same things that happen every week in the congregation also happened today. Two rows in front of us, a dad took his fussy son out. I exchanged smiles with a flirty baby while watching a little boy waddle up to the podium to join his father. I caught glimpses of few people sending texts or playing games on phones and tablets.

Everything amused me and at the same time edified me. But in a distracted way. However, I also tried to focus on the meeting. I brought my French hymnbook to church and compared French hymns to their English counterparts. In an effort to learn the names of people in the ward, I wrote down the names of people who bore their testimony. The only people whose names I didn’t know were visitors. I was grateful to be making some progress.

The testimonies themselves were quite impressive. They were heartfelt and inspired. One in particular struck me in a way the others didn’t. The bishopric reminds the congregation that you can come up and bear your testimony as long as you can do it by yourself. Because of this, not many children have born their testimony, at least as long as Reilly and I have been in the ward.

A little girl and her visiting cousin came up to the stand. The cousin bore her testimony first, then the little girl. The little girl had just gotten baptized yesterday, and she expressed her feelings with such confidence and calmness. It occurred to me how virtually sinless she was, and her simple and powerful testimony heightened the spirit in the room. A palpable sweetness swelled and touched my distracted little heart, and tears flowed instantly from my eyes.

Even though this girl wasn’t the first to bear her testimony today, I’m grateful that she set the tone for my Sunday experience. I’m grateful for her example and especially her parents who strive constantly to give happiness to their family.

I hope to have this kind of influence someday.

So Some Friends Told Me A Story

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It was about a certain stake and ward in Utah County. Not in Provo, but that town just north of Provo. It was one of those Young Single Adult Wards, which I have always thought are wonderful and have never harbored any complaints against. I love them so much.

These friends get ready to attend this ward. They might have been running a smidge late, but when they arrived, the congregation was singing the opening hymn. It wasn’t a crisis, by any means.

But the chapel was practically full, except for maybe the very front row of pews and the choir loft up on the podium. So my friends decided to hang out in the foyer instead of walking in front of everyone and disrupting the meeting.

Then came time for passing the sacrament. Bread and water. Symbols of the body and blood and Christ’s atonement.

Usually, one of the priesthood members comes out into the foyer to pass the sacrament to those who may have arrived late or had to leave the chapel for whatever reason.

No one came out.

My friends weren’t the only ones in the foyers.

After they passed the bread, they did the same with the water.

And the same thing happened with the water: the foyer people didn’t get any.

Which were maybe 20-30? I tend to want to exaggerate this number, but really, it was a sizable crowd.

Then after the sacrament was passed, a member of the bishopric asked if anyone didn’t get to partake of the sacrament.

I guess no one in the chapel raised their hands.

Then the bishop invited everyone sitting in the foyers to find a seat in the chapel.

He supervised the priesthood as they stayed inside the chapel, which means he saw them not passing the sacrament to the foyer people.

He knew that the foyer people didn’t receive the sacrament.

So, when people confronted the bishop after the meeting, he said that he was acting under the stake president’s directions.

It was important for the bishop to literally see the elders passing the sacrament.

But he also must have saw them not passing it to the crowd outside.

People were incredulous and sort of really angry.

Some people stormed off, declaring inactivity.

And the bishop said it was their choice.

So, what I’m trying to understand:

Does he mean to punish latecomers by depriving them of the sacrament?

How does he intend to fellowship and reactivate when he splits hairs with THE reason people come to sacrament meeting? How are people supposed to get married?

How can one be denied the sacrament? If someone in the congregation is sick and can’t physically make it to church, the priesthood can bring the sacrament to that person’s home.

Everyone should have that opportunity.

If someone can help me see benefits to the other side of this discussion, I’d greatly appreciate it.

Our Turn!

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It’s Fathers Day. The rainy grey somehow  invites contemplation and gratitude for dads, and maybe even a nap later on.

Church today has made me think about Senegal again. (Everything makes me think about Senegal. This is going to last a while.) I knew that I wanted to describe the girls on our trip, and but I wanted to include this special day by saying there are some especially proud fathers of amazing daughters I’ve been blessed to meet and get to know. No doubt, you are happy fathers.

