38. MASS

Twelve years ago today:
We sat in silence, our backs forced straight and square there in those wooden pews. Heavy, sorrowful silence. The footsteps of the priest made the only sound as he walked up the aisle, past our family on one side and a cluster of friends on the other. The air shifted as he passed, his robes moving through the stillness. I held David’s hand in mine, my other arm curled around the shoulder of one of our children. The scents and the sounds and the specter of the church were distantly familiar to David, who had stood at that very altar as an altar boy in his youth. Now we were visiting from our western home, returned to Pittsburgh for the funeral mass of David’s father.

The music, the spoken chorus of words repeated by the congregation, the Eucharist that resembled our sacrament, the Latin and the candles and the dancing of the hands above the heart: these we had experienced before, though we are faithful church-going Latter-day Saints.

My David was born into an old Catholic family, steeped in holy practices for centuries - back in their French and Irish homelands, and later in old Quebec and then as immigrants settled in Michigan. They named all their sons Joseph, and their daughters Mary, their middle names becoming the familiar names they called each other. David’s Grandpa, Joseph Antoine Roy was the oldest son of 18 children, born of the same mother. They practiced their faith devotedly back then. When David’s parents, Donald Ray Connors and Helen Roy moved to Pittsburgh they enrolled their young children in Catholic school. Neither of David’s parents ever attended a day of school except catholic schools. Dave’s dad earned his PhD in Nuclear Physics from Notre Dame and his JD (law) degree from Duquesne University. He served on the Diocesan School Board. They knew the prayers by heart.

But when it became apparent that the nuns and others may have been misguided in the way they treated and taught their students, Helen removed her younger children and placed them in public school. Today, I’m not sure what kind of spiritual commitment David’s family has with Catholic practices. It’s not something we talk about since his parents died.

I do know that the practices of the Mormon church in the 1970’s were a tremendous heartbreak for Helen, and I feel great sorrow for that. When we married in the Washington DC temple it was incomprehensible that the groom’s family was not permitted to attend the wedding. In those days, though we sincerely asked for an exception, the LDS leaders were adamant about not having ring ceremonies, and if we were to marry civilly we would have to wait a year to be sealed in the temple. I imagine Jesus shaking his holy head a bit at the stiffness and divisiveness such practices caused, but that’s me putting my human spin on Jesus. Today it would be different.  Our temples are holy places, open only to those who sincerely believe. Otherwise they would lose their holiness. I don’t think anyone would seriously contend that people who do not fully align with the gospel and its ordinances should participate in temple ceremonies. But there is a wound that only God can heal that was placed on Helen and her family when they were not permitted to witness our marriage; as if they were unrighteous people. It still hurts my heart to think that there may have been any implication that they were anything but good Christian servants.

It took many years for me to feel like Helen could see that we were fairly normal, non-cult-following Americans who loved God and followed Jesus Christ, and our children were good, devoted but semi-normal kids. At least I hope so.

Since we lived in Salt Lake City and they lived in Pittsburgh, our summer vacations were generally spent either in Pittsburgh or at the cottages in Michigan. Sometimes I wished we could go somewhere new, but Dave and I agreed when we moved so far away that we would make it a point to visit Dave’s family at least once a year. We decided, when we were in Michigan, that it mattered to us to be able to worship with Dave’s parents and grandparents. So, when we were there on weekends we attended mass with them, down at the Church of the Immaculate Conception that faced the sunrise side of Lake Huron. There was a profound prompting that returned and returns to me still; that this was acceptable to God, that it was no indicator that we were anything but faithful to our own religion, but that we were embracing of the people and the religion that was the foundation of our family’s patriarch. David did not suddenly become a good person when he entered the waters of baptism in the Mormon church. His goodness was born of faithful parents and grandparents, of thoughtful and devoted priests and teachers in his Catholic upbringing, of confidence in the meaning behind holy wine and sacred bread. I honor and revere the goodness in his ancestors and cherish their faithfulness, like I honor my own ancestors who crossed oceans and plains for their religious convictions.

