39. EBENEZER JEHOVAH-JIREH

Samuel returned to the battlefield.  When others would have moved on, or basked in the glory of a major battle won, he turned back, not to remain in the past, but to remember.  Against all military odds, the Israelites had defeated the Philistines and won back the Arc of the Covenant.  It was a battle of faith, and the faithful rose victorious. But Samuel knew the tendency of the Israelites to forget God’s mighty arm, and he probably wanted to build the confidence of his people (confidence is remembered success). He also knew that such a miraculous victory merited this symbol and sacrifice. So Samuel returned to the place and raised a stone, a marker, an altar, to remind everyone: “Heretofore hath the Lord helped us.” He called the memorial Ebenezar, meaning “stone of help” (Even = stone / Haazer = help).  

Even Haazer (Ebenezer)

Altars have been tokens of holy connection since the beginning of mankind.  Adam and Eve built an altar before they even had children.  And all their posterity, through generations of time, have done the same.  We worship at altars, bless bread and water, endow and seal sacred relationships, Our pulpits allude to altars, and our own beds become altars as we kneel before them.

From Creation until the meridian of time, altars were also used for sacrifices.  Literal blood sacrifices.  But that all changed with the dawn of Easter, when no more blood was required than had already been spilled in the Garden and on the Cross.

For some devout Christians it is believed that nothing can be sacrificed again, because of the great sacrifice offered by the Savior. We are saved by grace alone. Indeed, we are saved by His Grace.

While it is certainly true that no other sacrifice will ever approach that offering, I am one to believe that we are invited to offer up sacrifices not of blood, but of the spirit upon our own altars as well as consecrated altars in holy places. Christ opens the door that we cannot open for ourselves, but our own two feet carry us through.  We must be comfortable living godly lives to be able to be happy where God is.

Tomorrow, Easter Sunday, my sister Ann Marie Mullen and her husband Michael, place a stone upon their altar. They will be giving what we Mormons know as their Farewell address in church, before they leave to serve an eighteen month mission in London, England. Michael is retiring after a distinguished career in the Navy and in private practice as an oral surgeon. He is renowned for his skill and intellect.  His hands are artistic and capable.  He has also served as stake president for a decade, and a bishop in his local ward.  But this is his first mission.  He joined the LDS church when he was past the age of younger missionaries and already into his career and obligations with the US Navy. Ann Marie also leaves a career as an audiologist, and church service which includes experience as president of all the women’s organizations in the church.  They are a power couple, so to speak, and they could ride the crest of the waves they have created for a long time, clear into the sunset if they so desired.  They and Samuel,who led the Israelites in battle, could have chosen to rest on their laurels.  But they, too, choose to turn back and make a statement to all mankind and to their Lord that they recognize His help in their lives thus far, and they will sacrifice in the name of their Lord to remind others of His awesome hand.

 Truth is, if not for the hand of the Lord, neither Michael nor Ann Marie would be here.  They have both received miraculous interventions in their lives that have restored their health against all practical odds.  They have survived distresses others cannot comprehend, with the guidance of the Holy Spirit leading them.  Their success has been fodder for their propensity to overflow with generosity.  There are beautiful people and worthy organizations that would not even exist today if not for their willingness to “give back” what they feel was only theirs as stewards from the Lord.

I quiver with remembrance of the sacred time when Ann Marie sat at Michael’s bedside in the hospital, her head bowed in prayer, then rising with determination to use all her intelligence, tenacity, diplomacy and faith to advocate for him.  An aneurysm had formed in his brain, from ear to ear, and no one but his wife believed he would survive it.  And yet, here he is, years later, having miraculously returned to his career as a surgeon.  His doctors are still stunned. But his wife is not.  She did not sit by and weep.  It’s not her style.  She led even the doctors toward a solution. She herself, a survivor of cancer, knows the miracles that come when a woman puts her shoulder to the wheel and her hand in God’s.