Awesome understates the quality of this group of girls. They are different and intelligent and confident, and I admired them in so many ways.

In addition to being a very enthusiastic French teacher, Britt will totally kick your trash playing soccer. She played with the guys when they competed against the village team, and she stole and swept and scrambled, and honestly, played a lot better than some of the guys. She also plays the violin and everything she does shows her love for life. A natural teacher, she’s emotionally generous. She listens well, she strives to understand others, and she shares her enthusiasm which heightens group dynamics.

Chelsey will argue you into the ground and tell you why she doesn’t like dogs sitting on couches. She’s very politically and socially aware, but she also appreciates good television. She has a pretty awesome scary story about her sister and their bunk bed that only she can tell with the best and greatest effect. She has strong opinions and even stronger convictions, and these definitely contribute to her excellent sense of humor. She was very fun to talk and listen to.  She also blessed our bus rides with Jolly Ranchers.

Even though she’s only 19, Chloe  she’s quick-witted, feisty, and a champion haggler. She’s also really easy to talk to and a fellow Floridian. She was my roommate, and I got hear stories about her best friends at BYU, shopping adventures, Canasta games with James, touring Saint-Louis on mopeds with James, studying with James, having James tell her he likes her, then dating James – the reason I call him “scandalous.” She’s very independent and strong-willed and way pretty, and if I were James, I’d want to date her, too.

If I could vote for a Most Congenial on the trip, I’d vote for Emily. She makes me happy with her ukulele, which she plays really well. She’s a fascinating,  and she wants to make the world a better place. She really could save the world with the things she wants to do with her life. She sang with the village children, and they made each other laugh and smile. Her friendly demeanor made her very approachable on the streets of Dakar. Also, she likes Ingrid Michaelson.

Grace is sick with her French skills and general cheeriness. Her French has a perfect French lilt and her eyes are kind and her face seems to be in a permanent smile. She can express herself in abstracts and have real conversations in French, and she can sort of really bust a move, African style. I often wondered on the trip if she was for real, and she often intimidated me. The more I watched her, the more I realized I was a little jealous. The good kind. Anyway, she’s cool, and she’s friends with another cool girl I know, Camille. Small world.

If anything could make me think about my life and think about my choices, it’s Kylie. She  could not possibly be funnier or more brilliant. She had it rough with various diseases inflicted upon her during the trip, but she kept on writing and reading voraciously and ranting hilariously but also she kept not eating because eating made her sick and Madame kept asking at mealtime, Kylie mange? And Kylie would answer, oui, which meant sort of but not really. I can’t get enough of her.

I once told Melanie that she was my préférée. Then she asked if it was because she’s so much taller than I. Then I told her it’s not the only reason. I mean, she’s 6’1″, which I think is awesome, but she’s also very sweet and kind, and I can forgive her for singing Justin Bieber. She’s positive and thoughtful and can also sing better than Justin Bieber, because her range runs from bass to soprano, whereas little Justin only sings soprano. Also, this girl can dance like nobody’s business.

My first real memory of Mindy was during our prep class last semester. She commented on an African film we had to watch about a shark and a griot, and I was impressed with what she had to say. Then she gave me some kids’ clothes to put in my suitcase to donate to the village kids, and she was very friendly. My most dominant memory of Mindy is her laugh, which is incredible and infectious. I want to laugh when I hear her laugh, because whatever she’s laughing at has to be funny. I like funny.

One day, Natalie and I went exploring on the stinky fisherman island and had  an amazing experience. She has a holy curiosity and a very gentle manner. She’s really easy to get along with. She always had her camera, and her pictures are really stunning. The people of Senegal are really beautiful anyway, but somehow looking at Natalie’s pictures you felt you understood them better.   Also, she arm-wrestled Madame Thompson, and maybe she could have totally won.