Today, in our home, we display this love and reverence in many ways. Next to my statue of the angel Moroni, a replica of the one atop the Washington DC temple, is a Holy Bible with a Catholic rosary marking our reading place. And on the wall in our family room is hung David’s father’s rosary over an old print of Christ, below which is hanging his father’s Catholic crucifix. We are the product of our pasts. We are divinely guided by those who went before us, who carried our names and our convictions and brought us to the place we stand today. Lord, thank you for this holy heritage.

37. COKE

The last time we were in London was in 2001. I was performing with the cast of Saints on the Seas with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra and Choir at various port cities like Liverpool, Hull and Portsmouth. Dave and I brought Kate and Annie with us. They were still in high school at the time, but this was August and summer break. We travelled a bit before and between performances. We spent some time in Wales, where Johnny had served his mission, walking through the thick Welsh fog through a field near Cardiff to watch a travelling acting troupe perform a bawdy yet surprisingly charming version of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum; climbing narrow steps through old castles and feasting daily on fish and chips. My mom, sisters Sherry and Libby, and our friend-who-was-really-a-sister, Cindy Gardner met up with us in London. By then we had already been in the UK for a week, in the August heat, and I was going through serious withdrawal from my addiction to ice. I understand the theory behind drinking liquids at room temperature, but I have genetic loyalty to iced drinks.

My grandfather and uncles made a living at sawing chunks of ice out of the frozen Snake River, before the era of refrigerators and freezers. Back then they stored it in sawdust in the huge ice house behind the family home in Blackfoot, Idaho. When we visited in the summers of my early childhood, I made regular trips out to the ice house, chipping chinks away from the large blocks, running them under water in the pump and plopping them in my mouth. I laid in a pile of soft, cool sawdust and let the ice melt away on my tongue, dripping slowly down my throat. This was the beginning of the addiction, though, like I said, I believe there are also genetic tendencies. Throughout our travels that week we had lodged at bed and breakfasts, driving up and down and in and out of little country roads lined in tall hedgerows. This was purist Britain, which meant not a cube of ice to be found. Anywhere! When we finally arrived in London Libby had booked rooms for us in a nice four-star hotel in the heart of town. First of all, it was air conditioned. Second of all, it had…yes, you guessed it…an ice machine!

I flung my throbbing feet up on the bed in Libby and Gram’s room while Dave rushed down the hall to the ice machine. He returned with a blessed bucket of the stuff. I filled my cheeks, crunched with both sets of molars, and closed my eyes, letting my insides and outsides cool down from the heat of travel. When I finally had an empty mouth, I sighed, and commented that I might give my left leg for a coke at that moment. Next thing I knew Cindy was standing beside the hotel bed with a miniature can of coke in her hand.

“I bequeath to you the Coke I was saving for Ali and Meg.”

I resisted, as is proper, and she insisted, which is Christian.

Never in my life has a Coke tasted more refreshing or divine.

We are about to board a plane to head back to London, visiting our sister Ann Marie, and her husband, Michael, who are serving an LDS mission there. It’s making me think of Cindy. It’s making my heart hurt for want of her. She is three years in heaven now. I cannot look at a red can of coke, with its silver wave, and not think of the generosity of my friend, and the beauty of England in the summer, and performing to hundreds in ornate halls in the company of the people I love. And, I suppose I am hoping that my sister has a refrigerator with a freezer in her flat, because, you know, she comes from the same gene pool.

My mom used to call it Coke Ice -
 a cup of ice covered with coke.

36. TURN

Elder Connors - President Grinceri - Elder Amodeo
Italy Padova Mission

Decades ago, Dave served a mission for the LDS church in Northern Italy. Last weekend we joined his Mission President and his wife, John and Vicki Grinceri, at a mission reunion here in Salt Lake City. The Grinceri’s live in Australia, so it is always a special treat when they make it to the US. We anticipated forty or fifty former missionaries would attend. Almost 150 came. We spent a delightful evening reconnecting, listening to counsel, nibbling on anti-pasta and bruschetta, and recounting stories from days gone by. Dave and I were able to join the Grinceri’s and three of their grandkids at Scott and Cathy Rallison’s house for dinner before the reunion.

