REFLECTORS

“Holy Toledo, that’s an awful lot of reflectors!” I commented to Dave as we drove in the wet, dark night through a curve in the road. We were in New York, far from our Utah home, and the road was unfamiliar.

“And it’s a good thing they’re there,” Dave responded as he slowed the car, easing us through a particularly twisted thread of asphalt.  I was reminded how grateful I was that our car had headlights, and that someone had protected us by placing so many posts that reflected the light.

New York was home to us when we were young marrieds. We lived here forty years ago. Our second baby, Sarah, was born here. Dave served as a clerk for a Federal Second Circuit Court Judge. After his clerkship he took a position with a law firm in Pittsburgh, where we were both raised, and we settled into life in the city where we had grown up. We were busy and happy, raising our little kids, establishing ourselves in a new home, and serving in the church. We had moved back to the ward I had grown up in. My dearest new friends were the three sisters who served in the Primary presidency with me. Jackie, our secretary, was a recent convert. While we were gone for two weeks on summer vacation, Jackie and her husband made the sudden decision to leave the church. I came home to the shocking news, and asked her what had turned their hearts and minds. Her testimony was so young and green, barely sprouting, and the anti-Mormon literature some of their family had given them was too much for their tender faith. Hoping I could explain to her how they had to have been mistaken, I asked if she would share some of her biggest misgivings with me. I was 22 years old and probably overly-confident in my faith.

These were the olden days, before the internet, even before word processing. Jackie gave me photocopied papers. I remember sitting at my kitchen table when the kids were down for a nap, mid-afternoon in Pittsburgh. The first few paragraphs went right along with gospel truth. “Sounds right,” I thought. And I read on. But one word, one phrase, one little tiny twist took that solid truth and veered slightly off the road. I felt my heart start to pound. I continued reading, feeling a discomfort that turned into what felt like a mini-heartbreak. It read right. It sounded correct. But it felt terrible. I noticed my breathing was labored, and tears started falling from the corners of my eyes as I read. A panic rose in me, a physical panic. I picked up the phone and called Dave at work. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worried that something had happened to someone in the family. 

“I’m reading about the temple and it sounds so real and correct and I think it’s exactly what we do but ….” I paused, unable to express myself coherently.

“Cori”, Dave said calmly. (He’s good at calm.) “Put down the papers.” 

I did so, releasing the physical words from my hands. They sat on the kitchen table, looking so innocent, but blazing with heat at the same time.

Dave, there and then, testified over the phone that the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ was living truth, and he had faith in its precepts, including the holy ordinances performed in the temple. His words comforted me, like the hands of my mother did patting my back as a child. 

When I had caught my breath I told him I felt the same. He suggested I take the papers and tear them up and dispose of them in the garbage. I did so, then knelt on the kitchen floor and prayed with my husband over the phone.

Instinctively, I made my way upstairs and kissed my sleeping babies, whispering a little prayer over both of them that the forces of evil would never find them. It was an innocent wish of an inexperienced mother.

I know now that evil is inevitably in our path. It is a given, in this mortal state. It is we who need to steer ourselves away from them. 

There have been numerous times in my decades of living where I have found myself travelling the road of doubt and uncertainty. Other times I have felt so sure of my faith that I thought nothing could possibly shake it. I want faith as firm as the mountains, but I tend to slip and slide up and down the foothills in my quest for the mountain. Thinking back on that pivotal day when I picked up a piece of literature that rocked my world in a negative way, I think I learned at that early age to keep myself off the road that leads to places I’m not sure are real. They may seem appealing, even hip, but that place in me that senses peace and tranquility needs truth…real truth, the kind that surpasses understanding. 

I am reminded that I am the one who steers , though I don’t always have control over the road. When I find myself on a road that seems dark and unfamiliar, even risky or dangerous, I must look for reflectors to keep me on the path. If I am struggling with my testimony, surrounding myself with unbelievers is not going to reflect the light I need. I need believers in my life. I need my faithful friends. I need those in my family who also believe. I need my sisters who “get me”, who know the way I think, and who will protect me not only from forces that would have me veer off course, but they will also protect me from my weakest most vulnerable self.

If you find yourself on a dark road, look for reflectors of light. 

If you are firmly planted in your faith right now, then be one who reflects the light.

We are, all of us, just trying to make our way back Home.

