A Program to Keep Forever

So, I am sitting at the funeral of a great man. A man so great that, fifteen minutes before his viewing was scheduled to START, there was a line snaking throughout the huge building. A man so great that, twenty-five minutes before his funeral is scheduled to start, the only seats left are folding chairs, in the way back. A man I knew was great but underestimated the greatness of by arriving only fifteen minutes early to his viewing and twenty-five minutes early to his funeral. A man so great that people remember the love he showed them thirty-five years or more ago.

A man who is not great because he thought he was great, but because he thought others were great, and showed them that.

And I think about the love he showed me in the brief time I have known him and how I wish I could have known him longer and better.

So I am sitting at the funeral of a man so great that the prophet is speaking at it. I am finally for the first time in the same room as the prophet of God, Christ's representative on earth. I am breathing the same air he is breathing. I am lifting my voice in song with him. I am sitting in a building that the great man who died erected as a place for the gathering of the believers, and the acoustics are so good that, for the first time in my life, I can hear my own voice rising with my fellow beings and mixing and blending with theirs, my one voice contrasting and playing off their hundreds of voices. It is a good moment.

I am breathing the same air as the prophet and this great man's hundreds of family members and friends, and I am sitting way in the back and peeking behind the heads of a beautiful white-haired couple. I am hanging on every word of the prophet who is speaking, trying not to miss any, because he is wise, he is funny, he is friends with the man, and he matters. He matters and what he has to say matters.

And I think to myself, I need to keep this program with the picture of this great man and the outline of his funeral service forever. After all, he will be the ancestor of some of my grandchildren.

And while I am listening, hanging on every word of the prophet with whom I am face-to-face for the first time in my life, though hundreds of people are between us, I start to fidget in my chair. Not because of the funeral, which was completely lovely, nor the speaker, but because of the cramp in my, well. . .in my "very high leg" that hasn't gone away for weeks because I won't stop running on it. The ibuprofen I took in the morning has just worn off, and I didn't bring any more in my purse.

So I am sitting in the funeral of a great man, listening to the prophet, and changing my position to relieve the pain running down my leg, and I set my program down on the empty chair next to mine for a minute as I shift my position. And I may or may not have rummaged in my purse for another tissue.

And the woman in the chair next to the empty chair next to mine picks up my program (which I intend to keep forever), turns it sideways, and starts to write on it. Really? I think, and I turn to look at her, but she does not look at me. She just keeps writing. And I do not speak to her, because what am I going to say? "When you are through writing on my program, will you please return it?" I think not.

So I turn to my husband and I say, "That woman just took my program and is writing on it." And my husband, who is not petty about programs and does not intend to keep such things forever, hands me his. So I have a program to keep forever again, and we really didn't need two, anyway, because my husband is not planning to keep a scrapbook one of these days that he will probably never start putting together until after retirement and all the children are out of the house, like I am, so the problem is solved.

So I am sitting at the funeral of a great man whom thousands loved, listening to no less than the prophet speaking, but I still feel miffed at the woman who took my program, and I wish I could make it right, meaning that she is made aware of what she has done. Even though my husband has already made it right, really.

And I tell myself that surely I don't believe she meant to steal my program, and she surely has no idea what she has done, and it's okay if it remains that way forever. And I am listening to stories about a man who would take off his necktie and give it to an admirer, and listening to the voice of someone who once gave his dear pet rabbits to another little boy whose family was hungry, and I wish I were a better person who didn't feel petty about small slights, and I think that maybe I was mistaken and my program fell on the floor--or hers did, and I look on the floor but it is bare, and the woman walks off with my program when the service ends and I know I don't really care.

And I know I want to stop being the kind of person who will only have a handful of people at her funeral.

So I make my way with my husband slowly to the outside, and, when we get there, we find that the family, which exited long before we could, is standing around in the spring sunshine, and we can move among them, so I find my son and his wife and we chat briefly. I tell my daughter-in-law how beautiful she looks and how beautifully she performed, and I give her mother a similar compliment.

And I see that my assumptions about the prophet's time and mobility were wrong, that he has not rushed off under heavy protection, but is standing there with us, talking with the family and friends standing in the sunshine. I see that, from behind, his hair looks as soft as that in a Carl Bloch painting, that he is tall and statuesque, but also ordinary and human. And right there with us. And it seems to me as I think it would if it had been two thousand years ago and I had been in a crowd with Christ.