And so, because they survived the battle so far, they place this stone upon their altar. Their “going forward in faith” is a form of “turning back in thanks”. And their altar? While some would think of their beautiful, gracious home in Granite Bay, as a worldly edifice, to me and all those who know them well, it is their altar.  It’s there they raised their two devoted children, whose love of their family is only surpassed by their love of God.  It is where Michael laid his hands upon the heads of many servants, young and not so young, setting them apart as missionaries.  It is where Young Women gathered around their kitchen island and learned to make bread.  It’s where Seminary students feasted around their large dining table and learned the Gospel of Christ every weekday morning at 5 am, with Ann Marie teaching and feeding them.  It’s where tears were shed, and joy illuminated every window.  This is the altar they raised, in their desert place.  It’s where their battles were fought and the ones that mattered were won.  Now they dedicate it, and leave it for a short while, knowing it will stand as a reminder to anyone who passes, that God showed His hand there. They leave with a song in their hearts: Here I raise my Ebenezer. Their exit is a polish upon the stones of that altar.

Ann Marie and Michael aka Elder and Sister Mullen: You have already left the figurative shore. You are walking into the water, like the Israelites at the River Jordan, trusting God will part the river and lead you safely through.

Soon, on the other side…across the pond…you can raise this marker:

Jehovah Jireh (The Lord will provide)

Ebenezer Jehovah Jireh:  “”Hitherto hath The Lord helped us; and for all coming need, The Lord will provide.

God speed, daughter of my mother and brother of my heart!

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38. THE DIVINE GIFT OF CREATION

I can understand about every fourth word Beth speaks. She has long, involved, animated conversations non-stop, and she doesn’t really care if I am in on it.  She has been pretending for hours, in the same room as her brother, who has been building Lego creations on the table beside her. She stirs a pot of Star Wars figures as she sips a cup of JarJar Binks tea, sharing it kindly with a plastic giraffe and a stuffed manatee. She has just shuffled over to my side, singing this declaration: “Time for din-ner.  Pizza!  Pizza ready!” I take a little bite of the invisible slice and thank her. 

She has discovered the Magna-tiles Calvin is now playing with and a fight ensues, resolved this round with a win by Calvin, because Beth can be distracted by princesses. She lines them up on the coffee table. Fifteen minutes later there is a wedding. This is the unlikely pair:

 I watch Beth and her brother pretend, and because it is a sacred time of year, and our hearts are tenderized by recent events, I see in it a manifestation of divinity.  It strikes me with great force that we are alive, that we share time and space with particular people, and I can see layers upon layers of purpose in all of it. I watch two-year-old Beth of the golden imagination frolic through the world of her imaginings, and I am reminded of this quote by our prophet, Thomas Monson:

"God left the world unfinished for man to work his skill upon. He left the electricity in the cloud, the oil in the earth. He left the rivers unbridged, the forests unfelled and the cities unbuilt. God gives to us the challenge of raw materials, not the ease of finished things. He leaves the pictures unpainted and the music unsung and the problems unsolved, that we might know the joys and glories of creation."

Beth has not yet discovered her limitations. Maybe it is more accurate to say that her limitations have not yet discovered her.  She is blessed in her innocence to be emotionally free to pretend and imagine and create.

 

Fortunately, for Beth and four-year-old Calvin, they are being raised and nurtured by creative parents. Yesterday, as Calvin and I were chopping vegetables for dinner, Jordon came in from the garage. “Hey buddy, do you want to see how this stove I just made works?”  He had cut a metal water bottle into three pieces, drilled holes around the perimeter of the base, then inverted the top piece into the bottom. He poured some denatured alcohol into it, then he and Calvin lit the fuel. The flame worked its way out the sides, through the drilled holes.  We set a pot of water on top of that 3 inch stove and it boiled water in two minutes. Later Cal and I made these Storm Trooper marshmallow men and created these gory looking strawberry shortcake Imperial Storm Trooper desserts. Lucky Cal and Beth; theirs is not a pre-packaged world.

I grew up in a home where the whole house was filled with raw material.  Our poor mom! My brother George was particularly good at taking raw materials and creating something other than Mom might have wanted out of them. Now the work of George’s creative efforts has changed the way our world works, quite literally. But that’s another chapter.

