Blogging at Rational Faiths today. . . about modesty. If you don't want to read that or the post below, you can just go here and listen for a minute. That's the main point of this post.
Honestly, sometimes this whole conversation feels trite and inconsequential. But, because over the years I've noticed a distinct and profound change in my own attitude about modesty [as it relates to the way we dress] and because I noticed it again recently during a family trip to Moab, I wrote about it.
For me, this change from a somewhat puritanical mindset to a more relaxed attitude toward how one chooses to dress is an important part of my spiritual maturation.
It seems to me that the modesty obsession has exploded in the last two decades. While I was raising my kids the message was present but not prominent. Lately, a person's choice of clothing has shimmied right up next to smoking, drinking, number of ear-piercings and tattoos as a means by which members of my community assess one an other's relative righteousness. We seem bent on finding ways to categorize, label and judge a person's character based on what we can see with our eyes. This is a long-time pattern within the LDS culture. At least in my little corner of Utah.
I realize part of the modesty push is likely a push-back against declining social standards for dress and behavior, so I can give the zealots a little slack. But, the heart of the matter for me is this: Modest dress is a natural bi-product of living a Christ-centered life. We don't need to preach it. I mean, did Christ include dress habits in his Sermon on the Mount? Blessed are the long-skirt-wearers? I don't remember reading that. Frankly, I think the modesty push and the way in which it is taught often detracts from the central doctrine of Christ to believe in Him, learn of Him, follow Him, love and serve each other. It doesn't matter what we wear when we do any of these things.
I spoke in church today. About the power of Love. No, Huey Lewis wasn't part of it, but I have to admit I was singing this song yesterday while working in the garden and pondering the assigned subject: Covenants. I was told I could address any aspect of this topic. I chose to speak about Love because this is the heart of all meaningful covenants as far as I'm concerned. When I was baptized I covenanted to love God and love my neighbor. Like Jesus did. Anything else I accomplish in this life is an addendum to this covenant. God is good. Love is good. Have a nice day.
"You don't need money, it don't take fame, don't need no credit card to ride this train. . ."
On Two Commandments Hang All The Law
Sacrament
meeting Grandview 17th Ward, 26 May 2013
Today I would like to speak about the covenant we make at
baptism. I’ll begin with a few scriptures and then relate a series of personal
experiences about my own understanding of this covenant.
Mosiah 18:8-10
8 . . . and now, as ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and
to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that
they may be light;
9 Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and
comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God
at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until
death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first
resurrection, that ye may have eternal life—
10 Now I say unto you, if this be the desire of
your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord, as a
witness before him that ye have entered into a covenant with him, that ye will
serve him and keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit more
abundantly upon you?
Jeremiah 31: 31
I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their
hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people.
1 John 4:19
We love him because he first loved us.
Part 1:
The man speaking at the pulpit in sacrament meeting uses a
phrase I haven’t heard before and I am instantly drawn in. I find myself being
pulled toward an unexpected answer to every question I’ve ever had about who I
am and who God intends me to be. I write the phrase in my scriptures. In
pen. I want to record it permanently among other words of holy writ.
“Lose consciousness of virtue through love.”
I think we all know people who live and love in ways that
make them entirely unaware of their own loveliness. I think Mother Teresa was
like this. Perhaps Mary, the mother of Christ, and John the beloved were such
people. I find myself telling God, I want to be like that. Like Mother Teresa.
I begin to understand the scripture about the mustard seed in a way I hadn’t
before and I plant this desire in my heart, fully believing that if I go about
life being the best person I can be, in time God will grant my desire.
I puzzle over the concept of conscious desire to lose
consciousness of one’s virtue. Isn’t this contradictory? Maybe so. Then
again, maybe not. Maybe that oft-sited scripture in Luke about losing one’s
life for Christ’s sake really means what it says. Perhaps fostering loving
thoughts, feelings and behaviors could erase the human need for acclamation or
dissolve our natural inclination to compare our own relative virtue with that
of others. Perhaps by simply loving and serving one another we could diminish
the ill effect of our human frailties, freeing us from crippling self-consciousness
and bringing us to our whole selves. The Pure Love of Christ: to live so
that Love becomes not just a feeling, but also a physical way of being
in the world.