He is only a few feet away, and I remember that my son met him a few days ago, and I wonder if I might meet him, after all--something which seemed impossible or remote at best up until this very moment. But his back is to me and he is busy talking to people--other people more closely connected to the family, closer to him, probably. I am several degrees removed, and likely always will be.

And he lingers, and as I talk with people, I move a little closer to him, and I decide I will try to walk by him and see if I can shake his hand. Not because I need to shake his hand, but because I know someone who needs attention from someone Christlike, and I think that maybe, in some mystical way I cannot articulate, my getting close to him may help my loved one.

He is walking away, and my husband and I are walking hand-in-hand behind him. A car door is opened and he is tucked inside. The door is shut. I am standing outside the door, not two feet away from the prophet, and my husband is saying, "One more handshake?" to the security men, and I am shrinking back, knowing I am not entitled to interrupt the schedule of the prophet and would never dream of doing so.

The security guard is explaining briefly to my husband that they are trying to get the prophet to the cemetery quickly, and I am awed all over again that the prophet of God would not only come to the funeral, not only speak at the funeral, not only mingle outside with the people, but would also follow the family to the cemetery.

And I know that I am not close enough to the great man to attend the cemetery and have not included it in my plans. So I murmur to the guards that of course I understand and I turn away with my husband to walk to our car.

And the day seems cloudy now and I feel my oppressive burden sitting squarely on my shoulders and neck and I know that this burden is and always has been and always will be mine alone to bear, and that no one else can really help me with it, that it is my own private hell that no one else can carry on their backs like a weighty cross. I know I am completely alone.

And my chest is heaving and I am sobbing because I was two feet away from the prophet, who would help me if he could, but I am only one of fourteen million followers and no one of consequence to him, and never will be. And I know this and it is okay, but I ache to know how to help my loved one and I am clueless. I am completely clueless and have been for a long, long time.

And my husband notices that I am sobbing violently and wiping tears and snot off my face and says he will take me to the cemetery so I can meet the prophet and I say no, it is not appropriate for me to follow him around. I mumble, "It is my burden alone." And I cry some more. And I know that it is my burden and not the prophet's burden, and that if I would not be the kind of person who can get offended about a swiped program, I could have a good influence on people by myself and not need to look outside myself for help. And I know that I need to change and become a better person.

And my husband says he does not have to go to work right away and I say that I have an appointment at three o'clock and I have to be back at the office to meet a person. And I think about the person I have to meet, and how insignificant she seems in my life at this moment. And I know that she has made many mistakes. Terrible mistakes that have put her life in ruins. And I know that it is my job to help her. And I think that I must be there to help her, and that I must not follow the prophet to the cemetery and expect him to help me. And the words, "do so even to the least of these" go through my head.

And my husband offers again to take me to the cemetery, and I know that it is not appropriate, and I do not want to be seen as someone who would do something inappropriate out of desperation for the prophet's attention. And I am loathe to make the funeral of this great man in any way about me and my problems and, even though I have a whole hour before I have to be back at work for my appointment, I am not going to change my mind.

And I know that I have missed an opportunity. Barely missed it. And I know that I wish I had not missed it, and I know that there is a lesson in there for me. And I realize that I tend to hope and expect that people will notice my needs and fulfill them, yet that just about every single person Jesus healed when He was on earth came to Him for help. I think about the woman who reached out to touch the hem of His robe and those who called out, "Son of David, have mercy on me!" And I think that I need to work on feeling more entitled. And I think again about the program and how far from great I am and how I need to be there to help the woman who is coming to me at three o'clock.

And we reach the car and my son calls me on my cell phone. I know it is my son before I answer it, because I have that gift. I answer the phone and he says that we did not say goodbye and I apologize and say I had wandered off and didn't mean to not say goodbye. And he says he is sorry and thanks me for coming and for other things and I tell him again that he is welcome to my time and love and efforts and he asks me if I am crying because I did not get to meet the prophet and I say yes but I need to go back to work and my husband needs to go back to work.

And we start driving back to work and my son texts me that the prophet will be at the cemetery and I can come there if I want to meet him, and I call him and explain that I do not think it is appropriate and I would not want to do anything inappropriate like following the prophet around so I can meet him or making the funeral of a great man about me or intruding on a lovely family beyond the proper bounds.