FARMINGTON EAST WINDS

We moved from Pittsburgh PA to Farmington Utah well over three decades ago. That first year here my mother-in-law called from Pittsburgh to make sure we had made the right decision. Unseasonably high temperatures had caused a massive early spring runoff of melted snow from the mountains that hover to the east of us. Homes in our sweet little town were completely buried in mud from saturated earth that slid down the foothills east of Farmington. It made national headlines. Our community came together to fill sandbags and line the streets, hoping to direct the water descending from the mountains through the paved roads and away from homes. State Street in Salt Lake City, just a few miles south of us, became a river. People travelled in canoes for sport. 

A few weeks before the mudslides we had our first personal experience with the famous Farmington East Wind. It came whipping over the foothills and swirled like weightless water over everything in its path. It screamed through the doorjambs and bent the plate of glass in our family room window. The sound was unrelenting and frightening. I stood a safe distance from that glass in our new home and watched a section of our neighbor’s fence fly by. We were in Oz. The power was out for three full days. We kept the fireplace aflame until it was no longer practical, and the babies were shivering in our laps as we huddled in the dark, then we drove to South Jordan and stayed with my Aunt Edna until the power returned. I remember driving back home and looking out the car window at the devastation that a little moving air and flowing water can bring to a sleepy little town. 

That next day people came out of their houses, walked the perimeter of their property, conferred with their neighbors, then went back inside. Within half an hour the whole neighborhood was abuzz with chainsaws and hatchets and hammers, neighbors coming together to chop up felled trees and retrieve scattered fences. It was quite remarkable, and truly touching to watch the united effort of many hands strategically working their way through our community. There was not one single house that was not included in this spontaneous united effort to pick up the broken pieces. 

The Farmington East Wind has become an old familiar friend to me now. The red door of our side porch should probably have its rubber weatherstrip replaced. When the east wind blows, it whistles through the crevices in that door. There is a unique harmony in the wind working its way through a crack. Listen closely. There are usually a couple notes placed in an unexpected way against each other, coming in slurred crescendo and decrescendo. The wind is a patron of the arts, making musical vibrations for our ears, and causing the grasses and three branches to dance with all sorts of passion. There is a funny little sense of gratitude and sweetness that comes to me when I hear that red door give me a song. I am reminded that my home is safe. The foundation is solid, and the bricks stand firm, forcing the wind to just move on around us. 

At 4 o’clock this morning a robotic voice came blasting from my cell phone “A high wind warning has been issued for your area,” it said. I groaned and rolled over. I realized, even in my half-awake state, that my ability to roll over was something the early settlers of Farmington never had the privilege of doing. They wet pieces of cloth and worked them into the cracks of their doors, saving themselves and their children from the snow that tried to push through. They pressed their bodies into the wind, locking down livestock and tying down machinery. They watched their crops disappear, the blossoms of their apricot trees float out to the west over the Great Salt Lake. 

A friend who has studied Farmington history told me about the Latter-day Saint pioneers that settled Farmington. They could not afford materials for an addition to their small rock chapel. They fasted and prayed as a community, hoping to be able to find work or benefactors who would help. Instead, they got a storm. A mighty East wind, and a massive mudslide. When the wind and the rumble were over, they discovered that the mudslide had brought large trees and rocks down from the mountains. They landed right behind their little church. Lumber and stone. A gift from the Divine Giver. They built the addition to their church. The very first LDS Primary would be held in that chapel. Our daughter and her family now attend church in that very chapel. And it is in that chapel that we sang our last farewell to our mother at her funeral services. We walked behind her horse drawn hearse from that rock chapel to the Farmington Cemetery.

My friend Bernice Smith told me that the hill that houses the remains of good old Farmington folk used to be known as Sage Brush Hill. In the early days, when the Latter-day settlers were first establishing communities around the Great Salt Lake, a young man and his wife and new baby were hired to keep an eye out for native Americans who travelled through between Ogden and Salt Lake City. The fellow would light a fire on Sage Brush Hill and the smoke would signal people in Salt Lake to be aware. 

The young couple harvested peaches from the trees planted along the fruit belt in Davis County. From that they made peach jam, which they sold at market in Salt Lake. The husband took off one October day for the 40-mile journey to sell their jam. It was a three-day venture. His wife and new baby stayed home in their tiny cabin at the bottom of Sage Brush Hill. While he was gone a fierce East wind came howling down the canyon, accompanied by an early snow. The wailing of the wind through the crevices in their cabin was so frightening the young mother lost her senses. She wrapped her baby in a wool blanket and left the piercing noise of the whistling cabin, trying to make her way to another home to the north. She and her baby were found frozen against a fence post. They buried them on Sage Brush Hill, which eventually became Farmington Cemetery.

