AN HONORABLE MAN

The photo on the wall of the Second District Courthouse.

I am married to an honorable man.

I realize how rare it is to be able to say that and mean it. After nearly five decades Dave Connors has surely proven himself. But when, in 2008, Governor Huntsman appointed him as a state court judge, the title Honorable became official. I joke, in lighthearted conversation, that I have to rise when he walks in the house and that his royal robes hang in his royal study. The first part of that is certainly not true. He is a remarkably humble man. But the second part is real. I do leave one of his long black judicial robes hanging in our study at home, where it had hung all through the Covid Pandemic. He held court “virtually” for many months from our home study. We carried the old American flag we had bought in an antique store in Plymouth Mass. from its usual place by our family room fireplace to the front of the bookshelves behind his desk. This became the backdrop to his virtual courtroom. What people who appeared before him at that time could not see on their screens was that each morning Dave had showered and dressed, with dress pants, shoes and socks, dress shirt and tie as he would any day he entered his real courtroom. No one else could see it under his black robes, but he could. This small thing that only he and I would know represents the level of integrity he has, the respect he holds for his office and the trust given him. 

Dave's virtual courtroom during the pandemic.

Last night, in Toronto, our daughter Kate and I accompanied Dave as he received a most fitting national award, bestowed on him by the American Bar Association. It was a lovely evening in a large room filled with keepers of the law… the folks we trust to apply the thing that sets us, in America, apart from much of the world. If there were any award given that would best represent who David is, this would be the one. It acknowledges the importance of civility, fairness, inclusion, mentorship and emotional generosity toward all mankind. 

His mother and dad would be so proud of him.

My mother would be so proud of him.

I am so proud of him.

Plus, I like him. A lot. 

(I would have probably worn sweatpants under judicial robes. Good thing I’m not a judge. I’ll be the Yang for his Yin.)

Dr. Connors, Judge Connors and Mrs. Connors
(Kate, Dave, me)

Here’s a press release about the award:

Retired Utah District Judge David Connors will receive the honorable William D Missouri Civility Award for his outstanding contributions to the profession during the ABA Annual Meeting in Toronto. The award will be presented August 7 at the Fairmont Royal York.

The honorable Wiliam D Missouri civility award is named for Judge Missouri, who worked tirelessly to promote civility and professionalism through the bar, the bench and the community across racial, ethnic and gender groups advocating for fairness and respect for all individuals. 

Appointed district court judge by Utah governor Jon M Huntsman Junior in October 2007, Connors began his service as a judge in January 2008 after more than 25 years of nationwide private practice Experience as a business lawyer and commercial litigator handling complex civil litigation. He retired as a judge in March 2023. While a judge he handled hundreds of mediations, arbitrations and trials, including judicial settlement conferences mediation conducted by a judge who is not the assigned judge on a case. In private practice, he was an early advocate for mediation and arbitration as efficient methods for settling high conflict disputes. In addition to his experience as a mediator, his ADR experience includes acting for more than 30 years as an arbitrator for the Utah State Bar, both before and during his time on the bench. He is now affiliated with the Utah based law firm Bennett Tueller Johnson & Deere. 

While on the Utah trial court bench, Connor served as a member of Utah’s Judicial Council, the governing body of Utah judiciary. He also served as presiding judge of Utah’s Second District Court, as chair of a statewide guardianship task force known as the Working Interdisciplinary Network of Guardianship Stakeholders, as a member of the Long-Range Curriculum Planning Committee for Utah judges, and as a member of the Utah State Bar’s, CLE Oversight Committee and its Free Arbitration Committee. In 2015 he completed a two-year term as president of the Northern Utah Chapter of the American Inns of Court. 

Connors also has served as a member of Utah’s Board of District Court Judges and served for more than 10 years as the board designated representative to the ABA Judicial Division. He now serves as a member of the Executive Committee of the ABA Judicial Division, National Conference of State Trial Judges, having recently completed a term as nationwide chair of that group. Connors also served as mayor of the city of Farmington, city councilman, and board member of the Wasatch Front Regional Council.