Sacrament service ends and I am left with these
words: Love. Just love. All the rest will follow.
Part 2:
I’m finishing a shift at the dialysis clinic where I work
as a registered nurse. I perform the requisite closing duties, one of which is
to stock a small drawer with syringes, alcohol pads and gloves. This is not
just an act of responsible professionalism, it is a kindness and common
courtesy we offer each other as nurses. Morning at our clinic begins in the wee
hours and no one wants to gather and stock supplies when they’d rather be home
in bed. So we do this for each other. We make the next person’s job a little
easier.
The building is empty and quiet. Everyone else has gone
home. On this particular night I do not focus on the task at hand, but on
the nurse who will come to work and find the drawer full. I feel love for that
nurse and I am glad to make his or her life less stressful. Rather than feeling
exhausted and resentful of one more thing to do, I feel rested, peaceful and
genuinely happy. These feelings are unexpected at the end of an exceptionally
long day. As I close the drawer I realize I am scheduled to come
back the following morning. The nurse for whom I am performing this kindness is
me.
With this thought I become very still. I feel as if
someone whispers, “Stop and pay attention. There is something important in
this moment.” There is a principle I am to understand. It has to do with
stocking supplies with loving-kindness for someone else then realizing: I am
that someone else.
Part 3:
I am lying on my bed, half dreaming, half awake during a
nap one Sunday afternoon. I see myself preparing a grand feast. The Savior is
coming and all my efforts are focused on providing a wonderful, delicious meal
for the beloved Christ. I am calm, carefree, and joyful. There is none of the
usual stress associated with such a gathering. I only feel love. For him. It
doesn’t matter that my home is humble or that the trashcan is still in the
street or the grass isn’t mowed. It doesn’t matter that the table linens don’t
match. He cares nothing about that. And I know it. What matters is that I will
sit with family, friends, and loved ones and with The Most Loved One. We will
eat and visit and learn and laugh.
I spend the entire day cooking and preparing the table. I
carefully arrange place settings and make His place at the head of the table.
My family and friends arrive. He arrives and greets us. He’s a perfect
gentleman, a perfect man. All the guests embrace each other in turn and settle
into lively conversation as we move toward the dining room. We approach the
table and again I am filled with love and joy. The beautiful food, flowers,
candles, many-colored linens glow with a kind of magical delight. My
whole heart is in this, in all of it. I want Him to see what I have done for
him, to feel how grateful I am for Him. I hope he knows that I know
who he is and that I love him more than I can ever express. As I direct him to
the seat of honor I look into his face to see if he approves of my efforts. He
pauses, steps aside, smiles and says, “This is your seat. The feast is for
you.”
Now I am fully awake and weeping. I
am overcome, undone with a sense of love and respect emanating from my guest;
love and respect the likes of which I have never known. I am acutely aware of
all the work, the time and energy and most especially the love I offered in preparation
for his coming; I am aware of all the love anyone has ever offered to a brother
or sister on the earth. He is aware of it too.
Matthew 25:40
40 . . . Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done
it unto one of the least of these[your brothers and sisters] ye have done it unto me.
The Savior sees us. He is preparing a place for us, even
as we prepare a place for Him.
In case you haven't heard, I raised my kids as a single mom. Like every other mom I know, thousands of times I have uttered the prayer, "Please, God, let this all turn out okay." For the most part, things did turn out okay. The kids survived. I survived and everyone is blooming these days.
Lauren and Clay's New Fence
Luke and Rachel's Newly-Planted Grass
Maui Enjoying Sara and Jordan's New House
My Garden
Imagine my surprise when I felt that long-forgotten motherly angst bubbling up in my heart after a series of text messages back and forth between me and my twenty-four-year-old daughter.