Dave joined the LDS church when he was a Junior at Yale, then left for his mission one week after he graduated. This made him an older missionary. He was 23 when he served as Pres. Grinceri’s assistant in the newly formed Italy Padova Mission. President Grinceri was only 29 years old at the time, one of the youngest mission presidents ever to serve. Vickie was 26, with three little babies at the time. Because they were so young, we are blessed to be forty years out from his mission and still able to hold reunions with the mission president. Though they will always hold a place of reverence in our hearts, we also think of them as friends. John and Vicki are as divine as humans can get. Down-to-earth humble and very real, but very devoted. Such great recipes for people!

I love attending Dave’s reunions because I get to hear former missionaries talk about how much they loved and respected Dave. Dave is not one to toot his own horn, so this is where I get informed. I also love hearing stories told and retold that remind me missionaries are boys and girls just learning to be grown-ups. (This is a really good time to keep them focused on God.)

One of the missionaries told us about the house where he and his companion lived. It was an old house, sparsely renovated, and in the basement, was a fully stocked wine cellar. Companionships came and went, I guess. Having wine in the foundation of a house where Mormon missionaries were living could be a bit of a temptation, I would think. If I were the devil, I would be putting thoughts into 19-year-old boys’ heads. Anyway, I guess the Elders asked around about whose wine this was, and it was revealed that is was from an old winery and belonged to no one. So, the Elders decided to cleanse the house and took the wooden casks out of the basement and drained the wine out of them, then lit them on fire. Apparently, it made quite the blaze and the priest from the local church came running with some choice words in Italian. The casks were very old, and quite valuable I guess.

I suggested that if Jesus had been there he could have changed the wine into water and they would have their emergency supply.

Ellie reprises her role as a donkey.

This got me to thinking about the miracles of Jesus, the first of which was turning water into wine. Yesterday I taught our Primary kids about another miracle before his Triumphal entry into Jerusalem: the raising of Lazarus. I then told them about Jesus finally declaring that he was the Messiah, and fulfilling prophecy by riding into the holy city on a white donkey. This happened on the day we celebrate as Palm Sunday. Our faithful little saints waved palms and laid robes down on the floor of the Primary room as we sang Hosanna, reenacting the crowd in Jerusalem all those years ago. I told the kids that all those people in the crowd thought that Jesus was the promised Messiah. And he was. But some of the people had misguided understanding of what the Messiah would do. They wanted him to save them from their lot in life, to rescue them from their oppressed state. When they realized that he was not going to overthrow the roman rulers, and vilify the Jews, they turned on him. By Thursday most of them wanted him crucified.

At Dave’s mission reunion, Elder Meurs, a member of the Seventy and a friend of the Grinceri’s spoke. He told us that according to current statistics only 20% of LDS Primary children would grow up to remain active endowed members of the church. Those words were piercing to me, so much so that my fasting this Sunday was for the sake of the Primary kids in our ward and in my family. I stood before those kids yesterday, Palm Sunday, and sang with them the words to Hosanna. I scanned their innocent faces, praying beneath the melody and the lyrics, asking that they would have an extra measure of the Holy Spirit to give them courage, and desire. I prayed, and continue to pray, that they will see beyond their current comfort; that they will trust the prophet when they don’t quite understand policy; that they will commit early enough to avoid life altering mistakes; that they will fortify themselves with holy practices. I pray they will have the wherewithal to stand true, and to keep their eye on the prize. 

As I looked into each of their beautiful faces during the 40 minutes I had with them, I spoke a silent prayer with each child's name attached, ending with a quiet admonition:  "Please, don't turn! Hold the course!" 