Token.

Judge Heather Welch, Dave, and Judge Toni Clarke

Judge Marion Perkins and her daughter.

Judge Jennifer Mabey and Dave (friends for many years)

Celebrating at Gio Rana's Really Really Nice Restaurant
(that's the real name)

Here's what Judge Toni Clarke said when introducing Dave for the award:

 

"There seems to be a deterioration of civility in the country these days, so we decided to honor the men and women who set an example of civility to others," said Judge Toni E. Clarke, former chair of the Judicial Division. "Judge Missouri was the epitome of civility and professionalism - in the courtroom and in his day-to-day dealings with colleagues, friends and the public.

I first met Judge Connors when he first started being really active with the Conference of State Court Trial Judges. What I learned fairly quickly was he was smart, he was very considerate, he would ask questions, he would make comments, but you could tell they came from someone who gave careful consideration about the situation, whatever it was, and that he was mindful that you can disagree on certain issues, you can have questions about certain issues, but you can be civil about it. You can have conversation and agree to disagree. It was always, and is still always a pleasure for me, even in conversations that have nothing to do with the law, to be able to speak with him on a regular basis. The award is given to a person who exemplifies the qualities of Judge Missouri of civility, courtesy and professionalism towards colleagues, litigants and the public. All of Judge Connors’ colleagues on the bench would agree Judge Connors is deserving of this award.”

CLYTIE ADAMS - STANDING IN THE LIGHT

There’s a seat in the audience of the Browning Center Auditorium at Weber State University that belongs to Clytie Adams. I guess she doesn’t really own it, but in my experience it’s the one where she always sits. I'm really only in the Browning Center when Clytie is. She sits right there, about a third of the way back, near the center and the aisle. Its far enough from the stage to see the whole story unfolding under the floodlights, but close enough for her to gracefully walk backstage, through the wings, and onto center stage to introduce the year’s recital, or to take a bow with the orchestra’s conductor after performances of The Nutcracker. She enters the stage, her shoulders planted over her hips, chin up and smiling, her silver hair shimmering in the spotlight. Her arms move gracefully and her speech is sweetly measured, never rushed.

She will remind the audience that this is an evening of delight and dignity. “We do not holler at the ballet, but you may clap with all your heart!” She will add some charming story about the children who will be dancing, and she will invite the audience to adore these dancers who have worked so dutifully to prepare performances for the evening. Even now, returning in my mind to last year’s recital, I can hear the lilt in her voice. It’s preserved in my memory and tucked under my heart.

I first met Clytie Adams decades ago, when my own children enrolled in her renowned School of Ballet in Kaysville, Utah. My contribution to my children’s gene pool includes the cell structure for a human form that could cut big blocks of ice out of the frozen Snake River and lift houses off their foundations to be moved to new locations. We are big folk, we Parrish’s. My husband David’s genetic portion includes all four of his grandparents being under 5 feet tall as fully grown adults. Our kids were not built to be dancers. Nonetheless, we knew the benefits of dance lessons and performances. They learned to own their bodies, to cooperate with others, to follow instruction, and overcome nerves. Dance gave them an appreciation for classical music, for rhythm and motion and grace. We put our kids in all sorts of lessons without any expectation of them becoming professionals in that field. Clytie's school taught them to stand gracefully in the light.

Clytie's daughter Jennifer at Nutcracker auditions.

Daughter Sarah onstage with the Little Prince

.

Daughter Leslie and a young student.

What I did not know we would get, when enrolling all four of our kids in Clytie Adams School of Ballet, were the nurture, love and tender life lessons they would receive under the tutelage of Clytie, her gifted daughters and all her teachers. Our oldest, John, still dances every year in their beautiful production of The Nutcracker. He started as a young party boy with the Ballet West Production, and now is a father in the same party scene for Clytie’s show. 

John is tucked in the back with his stage partner,
Jennifer Hart.