 Tomorrow we will boil some fresh white chicken eggs in water. We will set a handful of small bowls on the kitchen table, fill them with water and vinegar, then drop colored pellets in each one.  Each of us, from three generations, will dip those eggs in the dye and create whatever we want; plaids, rainbows, plain bold colors or soft pastels.  We may draw pictures in wax before we dip them, or we may add stickers and glitter and such.  I’ll tell my treasures that we are like those eggs.  What is inside, the embryo of godliness, is in all of us.  But the Lord gave us form, and knowledge, and the right to choose as His first and best gifts to us.  And He says, as he sends us off to earth still pure and white; 

 “Go now. Color yourselves however you want.  But do not forget who you are inside.”  

I love coloring Easter eggs because it reminds me that we are blessed with the power and the right to color ourselves in whatever manner we choose. Still, however desperately we want to become something different and unique, we are all embryo of something magnificent. As much as we might like to take credit for what we have made of ourselves, we were first living creatures created by someone else.

I am of the opinion that all of us who have ever lived had some role in the creation this planet; some small task we were given in the design and creation of our earth. Wise parenting dictates such opportunities for children of a household.  When I was PTA president we wanted to create a greater sense of unity among the students, and a deeper respect for the school.  So we gave each student responsibilities; planting flower bulbs, sweeping sidewalks, painting the bench out front. Involving them in the creation gave them ownership, and the combined ownership gave them a greater sense of unity. The urge to create is part of the divine in all of us, and when we use that gift we are invited to access the godliness inherent in each of us. 

I am conscious of the possibility of using creation for ungodly purposes.  In fact, it’s a pretty foolproof way to determine how divine a gift is when you can see it being used to deflate, demoralize or destroy goodness. Just about every form of art rides the golden pendulum, swinging from profoundly inspirational to frighteningly evil. Music…visual art…theatre, dance, film, literature… they have all been used to build up and tear down mankind with the same measure of passion, energy and funding. If you’re dealing with serious temptation of struggle, consider it a compliment.  It means your potential for good is equal to the pull the devil is putting on you.

My hope is to remain true to the God given gifts of creation planted in me before time began. And it is my hope for you as well. Whether you’re composing a tune in your head, gathering a string of tasty words together, stirring up a recipe, mapping out a delightful outing with your children, or designing the bulletin board outside a classroom, the gifts you use are divine. We are invited by the ultimate Creator to enter His workshop and use His tools.  That’s an awful lot of confidence He must have in us.

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37. RE-LI-GION /rəˈlijən/

Yesterday I made an unexpected journey to Spokane from Salt Lake City.  My daughter had emergency surgery, and besides feeling the need to comfort and nurture her, she needs my help with her two little rascals. On the flight here I sat next to a young woman who was on her way to visit family during spring break from a school of performing arts in New York City. She was earthy, tan, and friendly, her bare feet tucked under her, a worn pair of sandals on the floor under the seat.  She struck up a conversation with the fellow on the other side of her. I closed my eyes, hoping for a little rest. Annie had called at 4 am from the hospital ER, and since I had been up writing until 2 am, I was a little worried and weary. In my half sleep stupor I listened to their conversation by default.

The fellow was also a student, a senior at Pepperdine University. 

“I was going to apply to Pepperdine”, the girl said, “but it’s a religious school and I couldn’t handle that.  I got to the essay in the application and the question was ‘What effect does religion have on education? I decided then and there it wasn’t for me. I just can’t handle religion.” 

He defended the non-churchy sector of the university, without committing one way or the other.  I actually thought he was charmingly diplomatic. And she was in every other way warm and thoughtful and didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.  I was so intrigued by her remarks that I pulled my phone out of my pocket and Googled the word religion.

I would define myself, to anyone who might want to know who I was, as a religious person. My religious faith is a huge part of my life. It weaves through just about everything I think, feel, experience and hope for. Her criticism of religion made me wonder what she might have thought the definition was. 

I have been ruminating on some inner level since that plane ride how this little row of three passengers on a plane could have relative ease being beside each other, with such differing concepts of our very existence. I wonder, fairly often actually, if I am one of those wackos who has thrown their whole wad of humanness into investing in a spiritual Ponzi scheme.  Am I being  inspiringly devoted or ridiculously deceived? My truthful response to my own question is that without the Holy Ghost in my life, I cannot and would not know. Indeed, I am a believer, and without that third member of the Godhead that I worship, I could not know…know…if my proverbial eggs of faith are being placed in the right basket.