I pray for them as I pray for myself, that we will not turn from Him who never, not even once, turned from us.

35. CLUB

Sharla lives around the corner and up Mountain Road, maybe two miles from my house, though I’ve never measured it. She and Frank are loving stewards over a beautiful piece of land tucked into the foothills of Fruit Heights. Frank quietly prunes his orchard and tends their creatures. It’s not in his nature to call attention to himself. Same with Sharla. They are the living definition of the term, salt-of-the-earth.

One day, years ago, Sharla called and asked if I would be interested in teaching guitar to a group of women. “We thought about starting a book club, but really, we all want to learn guitar.” I love Sharla, and respect her, so I did not give the automatic response I have given repeatedly over the years…that I only teach one night a week for Farmington City, and if they want to learn from me they’ll have to go there. Instead, I asked her to tell me more. Really, I wanted to know the when and where, but mostly the who. And, truth be known, it was the list of who that compelled me to agree to give it a go. There is something about the people I know who come from Fruit Heights: they are real, and funny, and kind, and talented. This is, of course, a generalization. I can throw a rock into Fruit Heights from my driveway. Fruit Heights is basically Farmington-North, and we all know how I love Farmington. Anyway, I agreed to come teach this club of women how to play guitar: Friday mornings, 10 am, at Sharla’s house.

That was something like 7 years ago. Sharla and Frank basically turned their living room into the guitar club room. The furniture is left in a circle, unless they have company on Sunday, and the coffee table holds pencils and papers and songs from weeks before. I love that space. I love walking under that old nut tree in their front yard, and stepping up to the back porch. They always leave the door open for me. And the kitchen counter is cleared off so I can lay my gig bag down and retrieve my guitar. I feel like a mortician when I do that, by the way… the casket of my gig bag fitting snugly around my guitar. I carry my instrument into the living room and sit with my friends. I have to allot an hour to teach a half hour lesson, because there is more than playing guitar to share.

One week Sharla was wearing a tee shirt she had made. Girls with Guitars, it said. If not for the young’uns that lower our average age, we really might call ourselves Grannies with Guitars.

We’ve been through a lot together, we Girls with Guitars. Births, and deaths, heartache and almost unbearable joy. Shay’s pregnancy, and the birth of her baby in the Maverick parking lot. Sharla and Frank’s mission to Romania (by the way, we still used their house to gather for that year and a half they were gone). The premature arrival of Sarah’s first grandson, who survived in spite of being born the size and weight of a baby bird. We rejoiced the first day Sarah finally got to hold him, and the day, months later, when he got to come home with his momma and daddy. We strummed our instruments to the laughter of Kimmy’s little boys playing in the other room; celebrated when Reva had a break from her crazy life and was able to join us; lived vicariously the good Karma of Ali’s yoga and general good vibes. Julie came after her morning hikes up into the foothills.

Through the years a delightful collection of women have come and gone, depending on their schedules. Every single one of them has added to the compelling dynamic of our club. We fit a little Travis-picking in between the stuff of life. These girls have become killer guitar players! They astound me with their skill, their devotion, their willingness to learn new things and unlearn old things.

We meet on Thursdays now, at 10 am. I drive to my friend Mel’s house afterward to teach another group of Girls with Guitars (an equally beautiful and powerful group of women).

GwG II

Then I teach for Farmington City until 8 pm Thursday nights.  I teach over 50 students on Thursdays. I’m tired on Friday.

The other day I asked my friend Margaret how she does it; teaching sewing five days a week, eight hours a day? “Well”, she said, “I know if I didn’t come down and teach I would just fall asleep in my chair, and what good would that do me?” Margaret is 91 years old.

So, I’m thinking, ladies, that we have a ways to go here. I think if we don’t stop it won’t be hard to start up again. There are plenty of songs to be learned. And with God’s mercy, we will be able to play through arthritis in our fingers. If not, can we just get together and pretend?

The original Girls with Guitars