Sara had offered to cook Mother's Day dinner for me with her husband, Jordan, at their house. Not long after she sent the text invitation I emailed her older sister, Lauren, to invite her; then texted their brother, Luke, to invite him. When I did this I was thinking about how I had missed out on the family dinner the Sunday before because I had been sick. My adult children and their spouses enjoyed dinner together as grown-ups without their mom. Lauren had mentioned that it felt nice to be together as adult siblings without parents there. It doesn't happen often and they all had a great time.
For instance, Lauren brought her newly-acquired wig for show-and-tell and various people tried it on. This is her husband, Clay. He's growing his beard for a religious film series in which he's been asked to play a non-speaking role. Mostly because he can grow said beard and because one of the folks in the LDS film department saw his swarthy self at BYU and said, "You'd make a good Jew." With the wig, I'd say he makes not only a good Jew, but a damn fine Jesus. (One of the best things about parenting adults is that you can use the occasional swear word and not worry about offending their innocent ears or setting a bad example. You can even use Jesus and a swear word in the same sentence and they still know you are a devoted Christian with a good heart. It's wonderful! Because, hey, they're grown-ups. They've heard worse and I'm no longer accountable for their choices, including whether or not they choose to curse.)
Anyway, I was missing my tribe and thought this might be a great time to get us all together again. But I had a nagging feeling that maybe I had done something wrong. I mean, you know, I had just invited four additional adults and two little darlings to my daughter's house for a dinner she had offered to cook for me. That's about the time she texted me. I should have saved the text thread to show you. It went something like this:
Sara: Mom! I invited you to dinner. I didn't want it to be a big thing. We're really busy that day and want to keep it simple and short.(Of course the capitalization and punctuation were not
quite this formal. But you get the picture.)
Me: I'm sorry. I should have thought about that.
Sara: I'm not sure I even bought enough food for that many.
Sara: Luke can't come anyway. (She had apparently texted him. I imagine the text went something like:
Luke! Mom just invited you and Lauren to dinner! Why does she do that! Why can't she just let
things be! And Luke would respond: Don't worry about it. Me and Rachel can't come anyway.
We're in church 'til 4:00)
Dinner was scheduled for 2:30, which I didn't know at the time. And if I had known I never would have invited the other kids because of church times. . . but that's not the point.
Me: No worries. I'll let Lauren know. No biggie. Sorry.
Sara: It's okay. They can come if they want. It's just going to be short.
Me: No. I shouldn't have jumped in with other people. Lauren will understand. No worries. Love ya.
(Of course, Lauren would be disappointed. She was looking forward to not cooking on Mother's Day.) Sara: Really it's okay. They can come. Me: Thanks, hon. Let's keep it simple. No worries. Live you.
Long ago I told my kids that my finger often finds the 'i' before the 'o' when texting 'Love' and I'm tired of correcting it. They get it. Now you do too.
As it turned out, Sara ended up being "throw up sick" (even grown-up kids sometimes talk like not-grown-up kids) so she couldn't have anyone over for dinner. Luke and Rachel left church after sacrament meeting, having decided they would go to Sara's for dinner after all, but discovered as they drove from Saratoga Springs to Provo that there would be no 2:30 dinner. They brought flowers and chocolate to my place. We visited and snacked on mixed nuts. I offered Greek yogurt. No takers. Lauren was disappointed and still didn't cook on Mother's Day (good for her). I made banana cream pie later when she and her family came to visit, play, and eat Greek yogurt, chips & salsa, and mixed nuts for dinner at my house.
You see? Everything did turn out okay. But I realized once again: I don't know what I'm doing as a parent.
My kids are now in some ways my social peers. I can't just treat them like my children. They deserve the same courtesy and general regard as my other adult cohorts. Like, when one of these couples invites me to dinner, it's not my place to invite others to come along. At least not without checking with the hostess. Why didn't I know this intuitively? Probably because this is a new phase of parenting. Again. Wow. I didn't see this coming.
