Life lesson #4

To my friends of other faiths: As a devout member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I often write about experiences I've had as a member of said church. The following is such an entry. When I refer to my "calling," I'm referring to service that we, as Mormons, feel is a "call" from God. Our church has a lay (unpaid) ministry and all members work together to meet the needs of the congregation. Our "callings" are extended by the priesthood leader of the congregation. A release from a call to serve is also extended by the priesthood leader who speaks for Heavenly Father. I'd be happy to answer any questions if you leave me a comment.



To my friends who are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I'm posting this experience not to be boastful, (because as you will see, I was insecure and proud while Heavenly Father was teaching me) but because it was meaningful and reminded me again of how much The Savior loves all of us - how He can reassure us in the specific ways we long to be reassured, - how service can be so beautiful for the one trying to serve. (That's such a long run-on sentence that I'm breathless just writing it. And please, let's not even talk about how I'm actually supposed to punctuate it.) If you choose to comment, I'm not looking for pats on the back. I just wanted to share.

I’ll never forget the Sunday evening I was released from my calling as the Young Women’s President in our branch. I had served only eleven months and the release came as a complete shock. I’d expected to serve for three or four years. I had just returned from Girl’s Camp excited and happy and the news caught me completely off guard. I felt like I had not met the expectations of my priesthood leader and I was ashamed and sorrowful. My mind was flooded with the things I had not done as well as I would have liked. Soon after the Branch President left I knelt down in tears. I needed to know if the service I had rendered was acceptable. I knew I hadn’t been perfect but had I done what He wanted me to do in the short time I’d had? I had the distinct feeling that the release was part of Heavenly Father’s plan and that He was pleased with the small things I had been able to do. I felt comforted and grateful.

Over the next two days I reflected on the people I had spent my time and energy on. I thought about the twelve faithful girls I saw every Sunday and at mutual on Wednesday night. Just one week prior we had been together for a special evening at camp during which I greeted them as they reached the end of the “iron rod” and were led to the “tree of life.” It was powerful and profound.

I thought about my counselors and the things I’d learned from our successes and failures as a Presidency; the sometimes wonderful and sometimes difficult hours as four very different women worked together on the Lord’s errand.

I thought about Haley Wolton, my little less-active Beehive who had moved into our area just prior to receiving a double lung transplant. I remembered the first time she was well enough for me to visit her. Two of the young women from our branch came with me and when she asked us why she had been anointed with oil prior to receiving a priesthood blessing we told her about the atonement – how just as an olive releases its oil when pressed by a heavy weight, so the Savior’s blood came from His pores when the weight of our sins and sorrows pressed upon Him; how consecrated oil has healing power because it represents the Savior’s healing blood. I remember the way her hands trembled because of her medication as I looked into eyes that were steady and believing. As we left her home the two faithful young women who accompanied me kept exclaiming, “That was so cool! That was amazing!”

I thought about Teyha Bouchee and Sirena Yin, also from families who were not active in the church. I hoped Teyha would remember ice-skating with me on a cold January day or the day I brought a bag of gummy lifesavers to the door. I hoped Sirena would remember sitting across from me at the pizza parlor where she worked and talking about the future.

I thought about Tiffany Reeves, the high school Senior who physically recoiled when I introduced myself and told her I wanted to be her friend. I remembered cheering her on at her high school swim meet just after Christmas and how surprised and happy I felt when she came and sat beside me in the stands after her race was over. Later, when she was in a devastating car accident she knew she could look to me for support. I cherish the times my phone rings and it is Tiffany, just wanting to talk.

I thought about Ashleigh and Stacie Ballard, sisters without a mother who hadn’t been inside a church since they were little girls. I remembered one of the evenings they came to our house for dinner with their father and brother – the way Stacie, the oldest, had eaten only the diced up potatoes in her Mexican Chowder. I remembered the family home evening lesson when we made two pans of brownies – one with a recipe and one without – and talked about how much better things turn out when we follow the Lord’s plan. I remembered watching Ashleigh cheerlead at a junior high basketball game and that Stacie’s favorite snack was Cheez-It crackers. I doubted I would see those lonely girls again after their family moved to a large town an hour away and when I went to their house to say goodbye they had already gone. I was devastated that I hadn’t gotten their forwarding address.