Besides what Clan Cytie has done for our kids, I have personally come to cherish every one of Clytie’s shows. Mid-June of every year I stand backstage with the dancers and their teachers, inhaling the magic of anticipation blended with nerves and raw youthful energy. For the last couple decades, I have been honored and entrusted to help write songs and perform them for her little dancers. I weave my way onto the apron of the stage, in front of Mike Montoya’s drum set, Mark Robinette’s keyboard and bass, and the grand piano with Kelly DeHaan at the keys. Various additional musicians of the highest caliber join us on stage. Creating music with them is beyond divine! My guitar and I know that space well.  I pace my years by the six-month portions between the week I get to do the Clytie Recital in June and the week of my Christmas Concerts in the chill of winter. 

Each year, following both the recital and my concerts, I receive a card in the mail with the graceful flowing handwriting I’ve come to know and love as that of Clytie Adams. She sweetly and graciously thanks me for my music. One year, after one of my Christmas concerts, she wrote:

“Does that beautiful fair-haired beauty with the liquid brown eyes belong to your John?”

She had seen my little granddaughter Sophie twirling between the rows as I sang. That same girl, now a college student,  wept when two days ago I told her that Clytie had made her way back up to Heaven. It was Clytie who had brought her to her toes after her young dancer ankles became strong enough. How I loved watching her dance as I sang from the side of the stage. I’ve had a closer-than-front-row seat to watch four of our granddaughters under Clytie’s floodlights.

Sophie Connors and her classmates.

Through Clytie I found the truest friends in her daughter Sarah and her musically gifted husband, Mark Robinette. My life is forever changed for good because of them. We've been through a lot together. Dave has performed marriages for their kids. Mark and Sarah marched beside us in my mothers funeral cortege. I've taught guitar to Sarah and her daughter Maura. Mark can make my songs sound better than they really are. We've crossed oceans together, and performed on worldwide stages together. They are family to us.

Mark and his daughter Clytie Sue at her wedding.

Donning the birthday hats at my sister Libby's house.

Walking to the cemetery
behind my mother's horse drawn hearse.

Two months ago, when I was at Mark’s home studio recording this year’s recital songs, I sat beside Clytie who was there visiting. She lifted her sparkling eyes up toward me and smiled, offering kindnesses that were typical of her. We sat side by side until she closed her eyes to rest. You know you have a friend when you can sit comfortably together in silence.

Just a few days ago, after Mark had told me Clytie had taken a turn for the worse, I texted Sarah:

That evening, I slung my guitar over my shoulder and entered the holy place of Clytie's lovely home. Clytie’s girls had placed her bed alongside the beautiful wall of windows in her bedroom. The light of the waning sun sifted over her form. Outside her window the earth was awakening. Newborn leaves uncurled in their innocent chartreus infancy. Flowers down on her back landing were blooming in the colors of early spring. The earth was breaking up, perhaps to welcome her in. Mark sat at her feet, and Sarah walked in behind me after teaching the class my own granddaughter Beth attends. I sat in the comfortable antique chair at the side of her bed, unzipped my guitar case and instinctively began plucking “I often go walking in meadows of clover,” a Mother’s Day tune we sang as kids. “Dear Mother, all flowers remind me of you.”

Eventually Mark found his own guitar and added harmony to songs. Between the songs the silence carried a music of its own. Each of the daughters and her beloved niece sifted in and out until finally I too left, leaving her grieving girls to share that sacred space with their mom. 

The next morning Sarah sent word that her mother had joined the angels. I imagine it was a lovely entrance, graceful and joyful, with plenty of impassioned applause from the other side. I imagine her looking back on all of us, blowing us kisses and bending her newfound legs with a deep and graceful curtsy, her head lowered and then rising to her Lord. We all rejoice in the reunions sure to be taking place right now.

From this side of things, Clytie Adams, we promise not to holler, but we are clapping with all our hearts.

A young Clytie and students who are likely grandparents now.