Looks like it's time to dust off that old prayer. And add a tag line at the end:
"Thanks for how those first thirty years turned out. Live ya."
Last night at "Listen to Your Mother" I read an essay about my mom. It's also about me. Mostly it's about finding peace, hope and at-one-ment by telling the truth. Even when it hurts.
My mother left this world several years ago.
Today, May 10th, is her birthday. This essay is a gift. For both of us.
Not About Laundry
It's hard to know how to age gracefully when you don't have a mother around to show you. My mom died relatively young – in her late sixties. Sadly, I'm not sure she could have given me what I need right now even if she were here. A few years before she died I ran into an old friend who knew my mother well. She said, “You know, your mom seemed almost like a ghost to me. It was like she was there. But she wasn’t.” That’s when I decided to start telling the truth about my mom. And about me.
My mother was a battered woman, a survivor of childhood abuse, an adult child of an alcoholic. She was all these things living in a community and culture that doesn’t talk about such things and in a time when there was very little help for women like her. But she did the best she could. She believed in Jesus and in the power of his grace. I'm certain this is part of what preserved her tenuous sanity in the midst of incalculable heartaches. Incalculable is a big word and it’s the right word. I still don’t know all the ways in which she suffered. I may never know.
But if I’m telling the truth here I have to say I wasn’t always sympathetic toward her. It took a long time for me to get past the fact that she failed in her most significant calling as a mother. She failed to protect her children. I did get past it though and came to realize she was limited by circumstances that shaped her— many over which she had no control. I came to understand that throughout my childhood she lived in fear, just as I did, just as my siblings did, and that fear kept her prisoner; kept her from leaving a destructive marriage, from cutting a path to safety and freedom where her children could follow and flourish.
She paid a price for this. When she died the doctors called it congestive heart failure. But I’m telling you: my five-foot-ten-inch, one hundred-forty-five-pound vegetarian mom with no family history of heart disease, died of a broken heart. Her inability to save herself or her children ultimately killed her. I don't blame her for this, for getting out of life early. God knows she deserved a break. I blame the ones who harmed her, who incrementally and very literally stole her life, snuffed out her light and left her bereft.
Because of this most of my life I’ve felt like a motherless child. But recently I’ve discovered irrefutable evidence that she was there; evidence beyond the brunette hair and hazel eyes. Everyone can see I am physically my mother’s daughter.
She gave me others things too, less visible things, like: appreciation for fine textiles and architecture, awareness of color, proportion and perspective in design. She passed on an almost compulsive need to have nice things—things that are classic and well made. Things that last. I swear she had dresses she wore for twenty years and, honestly, they were so lovely, so timeless and well cared for they looked like new and never really went out of style.
Until very recently, I had no idea my love of art, form, and design came from the woman whom I had only seen as weak and neurotic. This discovery opened a door inside me, a previously hidden door. It was as a door to The Secret Garden and when I pushed my way through the dry and tangled overgrowth of sorrow and longing and profound childhood grief, I found passageway into a new place within my heart and my mother's heart as well.
You know, she left my father once. Brought five children – twelve and under – on a train from Alexandria, Virginia to Salt Lake City. When my father came after her, although she couldn’t free herself from him, she demanded we stay in Utah. As a result, I was raised from about the age of six in a lovely neighborhood overlooking a pristine valley. There was a kind of hopeful (if artificial) safety in that French provincial on the east bench. University professors, artists, local and state politicians, successful business-owners and their families, surrounded us. And she filled that home with beautiful things—none of which could ever make up for the beauty of her own true self sacrificed on the alter of fear. Nevertheless she surrounded her children with beauty.
It's amazing to me how equal amounts of beauty and ugliness can exist in the self-same space. Like in that neighborhood. Like in our home and in this story about my mother.
My mom was born on the tenth of May. Her birthday often falls on Mother’s Day. This year I will mourn her a little, as I always do, but mostly I will celebrate her life and legacy. I will celebrate what I’ve learned as a woman in spite of my mother. And because of her: That truth is beautiful—even ugly truth. Truth is light—even when cloaked in darkness. And above all that the truth really does makes us free. I am free. I don’t know that my mother could have done this. She lived in a time and place where people were fond of using phrases like, "Don't air your dirty laundry in public." Don't tell the truth. Places and people like this still exist.