And my son who, quite normally, ten years ago wished that people would believe that he came into the world miraculously and immaculately without any parents at all tells me that he is sure that the prophet wants to meet me, as well, and that he just had to hurry into his car.

And I smile and say that I understand that and he assures me it would be okay if I come and I don't know what to do, but I thank him.

And I tell my husband that I am certain that trying to meet the prophet thinking that it will help me with my burden is surely a kind of magical thinking. And my husband, who is always telling me that my superstitious ideas are magical thinking says no, it is not magical thinking and he thinks I should go and meet the prophet.

So I tell him he should do what he thinks is right and he turns around at the next exit.

And I call my son and tell him we are coming but to please text me if the service ends before we get there, as we have been going in the wrong direction and are far away.

And then I think about the sins I have committed and the petty person that I can be and that there is surely nothing at all that I can say to the prophet. And I tell my husband it is not possible for me to talk to the prophet. And I think if I can just shake his hand, that will be enough.

I am still very nervous about the idea of following the prophet around and making the funeral into something about me, and I blow my nose a few more times and realize I must look dreadful by now and that I didn't bring any makeup with me, but by the time we reach the cemetery, I have calmed down some.

And I receive a text, and so I figure my son is telling me that I am too late. And I cannot receive the message because my mailbox is full, so I clear some messages, and wait. And my husband keeps driving on. And then I receive the message, and it does not say, "It's over--he left." It says, "Drive past all the cars and park behind us. There is a spot right by us."

So I feel encouraged and we drive up right behind my son's car and get out and join him. We have missed most of the ceremony, but everyone is still there, and the prophet is standing over there, waiting for his turn to place a rose on the coffin. And my son greets me kindly and I breathe in the sunshine. I can feel the sunshine on my hair and I think that just being in the presence of the prophet is good enough. But maybe I can position myself to shake his hand as he walks by and that will be plenty. I do not need to talk to him. I will just shake his hand, if I can. And then I will work on being a better person.

And people move about some and my husband inches closer to the prophet, and my son, on the other side of me, moves closer, too. And they are inching me closer. And the prophet turns to leave and he shakes hands with those he passes by, and I am right there, and he shakes my hand as he passes by, and his hand is warm and dry and I look him in the eye and say his name to acknowledge him.

And I am satisfied. I am there, which is a little obtrusive, but I feel I have not been too obtrusive, so I am okay.

And my husband is saying something to the prophet and he says, "Sure, I'll talk to her," and I turn around and feel mortified that he has stopped the prophet on his way out in my behalf and does not realize that I am satisfied. And I hear my husband tell the prophet briefly about my deepest wounds, the most private and painful pieces of my heart, and I wish he would shut up but I know you don't tell your husband to shut up in front of the prophet, so I can do nothing except wish he would shut up and feel my mind race to figure out how to seem proper under these circumstances, and it doesn't seem possible, because my son and members of the great man's family are hearing the embarrassing words that my husband is saying and I don't know what to do.

And I hear my husband repeat something I said months ago that seems to be telling the prophet what to do and I cringe and wish he would just stop.

And I know my son is hearing this, too, and I guess he is also cringing and I wish my husband would stop it. And I know my husband is just doing his level best to ask for the things he knows I should ask for, only I won't. And I know that my feelings are complicated by my unentitlement issues and that my husband understands this.

And, thinking back on this now, I remember the beautiful Carl Bloch painting of Christ standing in the public square and pulling a filthy, rotting rug off of an invalid who has been waiting for years to be healed--a man who has come to the Pool of Bethesda hoping to be healed but cannot get himself into the water and has no one to lift him in. And Christ, in His beautiful white robe, reaches down and pulls the nasty rag off of the man who has been decaying under it as if to say, "Who is under here who needs My help?" and exposes the man in all his filth to the glory of the sun and air and heals him then and there.

And I am standing right in front of the prophet, who takes a paper out of his pocket--a drawing by a child (I can see crayon sunshine and flowers on it), and he asks me for my loved one's name and writes it down. And he offers to pray for my loved one and I thank him. And he asks some questions about our heritage and tells us a story about his, and I can see he is human, an old man, and I am imposing on him half against my will, and he is being gracious about it, and I feel bad that he is taking more time with me than he needs to and telling me a story about his life, and then he offers to pray for me, as well, and I write my name down on the child's picture.