2022 Utah Governors Mansion Artist Award Recipient.

Clytie Adams was honored with the 2022 Utah Governor's Mansion Artist Award by Governor Spencer Cox. She was recognized for her positive impact on the arts in her community, particularly through her work as the founder of the Clytie Adams School of Ballet. The award was presented at a ceremony held at the Governor's Mansion. You can watch a short PBS documentary on her HERE.

Read her obituary HERE.

GOOD NEWS / BAD NEWS (2025/40)

This Eastertide has been emotionally exhausting for me. It's taken concerted mental effort to turn my thoughts away from the sorry state of our country and back to Jesus. I walk the tightrope that swings between trust that God is in charge and utter outrage over what is happening in our country. I'm not sure where to find the turn-off valve when my anger over abuse of power and lawless arrogance starts to boil over. I'm exhausted trying to keep my balance. I am not, and pray to never be, willing to ignore what's happening around us, but goodness, this is ugly

Too much news. Too much sad news. I have sadly neglected the good news. 

One of the biggest lessons of this year’s Lent practice, which is a self-induced requirement to reflect and write every day, is my understanding of how healing the concept of Jesus is. I’m talking about the idea of Jesus. This is besides the actual healing power of Jesus. The concept that there is a being and a power wholly based on love who has left us a pattern to follow is comforting. Even if he were make-believe, the process of following him would be helpful. His guileless nature is the antithesis of what disturbs me in our human leaders. The simple concept of Jesus would be enough to lift me out of despondency. 

But the reality of Jesus gives me hope. It brightens my vision and makes me breathe deeper and slower. I remind myself to nurture this faith and use it more often, like a daily sacrament, to wash myself from this spiraling world. 

I’ve become aware, through these past forty days, that when I turn my sorrow to an awareness of Jesus, it shifts the focus from a centered downward flow to an upward lift. Literally, I imagine the energy source through the center of my body going from a flushing faucet to a rising beam. I hear it in my head, an upward rush of wind. 

This season of introspection has given me this particular gift. I’m grateful for it. I need it. I need to speak the word Jesus more often these days. It’s not denial. It’s hope.

This complete's my Lenten offering for 2025. A blessed Easter tomorrow.

NOT KNOWING (2025/39)

Who does that?

Who, in the heat of being burned, worries about the well-being of the one burning them?

Jesus does.

On this Good Friday I am imagining the voice of the most powerful man who ever lived, in the process of being nailed to a cross, asking the God of the Universes to forgive the people killing him, proclaiming his purpose in the process. 

We think he was talking about the soldiers nailing him to a wooden cross. But maybe, just maybe, he was talking about us. 

All of us.

APOLOGIES VS. APOLOGETICS (2025/38)

Maundy Thursday Musings:

This morning, going through my email, I took a few minutes to clear out some unwanted messages. One by one I scrolled to the bottom in search of the unsubscribe button. 

"I swear I've already unsubscribed from this," I groaned, clicking the button once again.

Sometimes a sweet little message would pop up, telling me the task was complete.

More often, however, I was placed in a gauntlet to run through in order to be released.

The establishments that sent simple messages saying thanks for subscribing, we're still here if you change your mind, and sorry to see you go, are my instant friends. They're the ones I'm most likely to revisit down the road. Thanks for letting me choose my own inbox.

It got me thinking....

I'm pretty firm in my trust that we existed in some form or other before we were born, and that we will continue in another form after we die. I also think this is not a haphazard circumstance but something divinely orchestrated, meaning some power other than myself is in charge of the whole shebang.

I also have a fairly firm conviction that part of our very existence as humans is the divinely bestowed power of free choice. Besides our bodies, I think it's our first great gift, going hand in hand with the sacred Atonement of our advocate, Jesus Christ, who has our backs when that free choice gets us in trouble. As a parent I have to continually remind myself that my job with my kids was to teach them correct principles and let them govern themselves. That phrase "teach them correct principles" can be a bugger though, because frankly... what do I know? Ugh! This is why I know it's important to have spiritual laws. They keep us "innocents" on the path when we're not really sure how to get to the safe place. Nonetheless, we get to choose where we plant our feet. My own personal spiritual force, otherwise known as the Holy Ghost, works in me to confirm or deny. I consider the Holy Ghost my greatest God given tool in this life.