David and I made a choice, without ever really wavering, to raise our children in an atmosphere of belief.  It was not a curtain we pulled over them.  It was more like water in which we bathed and which we drank daily.  We lived what we believed, and they came along with us.  It was important to my husband and me to raise our kids so that they were able to witness the ebb and flow of our personal faith. Dave is much more steady than his wife! It never felt right for me to overemphasize my doubts, but at the same time I did not hide them. I remember standing at the pulpit in Fast and Testimony Meeting and saying “I am not sure of much of anything.  I wish I could say at this moment that everything about our church is the absolute truth.  But I can’t, and I can’t explain why. But I am quite certain that if I were to die tomorrow and find out that Jesus Christ was not the Savior of mankind I would be in an awful sorrowful state of disbelief.  Probably the one thing I feel most certain about is that He lived as our savior, He died as our savior, and that he was resurrected in such a way that we are all enabled to live again as well. His grace empowers us to progress as he would like us to, both here on the earth and hereafter. I have my doubts, that’s for sure.  But I also have my faith.”

I look at these two little children snuggled beside me here in my daughter’s house.  Their innocence is divine, and so is their faith.  They fold their little fingers together before their dinner plates and thank their superhuman-power-of-a-God for their food, and they freely ask that Being they cannot see if He will bless their mommy.  They do this freely, and comfortably; believing. But they are little kids.  Not fully developed.  I mean, they know there is also a Santa Clause, right?  But I think about them, and the tiny portion of their brains that they are able to use at this point, and I say to myself, “How much do we need to explain to them to make them have a healthy understanding of things?  Do they need to know how the light in the lamp on the living room floor gets the power to turn on and off? Do they need to understand the process of water coming clean and cool and easily into the sink? Do they need to understand how the baby growing in their mommy was not in the right place, had burst its holding place and so they had to hurry and cut mommy’s tummy and take it out? Because these things are beyond their comprehension are they not effectively true nonetheless? 

In my age I become more and more aware of my ignorance, and I am stunned at the arrogance with which we approach divine concepts, like we know things we can’t possibly know at our young eternal age. And we make others feel foolish for trusting what cannot be known.

I am saddened to live in a world where religion is mocked, like it is a weakness and a blindness rather than a strength and a vision. I understand how it is perceived that way, because some of us religious sorts are so “in your face” with our beliefs. 

I am reminded of my former neighbors, Bryan and Ann, whose lives were deeply polished to a heavenly shine by their religious faith. We do not share the same religion, but I deeply respect the way they live good, loving lives because they feel guided by a supreme being.  Goodness is not exclusive to one religious sect.

Members of my family are prone to say, in response to criticism of others: “We are all just down here trying.”  My intrinsic propensity to believe in religion, in a super human being who has control, has made me feel more at home, and yet more removed from others.  Such an oxymoron. (maybe I am an oxy-Mormon.) I am stunned that some people who profess to be Christians call me a non-Christian.

Once, years ago, I took a few voice lessons from a woman who defined herself as a born again Christian.  She was a great teacher, and a kind person.  I sang one of my songs for her during a lesson. Her eyes welled up, and she said she was sweetly moved by the message of the song. She stopped herself mid sentence, like she was surprised a Mormon could write something that was moving.  I responded, “ Debbie, we both believe in the same God.” I was stunned when she replied, firmly, “We most certainly do not!”

I was speechless for a minute.  I asked what God she worshiped that was different from mine.  She flung guttural phrases toward me, piercing and angry, like it was shameful that I would profess to in any way have a part in her God’s kingdom. I listened, surmising that arguing would not welcome the spirit into the conversation.  In the end I asked if we could finish the lesson.  When we were done, I told her I was sorry for her feelings, and that I had not in any way intended to offend her or God.  I simply believed that there was more that unites us than divides us. I never again felt free enough to sing with all my heart for her.