Rebecca makes up one-half of one of the coolest married couples in the world. She will probably be the nicest lawyer you will ever know. Except when you try to mess with her. She was the one who massaged my neck when I had a headache, and she also strongly sympathized with those who thought vacation didn’t consist of writing a 6-8 page paper or studying for a midterm. She also shared some Sour Patch Kids with me during a supremely long and boring colloquium and I wanted to scream, but Madame was sitting next to me so I had to behave.

There was the time at JFK when Sarah asked to borrow nail clippers, then we became friends. Then she told the story about how she almost died, but she didn’t, and I felt it was because we were meant to be friends. Then somebody was in love with her.  But not Ablaye. Then she tried coaxing a goat to commit suicide. Then she has the most amazing doodles in her notebook I have ever seen. She sings well, but that’s not why I forgive her for singing Justin Bieber. Also, we’re real-life friends. We’ve hung out twice already.

One day on a boat, it was hot and we were on the lookout for hippos and crocodiles, and Stephanie closed her eyes, trying to will away sickness. She has lean, muscular arms that I covet. She’s best friends with Melanie. She once looked at my feet and told me they were little, which I considered more a compliment than an observation. She exudes kindness and easily loves people. She also has a very scary story, but it’s about babysitting, and it made a table of girls scream at dinnertime.

These girls’ lives pay tribute to their fathers, and I wonder how my life reflects upon my dad.

I’m really grateful for the experience of my dad being my dad. Our relationship has taught me the value of work and cleanliness and being orderly and considerate of other people’s time. The strains in our relationship have shown me the different ways the Atonement works: how to forgive, how to find comfort and move forward with life. I’ve learned not to be angry, but instead to have compassion and sympathy and to be a better communicator. He does not even know, and I don’t see the point in telling him. It would only sink him deeper into his life riddled with surgeries and loneliness and merciless cycles of self-pity. He’s my dad. I love him.

It was good talking with him today. I told him about school and Africa, and he told me about the missionaries visiting and his reading the scriptures more. We’re still working out kinks in communication, but things are a lot better than they used to be. I want him to be well and be happy, and I know he did the best he knew how as a father. But what impresses me most is that he’s still trying. He is always sincere with his intentions, and I’ve always felt his love and support. I’m grateful for his discipline, for his hard work, for the sacrifices he made for his family. I’m grateful for his tickling me until I couldn’t breathe and packs of M&M’s my brother and I shared and fudgecicles he bought on his way home from work. I’m grateful for cursive and multiplication tables and spelling bees and band. I’m grateful that he introduced my mom to the church and guided our family on a path to happiness. Those are all significant dad things, and I’m so blessed that my dad did those things for me. I’m grateful that my Heavenly Father gave me the dad I have. I wouldn’t be the person I am now without him.

Status as of 26/07/2010

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I broke down and sent one text this morning, about 30 minutes ago. It was more or less to confirm plans for Thursday night. An old French classmate and I are going to see her voice teacher / my friend from New York City perform in a production of 110 in the Shade at the Hale Center Theater in Orem. I’ve already heard this girl sing – I know she can wail – but I haven’t seen her on stage. I’m very excited. I missed the run when Audra McDonald performed, but I already saw her last summer in Twelfth Night in Central Park for Shakespeare in the Park. She’s lovely. And she’s perfect in the film production of Wit with Emma Thompson. I’ve tried to get a few of you to see this film with me – I own it and everything – to no avail. It’s an amazing film. Sure, it’s depressing as hell, but very well done.

A few people texted me this weekend, and I didn’t respond. Sorry about that. I usually send about 10 messages for every three or four I receive. I did make up for it by leaving a few messages and talking on the phone with a friend for over an hour. It was hard leaving my phone alone, but I figure if I can last this week without texting, I might give it up for lent. I prefer human voices and somewhat thoughtful emails. Kind of takes me back to 1996 when my life was so, so much simpler.

Another short story is in the works. I’m at 3,300 words, and it feels about 60% done.

Oh. I’m having a crisis of faith.

There’s that.