Some of us are so passionate about that right to choose we get ourselves stuck in some pretty thick muck just to prove the point. And some of us, conversely, are so passionate about blindly following without question that we have blocked our peripheral vision and lost some of those beauties around us. Regardless, I maintain we have the right to push unsubscribe at any point. 

I've been interested lately in the word apologetics. It feels like it should align with the word apologize, but it doesn't seem to. Apologetics are basically religious defenses. Whereas apologies are regret and sorrow for wrongdoing or offense. Apology admits fault, while apologetics defends a position.

Having recently watched someone I deeply love be hurt by a trusted friend, I've seen the use of apologetics being used where apology would have been more effective. Not that the two are pitted against each other. I know they are two different things based on the same root word. But I've noticed that we often explain away our actions that are harmful rather than first letting the hurt be addressed. A sincere apology generally sets both parties on equal ground where healing can begin to grow.

Except in academia, I am not a fan of the common man's use of apologetics. It feels haughty. Unless someone asks for the clarification apologetics can make for us, it feels presumptuous. I don't need to know what the nutrients of the meal are when I am famished. I just need to be fed. Later, if I am interested in the ingredients, then I will inquire about the rest.

To those of my friends and family who have used their divinely appointed free agency to choose their own spiritual paths, to click the proverbial unsubscribe button, I offer my hand of human fellowship. I am trying to nurture this hands-off/heart-on aspect of myself, having been raised in a religion that is focused on inviting others to join. I personally have chosen to walk a certain path, for my own reasons. But I must also, in order to maintain my integrity, allow everyone to choose for themselves. 

I am Christian. I do believe Jesus Christ to be the Redeemer of mankind. But I also know He himself offers everyone the right to not believe in him. That's pretty amazing in itself.

Believe what you will. My apologies for giving apologetics when what is needed for misguided judgement of each other is a simple apology.

THIRST (2025/37)

The doorbell rang. Walking to the front door I noticed the large Peace Lily in our entryway was limp and lifeless. Just the other day she was shooting up her pure white flowers, contrasting beautifully against her large vibrant and verdant leaves. Now her leaves lay withering against the floor, her white blossoms drooping against them. The old me would have reprimanded myself for neglecting her and taken her out to the garbage.

The new me, which is getting rather old now, understands how cyclical life is. I lifted the poor plant to the countertop next to the kitchen sink. I emptied the dishes from the sink, wiped it clean with pure soap and water, and plugged the drain. Filling it a few inches with fresh tepid water, I set the withered plant in the sink, leaving it there until I could feel the soil moist at the top. Lifting it from the water, I let the extra liquid drain from the holes near the bottom of the planter. Once the extra water was drained out I set the plant on my kitchen table, surrounded by filtered sunlight, whispered a prayer, then set about the duties of the day.

3:35 pm

By the time the 10 pom news was over the plant looked like this. Full and vibrant and very much alive. Like it had been resurrected. 

10:35 pm

Here's what I learned from this today:

1. Some things, and some people, cannot or will not tell us when they are thirsty... literally or figuratively.

2. When I have put myself in the position of being a steward, its my job to check on it occasionally, if not with regularity.

3. When I mess up as a steward, its worth trying my best to repair the damage my neglect has done.

4. There are different ways to quench thirst. Most people water from the top. I've learned the best way to water most of my plants is to water from the bottom. Let them soak up the water into their roots. Trust the plant to do its part.

5. Too much of a good thing is not a good thing. Drain off the excess.

6. This peace lily didn't necessarily need dramatic measures. It needed water and light. Start with the basics when there's a crisis.

7. The crisis led me to research watering processes after following my instincts. I learned that bottom watering is good, but that I also need to top water once a month to release salt buildup on the surface.