To my children; to their children; and to all the world I profess that I am a sucker for God.  I believe.  I know its not popular.  It’s certainly not hip lately. I have doubts, for sure, especially because I know we humans run the churches that rise from religion.  But the church is not the religion to me.  The religion goes deeper, to the dirty soil under the pretty churches, where the earth is nutritious and the nourishment hard to get unless your roots are deeply planted. The church is the orchard, where good fruit should be bounteously harvested  And so I plant myself in that place, with other like flora, our roots intertwining there underground. And our branches? They reach up toward the light.

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36. MEASURE TWICE - CUT ONCE

Quincey is a delightful old soul currently residing in a three year old body.  She’s chock full of love, and wit, and tenacity (which is the up side of being stubborn). We enjoyed a Sunday dinner at her new house in Salt Lake City the other day.  She opened the door and welcomed us to her castle, twirling around in the entry way.  Her pink polka dotted dress swirled around like a frothy umbrella, floating forward and then reverse around her legs when she stopped. 

“Sure is a pretty dress you have there, Miss Q!”  We clapped for her dance as she giggled. Her Momma, Katie, walked us into the kitchen, commenting that this was Quincey’s latest dress du-jour.  “I have to wash it every night.  Serious obsession here,” Katie sighed. “I wonder if Gummy might take a look at the dress and see how hard it might be to make another one so she can rotate and Mommy doesn’t have to stay up every night waiting for the laundry to finish?” She looked at me with tired, hopeful eyes.

My family has a somewhat unrealistic opinion of my sewing skills. I get the same thing from people about my ability to sing, or play guitar. I don’t read music, and if the chords of a song aren’t simple open chords that can be capoed up, I’m out of the picture. But hey, it’s nice to be considered capable, even if it’s not my truth. My sewing classes, every Wednesday morning, are really not your typical “class” situation.  
My teacher, Margaret Farmer, is what one might consider a PhD of Stitchery.  She’s taught people to sew for over 50 years.  Her classroom is the sewing room under her garage in Centerville, UT. When my friend Suzanne invited me to join her in Margaret’s class, I agreed, partly because I was intrigued about a woman who taught Suzanne to sew when she was twelve years old, and who was still teaching her forty years later.

Margaret is ninety years old.  Did I mention that?  She teaches class from 8 am till one, takes an hour lunch break, then teaches again until 5 or 6.  Four days a week. The fifth day she goes to the temple. I did mention that Margaret is ninety years old, didn’t I? I think Margaret might be described, at this point, as a young soul in an old body.  She is as in-tune with her human existence as anyone I’ve ever met.  But she’s not obsessed with it.  Balance.

I asked her the other day how she stays so healthy and sharp.  “Well, as long as I start my day on my Chi machine I do pretty well.”  Apparently she lays down on the floor and puts her feet in this machine that rotates her feet in a figure 8, aligning her spine and chakras. She uses that time to memorize. Last summer she recited the whole Declaration of Independence for me.  And the Gettysburg address.  She has a poem for any subject that ever comes up in class.  And her storytelling skills are the quality that would receive accolades at a storytelling festival.  

Margaret was an earth child before it was hip. She and her husband Jay, who by all accounts was a character among characters, wanted their boys to learn the value of steady hard work when they were young. So they bought goats and had the boys raise them.  The whole family drank goat's milk. She ground her own wheat, and ate from their large organic garden. She housed unwed mothers for years, when it was the way of society to move away and deliver the child anonymously. And she worked. Never afraid of work.

Margaret was schooled in the art and craft of dressmaking and design in New York City. She was there when WWII ended, in fact, and indeed, a sailor grabbed her in the street and kissed her, just like in the famous photograph.

The best part of sewing is not the sewing…it’s Margaret!  Oh the stories she can tell! 