I don’t know if that tale is true, or folklore, or a mixture of both. But I do know the power of a Farmington East wind. And I can only imagine the vulnerable feelings that might overpower me if I did not live in a true, solid brick house during a windstorm and a blizzard.

We sit tonight with the power out. My little laptop computer is powered by a charged battery. I realize that it will eventually die if it is not recharged, so here’s hoping it returns soon.

I’m just grateful for the reminder our Farmington East Winds give me, every time, that I am small when the wind is big. The comfort of my shelter is too often taken for granted, so I am grateful for a mighty wind now and again.

40. AN UNEXPECTED GIFT

Friday I went to the 5 Hour Store to get groceries and some Easter supplies. The store isn’t really called the 5 Hour Store, it’s actually called NPS Market Square. I dubbed it the 5 Hour Store years ago after my friend Carol first took me there. I came home and told Mom and Libby I’d discovered the perfect store. I called it the 5 Hour Store because it would take roughly 5 hours to see everything they had there. It has changed through the years, but was created originally as a place for Kelly Farmer to sell off the items he acquired in odd places; items lost in shipping, or goods  returned to the manufacturer, or slightly damaged items… just general odd lots. I like it because of the mystery (you never know what you’ll find) and the potential for finding a bargain (this was more likely in the old days, though they are still to be had if you look, which adds to the magic of mystery). One side of the store sells groceries and the other is general miscellany.

As I was checking out I moved to the end of the conveyor belt to bag my groceries. The clerk told me the amount and I reached to get my credit card when the fellow who had just checked out in the next register butted right in front of me. 

“Mind if I pay for your groceries today, young lady?” 

I looked up at him, sort of stunned, and before I could say anything or shift over to the card reader, the deed was done.
Stop!” I said. “I’m fine! Seriously, I don’t need this. You are kind to offer, but I really am fine. Oh my goodness, this is so generous but I really can afford these groceries!” He smiled, signed the screen, and put his card in his wallet. 

“Have a great day,” he said smiling, as he tucked the wallet into his back pocket and walked away. I looked at the clerk. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “He does this all the time.”

He walked toward the door, his wife following behind him. “Seriously?” I asked the wife, and she nodded her head. “It makes him happy.”

They were out the door before I could even gather my thoughts, let alone my groceries.

“Is this really paid for?” I asked the clerk. She nodded, saying he did it every time they shopped. She’d seen him do it for over $200 once. He never looks to see how much is owed. 

I was sort of at a loss for what to do. This doesn’t happen to me. Maybe I look needy. I moved by rote through the sliding doors and out to my car, looking for the couple in the parking lot. But they were gone. Whomever they are, I send a whisper of gratitude into the universe for their goodness. And for sure I sent a prayer Heavenward, for the Lord to recognize the giving of this anonymous gift. 

Yesterday our kids and their kids came over to help us in the yard. It was a loving and selfless gift they gave. The little ones tried their best to lug wagons full of bark to the beds around the yard, but eventually they gave in to the need to play in the sunshine. “We’re thirsty,” they called as they ran to the garage. I joined them at the pop shoppe by the doorway. As I was poking little stiff straws into Capi Sun drinks, I had a sudden awareness that these were purchased by someone else, and given as a gift, even when I didn’t think I needed the gift.

The fact that this quiet and generous deed, offered by a man who appeared unexpectedly, was performed on Good Friday was not lost on me. It serves as a testament of a greater deed, the foundation of all good things performed on this earth. 

A gift was given to us, whether or not we think we need it. 

We, in our relative immaturity, think we can handle our life burdens ourselves. Our own hard work will provide for our needs. And at first glance it appears to be true, we can be self-sufficient if we work hard enough. It takes stillness, reflection, forethought, and a measure of humility to understand that we cannot possibly pay what needs to be paid in the end. Then Someone steps in front of us, swiping his life and anointment through the divine card reader. His is the only account full enough to pay what is required. He steps in and covers the debt. In the process he blesses all of us, through blessing each of us individually. What he makes of me blesses those around me, like those little foil bags of drink quenched the thirst of my grandchildren. What He did not only covers the final bill for me, but His atonement makes each day in my life more full, more free, and more joyful. 

I was reminded by that simple anonymous act of a stranger that I, debtor that I am, am in need. Recognizing my need is part of my life challenge. It’s the tricky place that those who have enough must learn to navigate: Do good. Be good. But recognize that, by nature, I will make mistakes in order to grow.  