But I am not one of those people. And after all, this isn't laundry.
This morning I woke up thinking about a new friend of mine. Her face was in my face. Seriously. It's like I rolled over and there she was in my bed via astral projection or something.
Not really. I was just thinking about her because the night before she had asked opinions of facebook friends about which photograph of her they liked best. She is a very beautiful woman. I wish I could share her photo here, but, for the sake of anonymity I can't. I'll call her Elizabeth (not her real name) because it means, "House of God." And I think this applies to her.
Recently Elizabeth shared some details about her life with me and a few other friends; details relating to addiction and recovery. Remembering this, I considered things like tobacco, alcohol, drugs, shopping, sex, food, porn and all the other stuff which with we can become obsessed or to which we might become addicted.
I thought about my own weaknesses, things I've struggled to improve or to overcome for years. Some of them feel like addictions and I could probably benefit from a 12-step program myself. But what held my attention more than anything else is that few if any people would have a clue about what these weaknesses are for me. They are not generally visible. They don't alter my ability to perform at work or to manage in society. It's not a like a food addiction which is often evident in excess weight; or smoking, when everyone can smell it. Alcohol or illicit drugs will eventually ruin the addict's life because the effects can't stay it hidden forever. Mind you, I'm talking about addictions: things over which we have no control. Addiction is a disease. It is not the fault of the addict. And the only way to overcome addiction is to admit we are powerless over whatever holds us hostage, then agree that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity. I believe this with all my heart.
Some of my weaknesses feel this way. They are not my fault. They are a result of circumstances over which I have or had no control. I feel powerless to change them. And they are troubling me.
Some people's addictions or weaknesses are apparent. Others are not. Yet, the process remains the same. I'm wondering: Does it help when our weakness is visible to others? Or does it make our growth process easier when our weakness is not so apparent? Part of the power of Alcoholics Anonymous comes in the power of anonymity. Yet, we need support from others in our growth, change and recovery processes.
Mother's Day is coming. I've heard it called Mothering Day. I like that better. Mothering takes heart. Lots of it. This got me thinking about women and our hearts. My mind returned again and again to a gathering I attended where a dozen or so women sat around a table reading stories from their lives. Stories written in their own hand. Real and true about
first-time thirty-year-old mothering
a toddler crying about sun and stars
little boys with hands in their pants
spilled popcorn written in rhyme
"mean" mothers and mean mothers
a baby never born
freedom to be
tattoos on a shoulder
I met these women only once. In two hours - maybe five or ten minutes per person - we shared our individual experiences with each other. Before the first words were read I felt my heart opening, expanding to welcome the brilliant souls in that room. As I listened and watched, I thought, "These are only a few of hundreds, thousands in this valley. Any woman could sit at this table, any group of women could meet together and tell the truth about their lives and the result would be the same."
We are one as women.
There is a word generally used in a religious context: Brethren. It refers to a single body of multiple men. There is no such word for a feminine counter-part. There is no Sistern. Perhaps we areCistern.
A Woman’s Heart
grows far beyond its beginning stretches over miles and days of loving a droplet pulsing waves in mother's womb swells to harbor the whole wide world
In all sincerity, this will be a night to remember. You will not believe how a small group of ordinary Utah women could have such fascinating, hilarious and compelling stories to tell. The essays ranged from sacred to profane -- if that's not motherhood, I don't know what is. And, boy howdy! Can these women write! I hope you can make it. Seriously. Come. Bring your mother.
Fortunately, one of the other women wrote pretty much exactly what I wanted to say about last night, saving me the work. Thanks for that, Miss Meg.
For me, this change from a somewhat puritanical mindset to a more relaxed attitude toward how one chooses to dress is an important part of my spiritual maturation.