Today would be our sewing day, Wednesday; except that Margaret’s grandson was getting married, so she cancelled class to attend the wedding in Logan. I have made a last minute trip to Spokane to be with my Annie after some emergency surgery, so it worked out fine that there was no class.  Monday morning I texted Margaret to see if she was teaching, and if there might be room for me to come sew.  “Class” is simply a place to sew, many machines available and much, much thread, fabric and notions.  We work on our own projects, with Margaret there to lead us.  Last week she taught me how to install an invisible zipper.  I did it twice to try to embed it in my memory, but I am afraid I will never be able to sew anything without Margaret, so she is just going to have to live to be 130 years old. Heck, I don’t even have a sewing machine at home. Well, at least not one that is set up and working.  Cindy Gardner, who took her sewing skills up to heaven with her, gave me a sewing machine for my birthday a few years before she died.  She had cancer at the time, and wrote on the top of the box: “To Cori, for when you’re feeling domestic and I’m not here. Love, Cindy”  I cry when I see the box, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to open the box and set it up yet.  I feel…I don’t know… unworthy.  I will get there…I’m just not there yet.

Margaret texted back that there was room in the Monday morning class, so I grabbed the pink polka dot dress that Quincey begrudgingly loaned me and drove to Centerville. When I got there Margaret was alone in the sewing room.  Lucky me, no one else had come to class that morning!  I got Margaret all to myself!

I handed her Miss Q’s dress and asked if she would make a pattern.  Of course, she is always accommodating that way.  She unrolled a piece of pattern paper, grabbed a pencil, and cleared the wedding dress she had been working on from the cutting table. I stood beside her, watching…learning.  There is a comforting lilt in Margaret’s voice, a calmness, warm but matter-of-fact. Her hands remind me of my mother’s.  Perhaps that is one of the magnetic things that keeps me yearning to be in Margaret’s space.  She represents a time and place that is rare and ageless, like all of us in that space are caught in a time-warp.  We are all there in the 1960’s, the colors and sounds and energy are vintage.  When the door squeaks open there is a warm waft of ironing starch, mixed with a hint of engine oil like the scent that rose from my mother’s old Singer sewing machine, or my brother’s Lionel train set. The steady rhythm of Bernina’s answering the call: “Forward, March!” Like an army of dedicated soldiers. There is conversation floating around the hum of the machines, the whoosh of the steam iron in the hallway, and faithfully weaving through all of it is Margaret’s beautiful voice.

“So, you’ll need to cut the skirt almost in a circle,” she said as she laid that pink dress out on the table.  She used her arsenal of tools as she taught me, measuring the pink dress, then gently sketching the curve onto the thin brown pattern paper. She used four different measuring devices for different aspects of the pattern she was creating.  I commented that there was an awful lot of math involved in sewing and designing.  She nodded as she measured, the yellow measuring tape pulled from around her neck, her lovely fingers working the tape around the pencil marks on the paper.  I watched in awe, grateful it was her doing it, and grateful I was there to watch.

“Measure twice - Cut once”. She repeated the rule of thumb my own mother had taught me… the rule she tried to teach me.  I am impatient, and think I can eye things pretty close to the mark.  But I am almost always wrong.  “You think you know where the center is”, Margaret will say, “But you’d be surprised how wrong you usually are.”

So I try to follow her advice, though it is surely a test of my patience. When Annie was on the Viewmont High Basketball team, she brought her gold warm up pants home to have me hem them.  This was before Margaret, and after my mom had given away that old Singer sewing machine.  I made the mistake of measuring the pants from the snap near the ankle on the trousers.  I have no idea what my thinking was.  Of course the pants ended up 6 inches shorter on one leg.  Poor Annie was teased that whole season because of the hilarious warm up pants she wore before each game.  Mother shame!

Margaret is slowly teaching me, in her calm loving voice, how to work my way through the process of sewing.  I’m not the best, but I actually know how to thread the machine, and how to surge competently, and how to sew a straight line and a zig zag on actual true blue fabric. 

I’m going to make that dress for Miss Q when I get home from Spokane, at some point. Margaret and I already have the pieces cut out.  I’ve already hemmed the sleeves with a double needle. And surged the two pieces of that swirly skirt together.  We are on our way.

One day, when Margaret is done teaching, I will have to do this on my own.  Or not.  But if I decide to give it a go, I will hear her whispering in my ear “Think.  Measure. Think again. Measure again.  Then cut.  Good.  Good job, you did it!” 

Thanks, Margaret.

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