And then it is over and I thank him for his time. I want to leave and stop intruding. And as I hurriedly walk off, I hear another person call out to the prophet to talk to him.

And a man walks up to me and says he works for the Church News and asks me for the story of the child's picture. Only I don't know that story. I only know the prophet wrote a name down on the picture for me. So I tell him that. And he doesn't care about that, of course, and I don't blame him. I hope he can get the story he wants, but I cannot help him.

So we leave, and my husband and I laugh on our way back to work about what if I had made up a story about the child's picture for the reporter and how inappropriate that would have been. My story is about a child, but I am the only one who knows that.

And I don't know how I feel about all of this, but I know that I was privileged to be at the funeral of a great and generous man. I know I met the prophet and he was kind to me. I know that my husband stood up for me. I know my son was tender toward me. I know my loved one will be prayed for by more than just me. I know that I am loved and lucky. I think that perhaps trying to carry a burden alone has contributed to my rottenness. And I know that I am going to try to be better, as I should be.

"But What Will I Suck On?"

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of the mother of some friends. In sympathy with them, I was naturally reminded of attending the funeral of my own mother one January (perhaps partly due to the heavy snowfall). As I contemplated the thoughts and feelings of the deceased's family--including multitudinous grandchildren, as they dealt with something very hard, it brought back memories.

One specific memory is of having to talk to my then three-year-old daughter about giving up her pacifier. It was just time. Way past time. She had given up every other baby item and learned to go potty. The binkie was her last infant hold-out. Not only did she have a little brother, but a little sister was on the way. Having to track the binkies for three children did not seem prudent.

I talked to her about the reasons she should give it up: that she really didn't need it anymore--she was a big girl; that it could possibly misshape her teeth or mouth; that it was likely one reason she kept getting sick. She is an intelligent, compliant, and feeling girl. She listened quietly.

I told her that I knew it was a hard thing that I was asking her to do, but that I knew she could do it. This part of the conversation took the longest. I pointed out that her older brothers and we, her parents, did not use binkies, and she could learn to do without one, too. I reassured her that she would soon forget all about it, that she could adjust to no longer having it.

Then, for lack of a better example, I stated that I missed my mother, who had recently died, but that I had to adjust to doing without her. Lame, I know. But somehow, it seemed parallel at the time.

I again reassured her that she would be fine--that if she could get through one night without her binkie, she would not need it anymore.

I encouraged her to try.

Strangely, though, I do think it was the example I gave of my mother's death that really gave her the resolve. I saw it happen in her eyes: if I could do without my Mama, maybe she should try to do without her binkie.

She agreed to try to go to sleep without her beloved red, yellow, and blue binkie.

I kissed her and thanked her and reassured her all over again.

As I was closing the door to her bedroom, her sweet little voice filled the mostly-dark room. "But what will I suck on?"

Her father and I smiled and suppressed giggles. Truthfully, I had to tell her, "Nothing. You will learn to not have anything to suck on. You can do it--you're not a baby anymore. You will get used to it, I promise."

Then, as her bedroom door clicked shut, my heart broke all over again.

Was I asking too much of her, this beautiful little girl normally full of sunshine, but who had also just lost her grandmother? Was it mean of me to use my own grief to guilt her into taking this step?

I find these moments in motherhood most poignant and most difficult. Part of me wants to protect my child from the trials that help them grow up. And part of me--a smaller part of me, perhaps--knows that they need the growth.

And so then I second-guess myself for a long time to come, and as my children grow into new stages and leave younger stages behind, I feel both relief and sorrow. At the same time I ache to keep them small, I know that, to be healthy, they must learn to fly. A little part of me looks forward to the freedom that this will give me.

Yet, I miss the small girl with the large question, even as I enjoy the older version of her who is so helpful.

Which reminds me how every moment is priceless and unique. And fleeting. And, no matter how many ways technology gives us to record them, they fly away, never to return.

Like my small daughter, who did get through that first night and did not ever need her binkie again, we have to adjust and get used to the new reality that replaces them--that new reality that both breaks and molds us at the same time.

Mystery Pants

This morning, I pulled a pair of workout pants out of my freshly-laundered stack of workout clothes and put them on.

