HIS HONOR & OUR FAMILY ZOOM EVENING

Though it isn’t really necessary, the man I love rises early every weekday, during this pandemic, the same time he always has. He showers, and shaves, and dresses in his neatly pressed shirt, a knotted tie, and a belted pair of dress slacks. He pulls a clean pair of dress socks over his feet and bends over to tie his leather shoes. I remain hunkered in a downy cave there on our bed, my head dreaming away on my pillow. Dave quietly turns the handle on our bedroom door, so as not to wake me, and walks down the hallway and into the study. It is there, with our old cloth flag tucked onto the corner by the bookshelves, he holds court. Our humble little den where the grown-up books reside, where the printer pumps out worksheets for my guitar students, and where one full row of shelves is dedicated to cookbooks, has become a virtual courthouse and judge’s chambers, all in one. 

Weeks ago, following the advice of the President and our Governor, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court issued a request that courthouses close, in light of the current pandemic. Yet the workings of the judicial arm of government had to continue. For the last full month I have watched Dave, who is presiding judge of the Second District, work from 7 am until midnight, day after day, trying to figure out how to allow justice to be served in a world of social distancing. Interfacing with fellow judges and staff, researching and test running and brainstorming, they have finally figured out how to hold court in a virtual setting. The judge, in his black robes, is just ten steps away from the kitchen table. Attorneys in their homes, trying to keep the children quiet in the background. Inmates appear from a private room in jail or prison. Judicial assistants attend from their homes. They line up in little windows at the top of David’s computer. I have to remind myself, once I join the world of the living, not to run the mixer, or blend a high-pitched smoothie for breakfast.

I tiptoe into the front entryway of our house, where I can peek through the glass panes in the French doors to the study, to see if he is on the phone or in a video conference. If he is not, then I can slice a nice fresh orange or a firm ripe avocado and set it on his desk. He is always graciously appreciative, though sometimes, late at night, when I turn off the lights in the study, I see the orange remains untouched. He is a serious and a dedicated worker, devoted to upholding and appropriately interpreting the law, and I admire him deeply, even if I can’t figure out why he’d wear shoes and socks when no one is going to see them. I’m pretty sure he dresses fully so that he completely owns his part, and I respect him for that. I, myself, feel pretty content in my pajamas. I guess that’s why I’m a “creative” and he’s the judge.

A couple days ago we had what we called a Family Zoom Evening with our kids. Since they were little we have had Family Home Evening with them, though our faithfulness in gathering has waxed and waned. Due to the statewide order to isolate at home, we have not snuggled a grandchild nor hugged our kids for nearly six weeks. It has created an exquisite kind of pain, our longing and yearning glows with the radiant hope of reunion. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder.

So, since we can’t meet in person, we did it virtually. At 4:30 Sunday afternoon each of our kids and two of my sisters came knocking on the virtual door of my computer screen. One by one we welcomed them in, Kate coming all the way from New York. The cousins chattered and laughed and the cacophony felt like a beautiful symphony orchestra warming up before a concert. We sang, we prayed, we shared spiritual thoughts and scriptures, I told my daily joke. I sat with my guitar in my lap, scanning the little virtual windows at the top of my small computer screen, drinking in the faces of the people I love most in the world. David led our family discussion. We talked about the positive things we have noticed in this difficult time. From the oldest to the youngest we found blessings wrapped in the cloak of a curse. Siblings have discovered friends in each other, parents have learned to pace themselves in their interactions, we’ve discovered new talents and nurtured old ones. We’ve tried new recipes, and pulled out old ones. Our kids’ kids appreciate being able to snuggle on the couch and watch a movie together, without outside forces coming in. We’ve learned how our emotions go up and down and we survive it.

Family Zoom Evening

David shared with us the beauty of something he experienced personally a few weeks ago:

 The pandemic had devastated places dear to us: Italy, where he served his mission and where our good friends live. Great Britain, where Johnny served, and Ann Marie and Michael, and where we performed with Saints on the Seas in various port cities. France, where three years ago this week we visited the beaches of Normandy. China, where Kate studied Mandarin, and Hong Kong where she served her mission. So many people in those places had died from Covid 19 that they were having to bury people in mass graves, or cremate them without family or funeral. The epidemic had finally made its way across the ocean to the US, first crushing New York, turning stadiums and other meeting places into hospitals. It moved like a tidal wave westward, reaching us in Utah a couple weeks before an earthquake shook us. We didn’t see the earthquake coming, but we did see the pandemic, and we braced ourselves. In David’s discussions with the Chief Justice and other presiding judges, as well as law enforcement leadership, it became apparent that this disease was likely to slither into our jails and prisons. With foresight, the judges asked sheriffs and wardens to review their tiered inmate plans and prepare an informed list of inmates with the most time served in their sentences, those serving time for misdemeanors, and people who would pose the least risk to society if they were released. 

In early April, when it was apparent that the pandemic was indeed spreading quickly in our state, the Chief Justice requested that judges with jails and prisons in their districts release a percentage of inmates in order to accommodate social distancing in those facilities and forestall a raging outbreak. On Friday, April 10^th, Dave drove to the courthouse, entered alone, and was soon joined by the County Attorney and the head of the Public Defenders office. He had prepared an order to release certain qualified inmates from the Davis County Jail. He leaned over the desk in his chambers, pen in hand, then paused, as he looked up at the the defense lawyer and the prosecutor. “I don’t know what your religious beliefs might be, but I was once an altar boy, and my Christian roots run deep, as does my faith. It is not insignificant to me that we should be releasing these prisoners on this particular day, Good Friday.” 

David’s words got caught in his throat as he told this to our children and grandchildren. Tears wove through the crevices in his face.

“It was tradition, in Israel, that at the beginning of Passover one prisoner would be granted release from prison, as a token of good will between the Romans and the Jews. When Jesus was brought to the court on that Friday, having been found guilty of blasphemy, Pilate offered to make him that one whose crime would be forgiven, but the people chose Barabbas instead. And thus, the wheels of eternity rolled forth.” 

All these generations later, this singular event represented a beautiful meeting of mercy at the bar of justice. 
"It was a weighty and a sacred thing for me", Dave said, "to sign my name to that order on that day.”

I listened to Dave, and imagined inmates walking out into the springtime air, inhaling the newness of the awakening earth, perhaps embracing people who love them. From my chair in our little Family Zoom Evening I offered a silent prayer that those who were granted early release would embrace new lives and good choices with this newly bestowed gift. Having served as a church advisor in that jail for three years, I knew firsthand that hearts can sincerely yearn for a new start, and that change, though hard, is possible.

It’s a lonely thing, being a judge. Few people are delighted with what a judge bestows on them. It often takes the passage of time and a bit of wisdom to see the beauty of justice. We humans are drawn to mercy, but it is justice that in the end truly makes us free. And though he is probably the smartest, most even tempered human I know, David is still just that, a human trying his best to do what’s right with what information he is given. He is diligent, and steady, and honest. And he is definitely the Yin to my Yang.

At the end of our little virtual family gathering, before Aunt Libby closed with prayer, our eldest grandson Timothy played a hymn on the piano in his house in Herriman. We all sang along.

God Be with You, till We Meet Again.

Our kids.

Our patriarch.

Coronavirus deaths to date: 178,551