Yet, in spite of these good memories and my Sunday prayer, the next days were spent fighting off feelings of frustration and sorrow and shame. I reminded myself of His answer again and again but I was so preoccupied with my own doubts that I couldn’t remember the feeling. A close friend and her husband, a member of the bishopric, felt inspired to drop by my home. Their family offered to help me with some projects around our new house. They swept and dusted and carried boxes but mostly they listened. I felt grateful for their inspired visit.

My husband, Jay, embodies the righteous priesthood leader who “reproves betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost.” Jay is never loud or angry. Rather, his “sharpness” is more like a surgeon’s scalpel, precise and careful. He was kind and honest when, after consoling me he gently suggested that perhaps my pride was standing in the way of my peace. I knew he was right and because of the quiet way he spoke his words didn’t sting when they sunk in.

That evening, on our way to a picnic with the missionaries, our family stopped at a drive-up pharmacy to pick up a prescription. As the pharmacist assisted my husband, who was driving, I noticed a group of teenagers crossing the parking lot in front of us. Suddenly, one of the girls left the group and hurried over toward our van. It was Stacie Ballard, in town visiting friends for the day! We hugged each other while her friends watched from a distance. I asked about her new home and her family and got her address and phone number. Then we hugged again and our family drove off in one direction and she and her friends walked in another. I sat very still in the passenger seat holding the paper with Stacie’s new address and feeling the love and reassurance of a kind Father in Heaven. My husband looked in my direction and quietly said, “Now do you believe that you’ve done a good job?” And I responded simply, “Yes.”

Looking back now I realize that both my call and my release were inspired. Five of the six less-active girls I befriended during that brief time either graduated from high school or moved away from the branch within a month of my release. Sadly, the sixth girl, my little friend Hayley passed away later due to complications related to her transplant. I didn’t know it at the time but those precious eleven months were all I had to show Heavenly Father’s love to six young girls. I am so grateful for the things I learned from them and from my Father during the time they were briefly in my stewardship.

Snippets

I teach singing to the children who go to my church. My official title is Primary Chorister. (What we call Primary is similar to Sunday School in many other faiths, I believe.) Recently I had one of those moments a teacher dreams about having. I was standing in the front of the room looking down into my book of songs when my peripheral vision caught a paper airplane making its way to the front of the room. It was coming straight at me. Without looking up, I reached out, caught it, and tucked it behind my book. I haven't felt so cool since I was 18!

And speaking of being 18, when I was a Senior we moved and I went to a new high school partway through my Senior year. I was in a drama class with lots of sophmore boys and very few girls. Our teacher ask us to pair up and a 15-year-old boy rushed to my side. We were supposed to go to different parts of the room (all the partnerships simultaneously) and find each other by listening for the other person's voice. The only word we could say was "cookie." (What this has to do with drama escapes me. Comedy, on the other hand...) When my partner heard the instructions he said with swashbuckling volume, "I don't need to hear my partner, I can smell her!" I don't need to tell you that the room erupted with laughter, my partner murmured something about perfume, and another young man sturdily affirmed, "She'll never speak to you again."

This is a completely random post but I have missed writing and wanted to get something up so none of you would give up on me.

MTC

My first nephew checked into the Missionary Training Center today and I have been thinking about my experience entering the MTC nearly 18 years ago. Leaving on my mission was a thrilling and difficult thing.

As mentioned in a previous post, I was in love with Jay before I left on my mission. Saying goodbye to him was torturous and not just in the way you might expect. I'll explain. Jay bought a tiny little Volkswagen beetle when he returned from his mission and we dated in that car. I have sentimental feelings about those early rides but the car proved disloyal. On the weekend before I left for my mission Jay along with his brother, Cash, drove down (if you can call it that, but I'm not bitter) to Utah to attend the welcome home of his twin cousins. His car broke down over and over again on the way there but luckily he'd left two days before the Sunday meeting so he did manage to arrive in the nick of time. Then he, Cash, and his cousins worked feverishly to get the car up and running so he could drive back to see me before I was set apart as a missionary on Monday night. I was to report to the Stake President at 7:00 and Jay came roaring back into town at about 6:00. This was the last time we would see each other for 18 months and time was precious. I raced over to his house and we sat down in the living room together looking forward to tender conversation (right, Jay?). We no sooner sat down than an old acquaintance knocked on the door. He brought with him an even older acquaintance (I can't in good conscience call either one of them friends and you'll soon see why) whom I had not seen in some time. Little did they know that every second they stayed was one less second for "tender conversation". I was in agony. Would they never go? Get out your hankies. You'll need them when I tell you that they stayed the entire time! Jay and I had enjoyed precisely two and a half minutes of privacy and now I was leaving for a very long time. I felt on the verge of tears. Jay offered to drive me to my appointment with the Stake President and I accepted with unabashed relief. We talked quietly in the car about nothing as we drove the 3 miles. We kissed just once over the gear shift. Then I went in and Jay drove away. (This will really lessen the pathos but I did see him again the next morning. My dad, knowing the situation, invited him over to visit for 15 minutes before the family left for Salt Lake City. We sat on the front lawn and his face, his conversation, his company was like chocolate - sweet, smooth, and soothing.)