They didn't seem familiar. At all.

I have two similar pairs, which I purchased together a few months ago. One is plain black and the other is plain black with little zippers in the bottom sides of the legs. I looked through the stack and located the plain black ones. So I wasn't wearing them. The ones I had on did not have zippers. I checked. Three times.

So where did these come from? My mind raced.

I'm fanatical about my laundry. I start it religiously every Thursday evening as soon as I get home. I have all my kids' clothes (and mine) in rotation, and, as soon as anything stops working--gets too small or ruined--it goes out of rotation. I know very well what clothing all members of my family have right now. I knew my older daughter did not have pants like this, because I've watched her supply of pants dwindle down as she's grown this year to only jeans plus one pair of nice black slacks.

And those were hanging on my shower door to dry. These were not nice black slacks. More like leggings.

My younger daughter is eight years old and skinny as a rail. Some of her clothes are still size 6X.

I have not brought any old clothes like this from the past into my rotation.

I have not gone shopping for workout clothes recently.

Did I pick them up at the gym somehow?

The idea of picking up someone else's workout clothes at the gym seemed remote. I mean, there are a lot of other pants around, but people are wearing them! That I could accidentally pick up some pants someone was not wearing seemed really odd. The only opportunity for that seems like it would be when I gather up my own clothes and stuff them into my gym bag after my shower.

But whenever I enter the shower, I always look at the floor where I lay my stuff, because, more likely than not, there will be a big hair clump or something I'll want to avoid. (I wish my gym would hire a different janitor.) That I wouldn't notice a pair of black pants sitting there on the floor seemed really remote. Like, impossible.

Could someone at the gym have accidentally stuffed them in my bag while I was drying my hair?

I asked my husband if he knew anything. He said he did not. "You bought them and forgot," he offered. As I am not suffering from Alzheimer's, I rejected that option completely. I asked my daughter, and she denied borrowing anything like the pants I had on. She said she could not imagine how I had obtained them, either.

The pants seemed a little tight but not too bad. I just really did not think I had ever worn them before. And I just could not figure out how they got into my laundry at home.

It is April Fool's Day, but, still!

I located my husband alone in the library. "You had another woman in the house," I said to him, "and she left her leggings here in her hurry to leave."

He laughed out loud. Loudly! And long.

That was somewhat reassuring, but, still, the pants remained a mystery.

I went back to folding clothes until it was time for me to leave for the gym.

Then, I went into the bathroom to check the pants label. "Green Soda," it said, which heightened the suspense. I pulled the other tag straight so I could read it. "Size 7/8."

They were my baby girl's pants!

I took them off and carefully folded them and put them in her pile, hoping she wouldn't notice how stretched out they were.

I guess the good news is that I could fit into her pants, even for a minute.

And may all April Fool's jokes played on me be played by myself!

It's Not Me, It's Everyone Else

I spent most of yesterday in the emergency room. I was not sure I belonged there. As it turned out, I didn't. It seemed that other people had the same angst.

Within the ER, the rooms were all full. I was told I would "start" out in the hall. (Seven hours later, I was still in the hall.) I was okay with that as long as they didn't make me strip and put on the gown lying there on the stretcher.

I busied myself with my newspaper and Sudoku puzzles.

From time to time, a woman came out of a room next to me and slid a curtain between me and her door out of the way to stare at me, then snapped it back in place. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, pretty, and sad. Hospital personnel could be heard telling her to go back into her room. Apparently, she wanted the hall. I would have gladly traded her. But then they might have stopped referring to me as "the dissection" and put me in the psych ward.

One time when she was wandering and someone told her to go back to her room, she asked, "So, am I just supposed to f-ing sit there and f-ing worry?"

"Yes."

After a while, the woman started lobbying on her excursions out to use the phone. "I should get to make at least one phone call," she asserted. "It's inhumane what you're doing to me."

"This is the ER," she was told.

When that didn't work, she tried, "I really have to find out what happened to my son."

"I have to ask your nurse," one guy told her, three times. The last time, he added, "If he says it's okay, then I'm all for it. I'm looking for your nurse right now."

"Do I have one?"

"Yes. His name's Russell." He walked off again.

Another man walked down the hall past her door. "Are you Russell?" she asked.

"No, I'm not."

