An Impression Is Made

I remember this time when life was heavy.  We'd been married for four years and we lived in a tiny apartment with our two-year-old and newborn.  Jared was in flight school and I was barely coping.  This one afternoon, we were quarreling about somesmallsomethingorother, when my high school boyfriend called.  He said he wanted to catch up.  We chatted.  I mentioned our two little girls, our stint teaching English in Taiwan, my husband and his Commercial Pilot's License, and then he said, "That sounds wonderful!" 

Ten years later, I still think of that comment and wonder how often the outsides of things match the insides of them.

Whoa!

I was on my way to the hardware store today when I stopped behind two cars at a red traffic light.  Soon, the red changed to a green arrow.  We all continued to wait for a solid green except the driver in front of me.  She rammed into the truck ahead of her, pushing it several feet into the intersection, and crumpling her own hood.  The drivers got out to inspect the damage, exchange insurance numbers, and get on with things.  Everyone was fine.  But it's been on my mind, probably because it seems like something I could do.  Change the radio station, check on the backseat, adjust the AC, glance at the light, hit the gas.  Sounds like my life.  Perhaps I'm trying to do too many things at one time.

I Swear...For Now

I read three more plays this week and Shakespeare has me thinking about constancy.  These stories are full of likable resolve breakers.  The King of Navarre, Longaville, Biron, and Dumain, Titania, Demetrius, and Lysander, Antonio, Bassiano and Gratiano all go back on their word.  And yet, I root for them.  Why is that?  Is there a time when it's okay to break a promise?  If so, what's a promise worth?  And when did the word constancy take on that old-fashioned flavour?

One Day in the Life...

Today, I had a workout on the elliptical machine followed by a hot shower.  I used free samples of some schmancy skin care products that felt so good.  I ate a garlic stuffed olive before I remembered that I was on my way to the dentist's office.  So I brushed really well and hoped for the best.  I sat through the long overdue x-rays and dental exam and tried to feel awesome instead of ashamed (it mostly worked).  Then I picked up some wrapping paper and board books for Daniel since he turned two over a week ago when I was away but we're only getting around to marking the occasion now.  I got home in time for one of Jared's massive you-don't-need-to-thank-me-but-I-cleaned-out-the-fridge salads and apple pie (for Daniel's honorary birthday).  Daniel blew out some candles and opened gifts.  Then we went to Hersey Lake as a family.  We swam, played in the sand, read some Shakespeare, and came home.  Then I had a quick quarrel with my husband and now I'm blogging.  July seventeenth has been thorough.  I keep thinking about the 298 people who were killed over Ukraine today. 

I Came Home

I'm back.  I went to Nauvoo, Illinois with a about sixty youth and their leaders and now I'm back.  Mostly.  There's still a part of me there, waking up early to help feed a hundred people, laughing giddily in a sleep-deprived haze that makes everything funny, looking for someone else to set the schedule and give direction, and pondering so many stories.

Our group did an intense two mile handcart pull.  The pull was run by a sweet retired couple who warned us about poison ivy, reminded us of the hardships faced by pioneers, and shared some of their own story.  As the woman stood to speak with us, "Our daughter spent ten years on meth," were not the words I expected to come out of her mouth.  She was dressed in calico and sunglasses, and generously opening herself to us.  "It took me to places I never thought I would have to go as a mother."  She went on to talk about how difficult times come to each of us, as they did to the handcart pioneers, but that we can find stores of unsuspected strength inside ourselves.  "You are strong."

Thinking about stuff at the Mississippi's edge

On our last night, I wandered down Parley street toward the Mississippi.  It's the street where thousands of members of my church lined their wagons as they prepared to leave Nauvoo, the city they had built, because in 1846 it was no longer safe to stay.  As I wandered, I thought of Bathsheba W. Smith.  She was only twenty-three when she and her husband and their two small children crossed the frozen river leaving their home behind.  She wrote, "My last act in that precious spot was to tidy the rooms, sweep up the floor and set the broom in its accustomed place behind the door.  Then with emotions in my heart which I could not now pen and which I then strove with success to conceal, I gently closed the door and faced an unknown future...with faith in God."

The trip was permeated with such stories.  As I said, part of me is still there pondering them.  The part of me that came home is braver than before.