Then it was off to Salt Lake. The night before I entered the MTC we stayed with my aunt and uncle. At this point my thoughts turned to my family and as evening fell my heart grew heavier and heavier. Don't be misled, I wanted to go on a mission. I felt absolutely certain that a mission was the path Heavenly Father wanted me to take and I was enthusiastic about it, but looking at my siblings and parents that night before I was to say goodbye left me physically ill. I tried to put on a brave face until I went to bed but then the tears began to flow. At some point my mother came in and laid beside me on the bed with her arms around me. I cried off and on until the wee hours of the morning with my mother beside me holding me.

The next day as we went through the formalities of checking in and sitting in a large meeting with other missionaries and their families, I had mixed emotions. I felt both elation to finally be a missionary and dread over the impending goodbyes. When the time came I hugged and kissed each member of my family. About 250 other missionaries did exactly the same thing. I had heard the legends about the missionary going through one door and the family going out the other and I knew what to expect but still it was deeply personal and painful. I walked through the assigned door without looking back. Sitting right outside the door was a person handing out missionary name tags, the black badges with white lettering that would identify us for many months. She found mine quickly and as I pinned it on and saw my name, Hermana Burton, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I felt a rush of pure joy. This feeling escalated quickly and dramatically. I don't know how to even record the feelings I had except to say that I recognized that I was experiencing my own personal miracle. I "felt" the Savior keeping his promise, gladly yoking himself to me, recognizing that by walking through that door I'd given my very best, feeble though it was. I felt Him step in quickly to do the rest. He swept away all the sorrow I had felt only moments before and a feeling of utter rightness and joyfulness filled the void grief had carved. While the love and appreciation I felt for my family increased throughout my mission, I never again felt homesick. Not once.

Missions are full of miraculous events and each missionary is given those personal experiences that will bring maximum growth and happiness. For me, one of those miracles took place the very instant I demonstrated my commitment to Jesus Christ. I've never forgotten it.

Life Lesson #3

For better or worse, I have a very tender heart. For the most part, it is a good thing. But every once in a while I get myself into embarrassing predicaments because my heart overrides my head. Recently while attending a school play it happened again. At the end of the play one of the students asked if the audience had any questions. No one did. He waited. We all waited. They had worked so hard and it seemed as if they really expected someone to ask them something so with absolutely no question in my head I raised my hand. All eyes turned to me. "What are you doing?!!" my brain demanded. My heart just beat wildly and I spluttered out, "Was Francis Scott Key really the scoundrel you portrayed him to be?" Blank stares from the students. Embarrassed silence from the crowd. Furious blushing by me. "What?" the student finally responded in confusion. The teacher took over. "Did you mean Sir Walter Scott?" she asked me. "That was who this play was about - Sir Walter Scott. Is that who you meant?" I knew that it was about Sir WS. I really did. It was because I spoke without thinking that I just plugged in the first old Englishman that came to mind. I felt like I had just dropped my lunch tray. I was so glad Jay wasn't there although it would have been such a comfort to spread the embarrassment betwixt the two of us. But the poor man has had to endure enough at my hands.

When we were first married people from my past kept popping up all over - at the grocery store, at the university, at the movie theater. The problem was that they WEREN'T people from my past. They were total strangers who resembled people I had known. But my heart always went charging enthusiastically in. Time after time I rushed up to a long lost friend only to learn that the only thing long lost was my pride, oh, and Jay's. The worst was when I raced over to this man after church and exclaimed, "Remember me?" (Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!) The poor fellow racked his brain. I helped out, "We dated. You took me to...." More racking while his wife looked me over suspiciously. "I'm sorry," he finally said, "I think you may have me confused with someone else. My name is..." Sure enough. Wrong name. Acute embarrassment and blushing by me. His wife continuing to look unamused. Jay quickly leading me away and later asking me earnestly, "Can we please, PLEASE, not do that again?"