After a few not-Russells came by, she got to make her phone call.

Unfortunately, the phone was right behind my head.

First, she called her mother. I wasn't trying to listen, but she was standing right over me. "I hate my sister," she announced, first off. "Do you know what she DID to me?" Then, "Fine, don't *#$@! believe me." A torrent of thirty more of these bad words followed, then she was on to the next call.

"Hi, Christina, I want to thank you for what you did to me," she said in a soft voice. Then, slightly more insistently, "I want to thank you for what you *#$@! did to me. I *#$@! appreciate it! You're out of my *#$@! life. Don't *#$@! call me again. *#$@! ever!"

I had to wonder what it would be like to receive that phone call.

Third call: "Jordan? When I get *#$@! home, you'd better be *#$@! out of my house! You *#$@! went too *#$@! far this time."

(Not one word about any son.)

Having triumphantly rid herself of everyone closest to her, she not only went into her room, but slammed her door. That showed all of them and us, too, I guess.

I only hoped she wouldn't make any more phone calls. I started asking every male who passed by if he were Russell so I could place that request. Just kidding.

It was clear to me and the hospital staff--and her family and boyfriend--that this woman was not in her right mind, either from something she took or just because. But I think she thought she was doing fine.

It made me reflect on how little we can see ourselves as others see us. God made us so that we cannot see our own faces without outside assistance. We can see our hands and most other body parts, but we cannot see our own faces. I remember being quite struck by this fact as a small child. Then, relying on mirrors, I forgot about how weird I thought that was. Maybe it's to help keep us humble. Maybe it's so we'll have to learn to rely on others to help us get an accurate picture of ourselves.

I'm sure her family and friends were trying to help this woman. I hope when she comes down (or up), she will be able to see that, and get a glimpse of her true self.

I hope I can, too.

Suicide by Gym-Goer

At my gym, there is a mallard duck that sits in the parking lot. He doesn't move when a car drives toward him. He just sits there. You get closer, closer, closer. He doesn't even look at you. And, of course, all the cars carefully edging closer to him WITHOUT hitting him have taught him he's in no danger. I can't tell what about the parking lot is attractive to him. It's. . .a parking lot. There's a pond right across the street. But, no. Yesterday, I didn't see him as I pulled into the lot in the dark, until I got out of the car. He had taken up residence in the parking slot next to me. With a little less luck, I would have had duck a la king on my tires. He didn't care. He's either too dumb to realize that a car can hurt him, or he doesn't care. The day before, he'd parked his heiny behind my car, so I'd backed up v-e-r-y slowly until I was sure I could go no further without flattening him--which was not very far, then went forward through the other parking slots (good thing no one was parked there). I'd like to teach him a lesson, but, unfortunately, that's a lesson a duck can only learn once. And, while I'm not an animal lover, I don't want to hurt any. I can only hope he never parks himself RIGHT behind my tire. I now understand the term "dumb duck." Also "dead duck." What is it about the parking lot, I wonder? Is he excited by the cars? Is he hoping to meet the right car sometime and hop into it and take off? Maybe he hates the cars and is waiting for an opportunity to leave a bomb on them. Is concrete nicer to sit on than grass? Maybe he was hatched in a parking lot and a car imprinted on his brain as his mother. Maybe he's trying to find her. Is he trying to be a hot-shot? Maybe he wants to work out? Last year, he usually had a girlfriend or two with him, but I can see they've given up on him now. So my guess is he's either psychotic or depressed. Maybe he was at the bottom of the pecking order at the pond and has nothing to lose. Maybe he really hopes someone will end it all for him. Unless his luck holds out, it could happen any time. I just hope I'm not the one who has to do it.

LOL Haters

Last week or so ago, there was an article in the newspaper about LOL haters, thus introducing me to a segment of the population of whom I had never before been aware.

I mean, I know different people have from time to time a word or a phrase that just doesn't sit well with them. There used to be a guy who regularly addressed his opinion that we should not say we're "grateful" in prayers because we should just directly thank the person to whom we are grateful, since we're already talking to Him. He had a point, actually.

Twenty years or so ago, my husband says he used the then-popular term "No doubt!" so much that his school-teacher sister put the kabosh on it. I am taking his word on this as I have not heard it much from him. No doubt!