I am not at all... and I mean not at ALL... a plant person. I have to have plants that can take neglect now and then. But I am really moved by how just a little attention can make such a difference.

Forgive me, Peace Lily. Thank you for your tolerance of my weaknesses.

Plants and people... pretty much the same.

ENOUGH (JOE'S RECITAL) (2025/36)

 

"Mom, I can't do this!"

I heard the pointed whispers in the back of the recital hall.

I turned and watched my grandson Joe being scuttled out the back door by his mom. I quietly rose from my seat on the back row and tiptoed after them, trying not to disturb the student currently playing. 

Joe was whisper-yelling at Sarah, and she was trying to remain calm and at the same time firm.

"Joe, you know enough."

"No I DON'T!" He stomped his foot on the carpeted floor and turned away, wiping his eyes.

Apparently Joe had left his sheet music at our house in Farmington when they had come for Sunday dinner. To make matters worse, his Jr High Theatre teacher had insisted he attend a mandatory rehearsal, which caused the panic of rushing late to his recital twenty miles away. They had already asked that Joe play early so we could all get to his brother Timo's concert at the University, and now they were late. This is what May used to be, event after event for school kids. Now that we have University musicians the performances have moved to April. We had grandkid performances, sometimes multiples in one day, every day last week. But I digress...

I could feel Joe's anxiety boiling over. I ached for him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and steal him away to get an ice cream cone and play on the swings at a park.

Sarah, to her credit, remained restrained yet determined: 

"Joe, pull yourself together and get in there and play whatever portion you know."

He kept insisting he couldn't. And, with the added backing of adolescent adult-resistant hormones, he  WOULDN'T!

I wrapped my floppy old Grandma arms around him and patted his back, hoping to calm his irritated racing heart. I whispered encouragement in his ear. I was walking the fine line between championing for the baby boy he remains in my heart and his mother, who knows him better than I and has a long term plan in mind for him. Grandmas run great risks getting in the way of this stuff.

To my amazement and surprise, Joe ended up wiping his eyes, which kept seeping anyway, and walking back into the hall and up to the Steinway in front of all those people. He adjusted the piano bench and sat, his hands hovering over the keys. Then, by golly, he let them fall and played the piece.

It wasn't perfect. He had to pause once or twice. But frankly, so did the other students there. A recital should be a safe place for students, playing before people who love them, showing what they had learned the last few months. Joe has had many, many recitals. When he stood, with his red eyes and furrowed forehead, he instinctively took a bow and walked off stage. His teacher met him and embraced him. It was lovely.

I thought back, as we were driving to Timo's recital minutes later, to when I was a young mother. I think I might have let my kid not do it. Maybe. I don't know. When I think of myself as a linear being, I discredit the power of the Holy Spirit that I know I needed as an "in the trenches" mother. I still need it. Sarah needs it too. She knows it and tries repeatedly to access it. Part of the great task of parenthood is deciding where to use logic and where to use what some people call instinct. To me, instinct is the manifestation of divine forces; unseen helpers surrounding us. Their job is not to overrule what we choose, but they travel with us, and if we allow ourselves to tap in, they can have powerful influence. These all fall under the workforce of the Holy Spirit. That's a snapshot of a whole complex spiritual panorama of how I see things.

 Joe sat in the seat behind me in the van, eating the other half of a subway sandwich we had stopped to get on the way to his recital. Hunger does not help in situations such as this. He talked like our Joe, happy and chatty, tapping the little mini-kettle drum we gave him instead of recital flowers. We applauded him for doing a hard thing. We asked him how he felt about it. We had good, healthy conversation that wasn't overstuffed with moral conclusions. 

I suspect somewhere down the road, when Joe is faced with something he feels wholly incapable of doing, he might find memories of this evening bubbling up. He may not recall the details, but something in him will confirm that he has done seemingly impossible things in the past. He has moved himself through discomfort to complete a task. He will also know that its not "all or nothing." Most times, imperfect is enough.