There are so many of these unfortunate little examples. My head aches just remembering. But recently my son gave a wrong answer in primary and even though the correction was done very gently he felt mortified. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. And I remembered a similar feeling from my college days - my worst heart-rushing-in experience. This is the story I later shared with him.

After London died I went back to school briefly. One of the classes I took was a private piano lesson with Dr. Bonnie Winterton. I loved her and learned a great deal from her. For part of my grade I had to play before a jury of my peers - other music majors. So every Wednesday afternoon we all met in a small hall to listen to each other - piano players, singers, and every other kind of musician. We were trained to confidently introduce ourselves and the music we would be playing and when we were finished, to bow. I had done two years of college before my mission but as a newly declared music major I was a middish twenties freshman surrounded by younger and far more gifted performers than I.

One day a young saxophone player stood up to play and informed us that his accompanist was sick. Was there a piano major among us who would accompany him? Silence from those of us in the audience. He looked around hopefully. So did I. Surely one of the more gifted pianists would step forward but no one did. My heart, traitorous thing, began to thump. "You should help him. After all, you are a very good sightreader," my heart said. My brain replied stiffly, "Yes, but this is not your Auntie Lou Lou's church solo. This is Bach!" The boy in front smiled a little and said, "Come on, someone, please!!!" Still nothing. Heart: "Look at the poor fellow. You can't just leave him standing up there." Brain: "Oh yes, you can and you'd better. Let's be conservative, just this once." But the boy in front didn't need conservative. He had a room full of conservative. He needed foolhardy. He needed impulsive. He needed rash. I raised my hand.

He beamed at me as I walked to the front and took my seat at the piano. As I began to spread the music out in front of me, I knew I was in trouble. "Idiot!" cried my brain. The music was made up almost entirely of 16th notes- no wonder his pianist was ill- and the tempo markings indicated a rollicking pace. We made eye contact and played the first note together and then he was off, screaming through the stanzas while I blinked at the music in front of me wondering if we were looking at the same song. Where had he gone? What the heck was he playing? Every so often I thought I might have found my place and I tried to re-enter the race. Those were painful moments. Soon I decided that my only hope was to turn to the last page of the song and wait for him to get there. When he finally arrived in a flurry of notes I very adeptly played the last chord and sat stunned and breathless at the piano waiting for the moment I could slink out the side door and run. But it was not to be. He bowed deeply while everybody clapped and then, "Oh, no!" I saw it coming. Oh, no. Oh, please no, he wouldn't, would he? He gestured to me. In a dreadful rush I remembered the protocol. He was, quite properly, acknowledging his accompanist. Reluctantly I stood and with my last shred of dignity and every ounce of courage I could muster I, too, complied with protocol - and bowed!

I have said and done thousands of foolish things and felt shamed and humiliated so often I should be accustomed to it but this was the Queen Bee of anguished embarrassment. All I wanted was a millstone to hang about my neck and a very deep pond.

Twelve years later Ronan and I laughed together about how difficult it is to make mistakes in front of peers and he seemed to feel better but I admit that this experience still haunts me a little. Later I spoke with Jenn Horne, dear friend and confidant, and told her that I still cringe when I think of my failure that day. She said something that brought comfort. I'm still wondering about it. "I don't think you were a failure. I think that moment was your greatest triumph," she said thoughtfully. "Whatever can you mean?" I asked. "I believe I played two correct chords the entire song - the first and the last. How can you call that a triumph?!" "You were the only one who had the courage and the compassion to try," she responded.
Maybe she's right and maybe she's wrong but as a result of her perspective I've moved on.

One of you recently commented that I have had lots of funny things happen to me over the course of my life. It didn't feel like a put down, nor did it feel like a compliment, it was just a statement of fact. And it's true. I've been thinking that over for a while wondering why it is that my life has been chuck full of odd occurrences. I've come to the consoling conclusion that probably everybody has a bunch of stories to tell and are just not remembering or knowing where to start. The other conclusion is much less comforting, in fact it's downright worrisome: fools rush in. But then again, maybe that's not so bad after all.