Thinking About Community on Canada Day

Everything is closed today, so I ran errands yesterday.  In one shop, the person at the register didn't say anything at first.  It took me awhile to put all my purchases on the belt, so I just went with it.  Then the phone rang beside her.  She answered it and spoke softly.  Her voice was deep and I noticed the scarf at her neck on a hot, hot day seemed to cover an Adam's apple.  Now, I love living here.  The bush is beautiful and the people are wonderful.  I've been heartily welcomed.  But it's a small town that works hard and plays hard.  The queer community is quiet.  I think, if I felt compelled to explore my sexuality or my gender here, anywhere, but particularly here, I would feel afraid.  I wanted to reach out.  I smiled and asked her about the busyness of the store and whether it looked like rain for Canada Day.  She was tentative, but warmed as we continued to chat.  She rang in my odds and ends and I noticed her jaunty ponytail and her careful lipstick and her hands.  She had the most beautiful hands.  I thought about what it would take to have nails that perfect.  She must soak and scrub and file and moisturise.  I hope that's a happy part of her day, a day that includes risk, rejection, microaggression, danger, and scrutiny.  I hope she has great support.  I hope she's safe. 

In the Quiet Heart Is Hidden...

Once in awhile, I'll interrupt the child who is taking twenty minutes to describe a two minute YouTube clip, or is loudly demanding immediate action, to tell them the truth about myself.  I say, "You are speaking to someone with a severe headache," or, "You are speaking to someone who got less than two hours of sleep last night."  They see this as a sign to tone things down, be more gentle...or go tell their dad.

You are reading the words of someone who is hurting.  Breathing feels unfamiliar.  I'm worn from shaking.  Yesterday afternoon, Ordain Women announced that Kate Kelly had received notification of her excommunication.  For those of you who don't know what this means, I put some links below.  I'm not sure why I feel this news so keenly.  I've never met Sister Kelly, but she is suffering deeply and I long to help her, and the countless others who likewise grieve.  But there's more to it.  I see myself in her.  I have questions too.

Why don't women hold the priesthood in my church?
Are women really equal to men in God's eyes?
Why are we taught that men are to preside over their families?
How can marriage between a man and a woman be an equal partnership if the man presides?
What is presiding?
Does the structure of my church contribute to the sexist attitudes I encounter regularly?
How can I protect my children from these attitudes?
Why do I feel othered in my larger church community, a leftover bit?

Many have said that having questions is not a problem.  Questions are welcome.  I wonder whether that's true.  Some of the things I've read and heard this week have left me unsure. 

I hear, "Disciplinary councils are supposed to be private.  Why did she have to go running to the New York Times?" 
I think, "It's not safe for people like me to speak up." 

I hear, "She just doesn't have the eternal perspective that I have gained through diligent study and prayer." 
I think, "Anything less than complete conviction is a signal that I am less than...and lazy." 

I hear, "She can't honestly claim to be one of us and launch a media campaign against us at the same time."
I think, "If I'm not careful about the number of people with whom I discuss my questions, I could be cast out."

I hear, "If she doesn't like this church, she should just leave."
I think, "I spend all of my time being a member of this church.  Whether I clean the bathroom or blog is a decision I make based on my faith.  If I were to leave, it would break my heart.  Where would I go?  There are at least some people I love and respect, and with whom I've served and learned and wept, who don't care."

I'm Maggie.  I'm a Mormon.  I'm an earnest seeker with serious questions and I'm afraid of being rejected by people for whom I care so much.



*The title for this post comes from the hymn, Lord I Would Follow Thee.
Bishop Harrison outlined to Sister Kelly in this letter his reasons for excommunicating her, what it means for her, and what she needs to do to become, again, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  She has released it. 
Her defense is written here and here.
There were more than one thousand letters written on her behalf.  Some of them have been published here. 
I wrote one of those letters.  I also wrote a short explanation here.
All of the content to which I linked in this post moved me and is worth your time if you have a stake in this issue or want to better understand someone who does*

From Where I Stand...Sit...Soar

Last week, Jared was required to do some night circuits--five takeoffs and landings after dark.  Have I mentioned that he's a pilot?  He's a pilot.  He got permission to take us along, and it was magical.  He helped us up the steps and buckled us in.  He gave us the passenger briefing and then we were moving.  As he and his co-pilot navigated the complex maze of taxiways toward the runway, I felt nervous.  Would this be too scary for our children?  I needn't have worried.  I have never heard a happier sound than the giggles that erupted as we picked up speed and found liftoff.  We flew over the Mattagami River, and the library, and Gillies Lake, and our house.  It all looked so different.  At one point, Mary said, "Those are trees?  I thought they were bushes."  And it hit me then , that the way I see trees is not the way trees look.  It has more to do with me than trees.  And that the Mattagami doesn't know I call it the Mattagami.  The name is useful to me, but in no way describes what it's like to be a river.  It was a beautiful experience, floating a thousand feet above the earth in a tin can with seven other humans, thinking about perspective.  Spiritual. 