Defining Moments

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Let’s take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don’t need to tell me a thing, baby
We’ve already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness

“Forgiveness” – Patty Griffin

A few Sundays ago my ward held their testimony meeting, where anyone in the congregation can express their feelings about the gospel. This is one my favorite things about church, because I find a lot of strength in my fellow worshippers. Sometimes the members can ramble; sometimes, they get nervous and suddenly become a little less eloquent, but most of the time I understand what they’re trying to say. Most of the time the spirit of the meeting really shines through. And sometimes, the meeting is as dull as all get-out, no matter how hard I try to listen or understand the hearts of those who are speaking. I very, very rarely get up to speak, so I really can’t be all that critical.

The meeting a few Sundays ago was approaching borderline ennui (bored-erline?), when a young man walked up to the pulpit. He looked to be 12 or 13 years old, going through a growth spurt, with his lanky limbs trying to catch up to hands, feet and head. My ears perk a little more when the children speak, because I admire their honesty and their complete lack of pretense needs to be given to all the world. This young man went on to say he had been reading his scriptures that week, and he came across a verse. It was in the Book of Mormon, he said, but he couldn’t remember the exact reference. He paraphrased the verse, he said the verse said something like, “all things denote there is a God.” I knew the verse he was talking about. I knew the story he referenced.

He had my complete attention within the first thirty seconds, and I clung to his every word. He went on to explain what that verse meant to him. He used words like beautiful and hope and comfort. He said whenever he’s feeling down, he’d think of that verse, and all he would have to do is look around and see the world around him, observe nature, and that was evidence enough that God exists and loves him. He said he was grateful to have found that verse, and that it makes him happy, and that if we’re feeling down, we could just look around. All things denote there is a God. The universe and its voids, whose purpose as far as I can see is to show off the stars; the darkness in this world, perhaps to help me appreciate the light all that much more; this church meeting approaching utter boredom, with this lone glimmer of a young man, this teenager, expressing his feelings. He was enthusiastic and his words were so heartfelt, and by the time he said “Amen” and when I assented with my “Amen” my hands were wet from wiping away tears. All things denote. 

 

I’ve been trying to swim up to the the surface of the wave of nostalgia that has overcome me. I’ve had really good conversations with family; I’ve spent some real quality time with friends. I have one of the best roommates in the world. These times in my life blessings could not be more blatant, nor could I feel more overwhelmed by this bounty I feel I couldn’t possibly deserve. Isn’t that God, too? Giving us things we don’t expect or understand, but all ultimately for our benefit. 

All things denote.

Two Fridays ago, at the end of the work day, I checked my cell phone for messages. I had a voice mail. I looked at the number where the message came from, and it had an area code I didn’t instantly recognize. I figured I’d go ahead and listen to the message, since the person took the time to leave it, and I assumed the person knew who I was. It turned out the person who called was my dad. The man who raised me. I don’t refer to my parents too often here, but I’ve tried to be as honest as possible when discussing them. I recognized his voice right away, and I scrolled through my phone book to confirm his area code was from Oklahoma. I hadn’t talked to him since summer.

When I have described my dad here, he’s been a character in a story. The story happens to be my life, which happens to be true. I’ve explored my feelings about our relationship; my faith has stretched, my ability and capacity to forgive and try to see people as God sees them has grown. I have let go of a lot of anger, which was more or less internalized for quite a long time. My dad is a good man, well-intentioned; not perfect, just like the rest of this great, big world. He did the best he could, and I know he could have done a whole lot worse.

I heard him through the phone, on his message. His voice hesitated as he apologized. He said he was sorry. Between strained pauses he wanted me to forgive him for his shortcomings and things he’s done wrong. My dad, admitting fault, saying he loved me, wanting to know what he could do to make things right. I didn’t expect this. It didn’t matter that I have already forgiven him. He was putting himself out there, baring his heart. Bearing his heart. Asking my forgiveness. And there’s nothing more humbling than your own father approaching you with his bowed head and own broken heart and offering you the blessing of forgiving him. 

I hung up the phone, wiped my tears, and stepped back into the world with lighter feet.

All things.