Virtual Valentine's Day

Jay and I had such a fun Valentine's date last night. We went to a little restaurant in Keene for sushi. I had a yummy sweet potato avocado summer roll and Jay had his favorite roll - spicy tuna and a fabulous bowl of hot and sour soup. The food was real but the rest of the evening was make-believe and lots of fun.

We went to Border's Book Store for an evening reminiscent of college days.

Challenge #1 - Virtually dedicate the perfect song. We each had 10 minutes to go through the C.D.'s and find THE perfect song. Then we listened to the first 1/3 of our respective songs (that's all you get) on those little listening machines.
Jay's dedication to me - Kenny Chesney's You Save Me
My dedication to Jay - Michael Buble's version of How Sweet It Is

Challenge #2 - Virtually take each other on a romantic getaway. We had 10 minutes to find a picture representing the destination.
Jay's trip for me - Greece (We've always wanted to go there)
My trip for Jay - The Tetons where we spent our honeymoon and many subsequent anniversaries. We haven't been there for 5 or 6 years now and we miss those trips.

Challenge #3 - Virtually buy each other a fabulous gift. You guessed it - 10 minutes to find a picture of the gift we'd most like to give.
Jay's gifts for me - (He cheated and gave me three virtual gifts so I looked very cheap - virtually) Gift 1: Tickets to see the Broadway musical Wicked. Gift 2: A trip to the Dominican Republic where I served my mission. Gift 3: A trip to Greece (We had so much fun the first time we decided to go back right away.)
My one, solitary gift to Jay - A gorgeous fully-restored 1950's cadillac
If I had virtually bought another gift for Jay I would have chosen a Mac Notebook (the new Macintosh laptop is definitely something to drool over). I would have built him a virtual studio/office over our garage but I already gave him that for his 40th birthday, (virtually, of course). And, oh, alright, I would also have bought him a great big drooling virtual bull mastiff since he has that studio over the garage where he can keep him.

For me, this was such a fun night. It was so cool to realize that Jay still knows exactly what I most love and I hope I made good virtual choices for him. Extravagance without a price tag was so much fun last night. And the company was great, too.

I'm putting my request in for our 17th anniversary right now - a digital Baby Grand, if you please, honey!

Lacey Grace and Romance

With Valentine's Day approaching I thought it appropriate to speak of love and things romantic. The very word, love, makes Ronan lean over into heaving position and Toph (age 11) is beginning to clam up about his feelings on the subject. So today the focus falls squarely on Lacey Grace and two recent experiences.

Recently, while playing at the Johnson's house (the whole family, not just Lacey Grace)LG came running from the room where she'd been playing with Ethan and Aaron. She was distressed in a flattered kind of way. "Ethan tried to kiss me on the..."(here she stopped and pointed emphatically at her lips). She flung herself into my arms and with her face buried she finished, "and Aaron (the older brother) ENCOURAGED him!"

When she was again calm and had left, Nate Johnson (father of these two passionate boys) revealed the following: The previous week he and his boys and our boys had been sitting on the couch looking through a manly book about swords when out of the blue, Lacey Grace entered the room and said, "You boys are going to have to learn to kiss sometime!" That was all. Then she marched out.

Looks like Ethan was just trying to follow her advice.

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

I just put down the best book I have ever read. Hands down. I am desperate to talk to someone about it but I have a feeling that if I call someone now, I'll just start crying and embarrass myself.

I've seen this book sitting on the library shelf in the children's section but the cover is unappealing to me and I've never picked it up. Recently, I saw the book at the home of my friends, Mindy and Nate Johnson. I was not feeling well and picked it up to read quietly while resting. It was new. It would have been in very poor form to ask to borrow it when they'd only just gotten it, but I was sorely tempted. After reading the first 50 pages or so in that initial sitting I just had to know what Edward Tulane learned and how he learned it. It was checked out at the library so I put it on hold and finally picked it up today. I read every word. I thought to myself, "This is a lovely book for children but it feels like it was written just for me, an adult."

I'm so grateful I had occasion to stop judging a book by its cover and crack it open.
I was reminded that loving and being loved is the most courageous thing I have ever done or will ever do. Thank you, Kate DiCamillo. What a beautiful story!

I'm curious to know if there are any books that have had particular impact on you, my friends. If you choose to comment on this post, will you please tell me about a book that meant the world to you?