Teach Me to Walk in the Light

I read this article this morning and it is what is on my mind...and in my wobbly knees...and in my tears.  Kate Kelly is the founder of Ordain Women and she is facing possible excommunication.  What does this mean?  In my church, while every member is invited to follow Jesus Christ, women are not invited to hold the priesthood.  I'm not sure how I feel about this.  My efforts at discipleship have brought me joy.  I love opportunities to serve and connect with others.  People are amazing!  But I have also experienced moments of uneasiness and vulnerability because I do not hold the priesthood.  Ordain Women seeks to create a safe space for women to articulate their feelings on this issue.  It also seeks ways to respectfully request change.  Now her local leaders are considering revoking her membership in the church.  I know that there are other views on this.  Actually, I love that there are other views on this.  But this is where I stand.

I have been a part of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for my whole life.  It is a part of me.  I love it the way I love my ribs and my tongue.  When I considered leaving the church last year it was excruciating.  Ordain Women, and other Mormon feminist sites, helped me through this time.  They empowered me to bravely examine my faith and to take responsibility for what I believe and what I teach my children.  This process has lead me to a richer connection to the gospel of Jesus Christ and a more fulfilling communion with the saints.  Thank you, Kate Kelly.

Brahms and Kids and Kings

This is concert week.  I'm in the Timmins Symphony Orchestra chorus.  We're performing Brahms' Requiem and we've worked hard to prepare--there are ten and a half rehearsal hours on my calendar this week alone.  I remember the first evening we turned to the third movement.  It was pretty discouraging.  I was not the only one who pictured disaster in front of a full house.  There have been many disquieting moments in our four months with this piece.  Then last night, as we opened the third movement, one of my fellow altos whispered, "This is my favourite part."  I felt a little thrill, realising that something has made the music precious to us.  What is that? 

I think of parenting.  I loved each of my children the moment we met.  Then I spent years nursing in the night, washing thousands of loads of laundry, cleaning up various stinky, sticky messes, all to a soundtrack of, "Mama?  Mama?  Mama?  Mama?  Mama?  Mama?  Mama?  Mama?"  But somehow, I love the little dumplings more than I did before I persisted in the face of the seemingly insurmountable.

In the Old Testament, there's a story about King David that I just love.  He and his mighty men have surrounded Bethlehem which is David's home town but is now possessed by his enemies.  He might be feeling nostalgia when he yearns aloud for water from the well that is just inside the gate and just out of reach.  Three of his soldiers courageously fight through the enemy defences, draw the water, and bring it to him.  I've always felt overcome by their valiance and perhaps David did too because he poured the water out.  He could not drink it because their actions had made the water holy.

I know music and children and water are wonderful.  It is exciting to me that a kind of committed bravery can multiply that wonder infinitely.

No Banana Nut Muffin for Me, Thanks

This morning I watched these two incredible talks again and they have me thinking.


The moments in my life of which I'm the most proud have one big thing in common.  I was afraid I would fail.  In every case I was right.  The first time.  This is exciting because I tend to think that a sense of impending failure is my cue to bolt.  But maybe I can start to recognise it for what it is.  The beginning of something great.

How Old is Old?

The woman ahead of me must have been in her eighties.  As she slowly counted quarters, nickels, and dimes from a handful, I glanced at the cashier's screen, happy to slow down and stop rushing for a minute.  She was buying blade steak, green beans and fruit Danish.  Was she having a special dinner that warranted going to the grocery store for just these things?  Maybe she goes every day.   Her total was $10.93.  She finally made it up to 95 and gave her money to the sixteen-year-old at the till.  That young girl shot me an apologetic smile, recounted the coins, and returned the surplus in seconds.  The woman looked down at her ample pile of change and said playfully, "I still got a handful."  We all laughed, and she went on her way.  I wondered about that laughter.  Was it of the "You're the cutest thing," variety, or more the, "Your years give you a beauty that makes me happier."  Maybe we felt some kind of relief.  What's it like to find yourself old enough for people to think you darling?  To ask loudly, "How are we today?"  To apologise for you. 

Later, I stepped into the parking lot.  She was still making her way to her car.  Suddenly I was nine and waiting for my Nanny in another grocery store parking lot.  Grampy and I are sitting in his pickup.  It's an impossible blue in my memory.  The sky is a splotchy purple gray.  The lightening starts.  Instead of hiding, as I have always been taught to do, preferably in a place with neither power outlets nor windows, we watch.  And I feel special and safe with this old, old man.  I now realise he was only about sixty then. 
 
My children tell me I'm ancient.  I'm thirty-three.

I suppose we're all old to someone, but just ourselves to ourselves.