It could do me in, realizing I will never be enough. But it doesn’t. 

He’s got me covered. 

It makes him happy.

He does it all the time.

Thanks be to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

This completes my Lenten offering for 2021. A blessed Eastertide to all.

And to complete a brief collection of the works of Tissot:

Mary Magdelene and the Holy Women at the tomb

St Peter and St John run to the sepulcher

Christ on the shore of Lake Tiberius

Peter jumps into the water

Feed my lambs

39. VIRTUAL

Vir. It’s a very old word, from a very old language. 

The Latin term “vir” means “man”. It’s the root of virtue, and virtual. 

Virtue, according to Webster’s Word Histories, is

“The sum of the excellent qualities of men, including physical strength, valorous conduct, and moral rectitude.”

At some point the word flip flopped and somehow became the veil that men put over women, but didn’t necessarily require of themselves. Sermons are given on virtuous women. Their price is far above rubies. Virtue is sometimes limited to the concept of chastity. We tell our girls to protect their virtue at all cost, but forget to drill the same into our boys. We limit the definition of virtue by emphasizing the list of “should not’s” instead of focusing on the list of “should’s”. But that’s another topic for another time. 

Nowadays, the average kid would totally know what you are talking about when you say something is “virtual”, but they might not be able to explain “virtue.” And their definition of virtual would likely include technology.

Two words basically float to the top of my brain when I think of the year 2020: “pandemic” and “virtual”. One necessitated the other. And frankly, in general, we were blessed to be able to interface with each other virtually, when real-life interaction was out of the question.

I’ve been pondering today the difference between virtual and pretend. For some reason virtual gets more credibility, when in reality it can totally be made-up. We attend our virtual meetings and select the background to fit the mood of the day. The desk is piled with stacks of mail, a sweater and hat from yesterday’s walk, and a dirty cereal bowl? Just click on a screen shot of Hawaii and there you are with a beautiful Hawaiian sunset in the background. I attend Sunday morning meetings with other leaders in our congregation every week. We know each other really well. I feel emotionally safe with each of them. Still, when I want to take a sip of my protein shake, sitting off camera, I tap a key and temporarily turn off the video. Virtual cannot possibly represent the whole of us.

I’ve been serving as a leader in the women’s group in our church for nearly a year now, and we have not yet met face to face as an organization. We meet virtually at least once a week, and I am grateful for that. But we learn things about each other when we share actual space, when we breathe the same air, when we can read faces that are not blurred by the dim light of technology. I miss the sound of a room full of laughter, of women singing together, the beauty of hovering silence when one of us testifies and tears overcome us and we are not able to speak. I miss the faint rhythm of a sleeping baby in her mother’s arms, or the confirming whisper of a sigh. I know I am not the only one ready to take off these figurative virtual glasses and get back to the real. 

Last night my sisters Sherry and Libby treated some of our friends and neighbors to a night out to the movies. It was a glorious gift for the people to whom and with whom they minister. They rented out the theater and we watched the movie Risen, about the resurrection of Jesus Christ. It was divine to share space, with safe social distancing, doing what people did before the pandemic. A dozen or so women who love each other and love the Lord. It was a poignant movie, the violence of the events of that Friday in the meridian of time being contrasted by the profound love and joy of the events of the Sunday that followed. I’ve been pondering all day how that story was related to us, virtually, and how it had power in the telling because people used the best of their talents to bring it to us. I was grateful.

Tomorrow we will be fed once again, virtually, by the witnesses of our prophet and apostles and other church leaders in our semi-annual General Conference. For that I am grateful as well.

But tonight I am trying to be still. To find the calm. To close my eyes and own the reality of the events that others have been telling us about. Through scripture, through decades of lessons in Sunday classes and from the family room couch, in conversation at the dinner table, or the side of the bed, or the seats of the car. We have talked and shared and questioned and witnessed. We have doubted, and confirmed, and doubted again, and been born again…repeatedly. I have been converted many times, and expect the pattern to continue until I meet Him face to face. I hope, by then, to know Him well.

For now, I am learning in my mind, virtually, and in my heart, by the witness of the Holy Spirit. But I have confidence and true hope that one day I will see, in reality, the flesh and soul of the most virtuous man who ever lived.