So, I was not surprised to read that there are people who hate "LOL," but I was surprised to read about the venom with which some hate it. And, more so, the seriousness with which people take it.

"I make it a point to never type 'LOL' unless I am actually laughing out loud," one person was quoted as saying. Really? Does s/he never say, "Sure" in response to someone unless they know what they said was true for absolute fact? Do they never say "Okay" to acknowledge they heard someone unless they absolutely agree with what was said? It's hard to understand such angst about a tiny little one-syllable blip.

I would not call myself a "LOL lover," but, as a term, it has its place.

It can mean anything from a slight smile to "Yes, I heard you," "That was funny," "I see your point," "I like that," to "Hilarious!" It's a quick way to acknowledge, approve of, respond, reply. It's useful. And, like it or hate it, as other terminology before it, it seems to be here to stay.

Time's Up!

Last time I was asked to serve in the church in a new calling I wasn't especially thrilled to have, the sacrament song that day was, "Thy Will Be Done."

"Okay," I thought. "I probably had that coming." I mean, if the Savior could step down from being the Creator to take on a humble earth life for a while--a life that would include outright torture by the end of it--I guess I could give up the calling where I feel I'm doing something important in order to play the piano again.

But it smarts. It seems to me that anyone can play the piano in meetings. All the children in the ward have been growing up with piano lessons for decades. Why can't someone younger do it? Someone for whom it would be a challenge? Maybe even exciting?

We usually get attached to our church callings. When I was the chorister, I didn't want to stop to be a Primary teacher. When I was a Primary teacher, I didn't want to stop to do something else.

Sometimes, we wonder if our efforts have been recognized and appreciated. Sometimes, the less faithful among us wonder if the calling was really as inspired as it was supposed to be. A bishop actually said to me once when calling me to head up an organization that he had not prayed about it--I was just the obvious person.

That's really hard to take when you don't know if you can do the job. At least, you want to feel like it's part of some grand design and all the "guarantees" will apply to you. You know what guarantees I'm talking about--that God won't give you more than you can handle, that there is a reason for you to be in that particular position at that particular time so that something wonderful can occur that you and your grandchildren can talk about in testimony meeting for years to come.

At the very least, you hope something good will come of what you are being asked to do. You hope all the work you did in your last calling won't be destroyed by your successor. You hope you can find something meaningful in the next task, even a completely mindless one like banging out "As Sisters in Zion" every single week for the rest of your life.

It's also hard to take when you don't want the job. I mean, if the calling isn't inspired, isn't meant to be, doesn't place you where God wants you--then doesn't that kind of mean that your bishop is just a neighbor asking you to do something? Shouldn't that give you the option to accept or decline as suits you? You say yes because you put your trust in the mechanism that says that you're a cog in the machine that is the body of Christ, and, no matter how lowly your position, it is an honor just to be there, serving in "some lowly place in earth's harvest field," as the hymn says.

You don't want to start hoping you'll get called to some stake calling just to get out of the current one.

So we need to believe that saying yes is right, because of course the people with the idea to fit you there in the structure had some kind of spiritual manifestation.

I've also heard that a lot of people say no, just because they don't want to or don't feel equal to it. That makes me wonder--what are they saying? Do they then feel that the calling must not be inspired? That the bishop is just a neighbor? Or do they just not care whether they foil the "grand design"? Do they not believe the scripture that it's an honor to serve anywhere in the church?

I guess my take on this is that, in the right spirit, we can seek our own confirmation that the calling is appropriate. Maybe we're not being asked to grow ourselves this time around, but to foster the growth of someone else. Maybe we'll grow or be helped or be needed in ways we cannot anticipate.

Maybe there's not any big, grand SUPPOSED TO out there, other than just following through with what we're asked to do. Maybe we can find it in ourselves to follow through and just wait and see what happens next. And then we'll get it.

Having your calling interrupted abruptly also brings to mind these truths: that we are not in charge of everything in our own lives, and that we do not always get to say when enough is enough. I know stories of people who found out quite suddenly that the were simply out of time in their whole life--not just their favorite calling. "Really? It's just over--like that?" can apply to anything from losing a job to your house burning down to your parent/child/spouse/sibling dying to hearing "You're not my mom anymore" to finding yourself on the other side of the veil with no power any longer to change anything left unfinished to our satisfaction.

Are we going to be ready for that?