This lovely girl owns my
heart. She, and a couple dozen other
young women who are beautiful souls trying to maneuver the treacherous path of
life; that individually designed road that weaves in strange and interesting
ways through temptations and challenges, struggles and successes. Her name is
Megan, and she is fourteen years old.
Actually she’s one of those forty year old spirits in a teenage body,
except she has the delightful personality of that teenage girl.
One day after I had taught a
lesson on the value of mistakes and trials, she came up to me, commented on the
lesson, then gave me a hug. While we
embraced she whispered in my ear:
“Cori, sometimes I pray for
trials, because I know they’ll strengthen me.”
I pulled her a little closer to
my heart and whispered back:
“Oh Honey, don’t pray too hard!”
In this blurry phone-ograph Megan
is speaking at the pulpit in our church.
It wasn’t a Sunday meeting. It
was a weeknight. She and her fellow
Young Women are used to standing at this pulpit, so to them it’s not a huge
deal, though I can tell you some turn the other way when they see you coming
toward them with a certain clipboard in hand. I am immensely proud of all of them when they
stand at this wooden pulpit and share words of wisdom and inspired words of
living prophets and apostles as well as sacred words from ancient scripture. I served as their YW president for just over
three years and was released last year.
That was, I tell you, a very sad day at our house!
Megan is at the pulpit this day
because one of the sweetest, kindest, most beguiling and guileless girls in our
neighborhood (who happens to be one of her closest friends) was doing this:
This is Stephanie. And that’s her
brother baptizing her. Stephanie’s
parents, to their credit, allowed Stephanie her free choice as to where she
decided to plant her faith. And while
she has lived in a relatively “LDS” community her whole life, and most of her
family were members of the LDS church, Steph, for reasons essential to only
her, had decided not to be baptized. But
she was very much a part of us, joining us at weekly activities, occasionally
coming to Sunday services, trekking with us at Girl’s Camp, sitting around my firesplace at Christmastime. When I first got my rosters as YW president
Stephanie’s name was not on the Beehives list.
“She hasn’t been baptized, so her name is not on the church records for
YW”, the clerk told me.
“Yes she is,” I replied, “check
the records again.” I simply could not believe this girl so full of the spirit
of love and goodness, who was so comfortable among us, was not a member. But they were correct.
And so, last year, her courageous
friend who prays for trials asked Steph if she would like to meet with the
missionaries at her house and learn about the church. And you know what? Well, I guess you know, because that’s Steph
in the water and that’s Megan at the pulpit.
So I’ve been thinking about
pulpits. I’ve been thinking about how
few pulpits are made of wood. I think
more often they are made of fresh mowed summer grass, all fragrant and clean,
where a circle of girls whisper life dreams late at night. They are made of soft living room couches, or
accommodating beds at a sleep over. I
think they are invisible as they move with the masses of kids in the hallway at
school, in the curb on the street when the neighbor is taking the garbage cans
out and the kids are a little rowdy in the swimming pool. Pulpits are rivers with girls strung together
riding them in the heat of July, their bums skimming the surface of water
through the center of a large black inner tube.
They are blazing campfires with angelic voices singing ‘round them. They are tearful apologies for feelings
harmed, and giggles of acceptance in circles on the playground. They are
thresholds at open doors, with hand delivered invitations to join us for this
or that. They are people genuinely
loving their kids’ friend’s parents, and those parents genuinely loving back
without judgment.
Blessed young men who taught our
Stephanie on those many evenings at Megan’s home. Blessed family of Megan’s who opened their
arms and supported that gathering.
Blessed parents who allowed her to choose. Blessed girls.
Those missionaries taught her
much about the gospel, in the correct order, so she could make an educated and
spiritually driven decision. But before
those young men taught her, there were many who taught her from various
pulpits. Their lives are testaments.
When my daughter Kate was on her
mission in Hong Kong I sent her a little sign that said this:
Such wonderful wordless teachers…these
Young Women I love!
That's itty bitty Steph in the front at Girl's camp a few years ago. We will always have your back, Steph! |
Indeed they are incredible young women and I love them all too!
ReplyDelete