Some of Tissot's paintings depicting the events of Good Friday:

Jesus in prison

Jesus is scourged on the front

Jesus is crowned with thorns

Jesus bearing the cross

 the first nail

 The Raising of the Cross

Holy Women Watch from Afar

Disciples, having fled, watch from afar

Woman behold thy son

What our savior saw from the cross

I thirst

The strike of the lance

It is finished

The death of jesus

Earthquake

Descent from the cross

The Holy Virgin kisses the face of Jesus

Jesus in the sepulcher

The two Marys watch at the tomb of Jesus

38. THE JESUS DOOR

The lovely little rock church in our neighborhood is where we have attended church for nearly three decades now. It feels like home. It looks beautiful, but it is a bit small for the three congregations that use it for their services. It’s especially noticeable now because of the need to social distance during this eternal pandemic.

The LDS Church no longer uses this particular chapel design, because it’s so small. They built two additions at one point, enlarging the Relief Society and Primary rooms. With those additions came two doors that open only from the inside. There is no handle or keyhole on the outside, which bothers me every time I take a load of goods that need to go to the Relief Society room. I’m not sure why these doors can only open from the inside. I suspect it’s for safety or building code reasons.

I call these our Jesus doors. They remind me of the art that depicts Jesus knocking. He won’t force himself to come in, you have to admit him. 

But it feels backwards in this setting. In that space that is set apart to welcome all to enter, it kind of feels like we imply “stay out, unless we let you in.” I think this would make Jesus sad. Fortunately, the main doors swing wide open from inside and out.

Temples, yes, they are exclusive by nature, open to those who live certain covenants with exactness. For example, to put a child behind the wheel of a car without them knowing and proving and believing in the principles that make that machine work correctly would be harmful to the kid, and others on the road. Likewise, those holy ordinances performed in the temple must be exclusive. But our chapels? I hope not.

When my cousin Rod passed away we drove to Pocatello for his funeral. I remember walking through the hall past a row of fellows wearing Lions Club vests. The stale scent of cigarette smoke enveloped them as they stood among us to pay their respects. It completely warmed my heart. I inhaled on purpose, offering a silent prayer of thanks for the open arms of my cousin, and the generous hearts of these men who joined a brotherhood of service and loved their departed brother. Rod, I believe, had served as Bishop or Branch President in a small church unit on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation. Their meetings started somewhere around the top of the hour, or there abouts. Their people came dressed in a colorful variety of clothing, sometimes without shoes. But the Holy Sacrament prayer was exactly the same, and the Lord they worshiped was ours as well. A group of members of their Native American Drum Circle played and sang a prayer that was both joyful and mournful from the front of the chapel during the service.

The closing hymn in Rod’s funeral was “To Nephi, Seer of Olden Time”. That’s probably not a song many LDS people have sung at funerals. But when we got to the chorus it became obvious…  “Hold to the Rod, the iron rod. ‘Tis strong and bright and true! The iron ROD is the word of God, ‘twill safely guide us through.” (I’m fairly certain Rod, using that familial humor, requested that song for his funeral.) But in all seriousness, I think it carried a double entendre’… multiple meanings. Yes, hold to the word of God in exactness, and you will not get lost. 

But for me, it also meant that I could follow Rod’s example. My cousin showed that  a faithful arm can be very long, and stretch a bit to the edge of the walkway, and still be holding on to the firmly planted principles of the Gospel of Christ. It allows for a larger, more diverse crowd to be on the path. 

I understand the sense of faith and devotion that comes with the mind and heart that believes in a narrow conduit to God. And I also understand the belief that all roads lead to home, and we will get there, even if the route takes longer than necessary.

I am grateful for the Jesus who called to sinners to follow him. I am honored to be among those sinners. I trust He is willing to show us the way and is patient with our spiritual ADHD handicaps.

This Easter Sunday we will gather in our respective places and partake of the wisdom of our prophet and apostles. I love thinking of apostles teaching us on this Holy weekend.

This is the day, Maundy Thursday, when Jesus gave a new commandment, to love all mankind in the manner in which He had shown us… in the manner in which He continues to show us. No longer the exclusive pattern of acceptance the Law of Moses had mandated. This new love was open armed.

We are called, we believers in Christ, to live this law of love. So if you want to worship, and you smell of smoke, or drink, or you shake with withdrawals, come sit beside me. If you have tatoos, or multiple piercings, or have lost your teeth or don’t own a pair of dress shoes, or your skin is a different color … come sit with my family. If you are gay, or transgender, or suffer from bi-polar depression or can’t keep yourself from looking at pictures on the internet… you are safe in the pew beside my friends and me. Come and be healed with the rest of us. 

I encourage the good people with whom I worship to make our chapels figuratively larger than our “cultural” halls. When Jesus knocks, and we open the door, He is generally not alone.