Beginning, Middle and End

We recently renegotiated our satellite dish contract, a lovely little dance we engage in once a year when they raise our monthly fee. Consequently, we received a few weeks of free movie channels, the company’s way of saying “thank you” for buying into dozens of channels we need about as much as we need a hundred bottles of Marshmallow Fluff. I rarely watch television, but it does provide a good motivator on those days when I exercise indoors. While my husband plays heavy metal during a workout, I find the distraction of a good movie helps me bring my knees a little higher and push the weight a little longer. Nothing says “Work it, girl!” like Dr. Who or Sense and Sensibility.

I have enjoyed this temporary break from Netflix and the chance to watch a few movies I would have forgotten to watch otherwise. I do have one complaint, however. Unless I time my exercise just right (simply not gonna happen), I end up watching portions of movies and rarely catch the story from beginning to end. I start a movie with just half an hour left of my workout and realize with a sigh that I will never find out whether Sandra Bullock finally gives in to Hugh Grant’s charm or aliens win the war they have waged against a future earth. (Oh wait, aliens never win those, do they? And everyone eventually gives in to Hugh Grant; he’s just that charming.)

Having watched the beginnings of some movies and the endings of others, I have decided that, if I have to choose, I am definitely a “start in the middle and see the end” kind of girl. There is something so very satisfying about a conclusion, particularly one that someone else designed. If I come in at the middle of the story, I imagine the beginning, putting together the pieces from the dialogue and the story as it continues. But imagining an end to the story in my head feels like cheating. Besides, while I can turn a phrase now and again, conclusions have always given me fits. I tend to end my pieces rather abruptly, without much elegance or substance. Give me another writer’s twists and turns and winding up scenes, and I will watch happily while applauding their brilliance. I might even shed a tear or two if I’m feeling particularly hormonal.

Mosque over Tomb of the Patriarchs, Hebron (photo by  Mirari Erdoiza)

I suppose I apply this penchant for conclusions to my outlook on life, as well. At the risk of sounding apocalyptic, I love the thought of living in the winding up scenes of the world, a time when the history and philosophy, the literature and science, the art and music and religion of thousands of years blend together in glorious ways.  I even have a few story lines in mind that I hope to see through to the end.

• For instance, I know the path involves devastating wars and impossible heartache, but I want to see Isaac and Ishmael come together again to honor their father Abraham, as they did once long ago in the field of Ephron (Genesis 25:9). Come to think of it, there are a few more brothers and sisters who could stand to come together in Ephron and remember a common heritage. God, for reasons of His own, may seem to favor one person or group over another in the short term, but that hardly gives us an excuse to do the same. 
• On the national political scene, I hope to live to see some wise recess monitor teach the boys and girls in the Congressional playground to play well together. After two hundred years of setting the rules, they seem to have forgotten the basics.
• Our world has evolved quite far from that first garden. I look forward to a day when we as a people evolve enough to remember the commission to take care of the garden, to cherish both our Eden and the plants and animals that grow there.
• Technology that seemed fantastical science fiction decades ago has become a reality. Perhaps I will never have the chance to give the “beam me up, Scotty” ready call, but I hope to see the day when I can travel the world—and even the stars—by miraculous means.

And, though I probably will not live to see the end of the world as we know it, there is part of me that dreams of waking up on that day when everything has changed. Back in my singing days, I used to sing a wonderful spiritual called “My Lord What a Morning,” and in my mind I can just catch a glimpse of that day “when the stars begin to fall.” I can feel a bit of the wonder, breathe a bit of that new air. I imagine the stars will fall long after I have moved on, and I will find I have lived the middle of the movie, after all. But, when it comes to the heart of the matter, what is a conclusion but a commencement?

No Apologies: I Am a Believer

(Author's Note: This piece appeared originally on the Mormon Women blog.)

Who am I? I am a writer, or at least I aspire to be one.  I am a teacher. I am a wife and mother. And I am a believer.

Why am I Mormon? I came by my religion the easy way. I inherited it from folks like my Great-Great Grandmother Decker who crossed the plains as an almost single mother and helped found Parowan, Utah. But my faith, the reason I stay? Now that raises a different question entirely. My wilderness hikes and forest prayers have never led me to burning bushes or shining pillars of light. No angel ever stopped my tracks on the road to Damascus.

And yet, like the Savior’s companions in a storm-tossed boat, I have received the witness of peace. I have read the scriptures, seeking for wisdom, and marveled as words once spoken to prophets took new life in direct answer to my pleading. I have knelt in prayer and felt the warmth of the Comforter envelop me. I have taken the advice of the Book of Mormon prophet Alma to "experiment upon the word" (Alma 32:27), acting on subtle promptings, and I have watched my faith grow as the Lord took my hand.

I have a dear friend who challenges my faith. She cannot fathom how I can accept the history of polygamy in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints or support a priesthood to which I cannot be ordained. I have thought a great deal about that. Every Mormon woman at some point has to grapple with her relationship to these issues of faith and others like them, and unfortunately epiphanies come with a built-in “non-transferrable” clause. God knows the value of a good test of faith, and pioneer ancestry hardly makes one immune to the need for conversion.

For me, that conversion has come in stages. As a young adult, fresh out of the comfortable arms of home, I read scriptures on a mountainside in Wyoming and recognized a tender mercy in the magnificent double rainbow that appeared just when I needed a creative “hello” from my Heavenly Father. As a young widow, I came to the quiet realization that God’s plan of happiness was true. The plan became more than merely a lesson taught by young missionaries or enthusiastic Sunday School teachers. We really do live again. Families can last forever.

And here, in my middle age, I am beginning to learn to trust in God’s love for me, for all of His children. I have seen too many prayers answered to claim coincidence. Joseph Smith once said, “I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation.” (Joseph Smith-History 1:25)

While the angel Moroni very kindly lets me sleep at night, God has sent me numerous angels from all walks of life. He continues to supply the wisdom that I lack. I cannot deny that. I am a believer.

Moonlight Magic

I greeted a friend last night and noted the weariness apparent in her face. Her eyes mirrored the expression in so many faces I see. Perhaps autumn catches us all a little off our game with the abrupt switch from the delightful chaos of summer to the post-vacation structure of papers to sign, appointments to keep, children to motivate. Perhaps this friend, like so many of us, navigates a period of transition.

In a couple of hours, another friend enters the hospital for surgery and the beginning of treatment for breast cancer. She wonders if she will find the strength and the courage she needs. I know she will. My oldest son adjusts to life after a two year religious mission, reminding himself how to negotiate finances and dating, while his brother prepares to enter the mission field and give up the world for a time.  One cousin finishes a college degree in mid-life, while another battles cancer and contemplates graduating from life a little early. Meanwhile, I bike through falling leaves, and the wind carries a chill from the north. The seasons are changing.

This year feels momentous for me. It isn’t really, in the eternal scheme of things. We have our own family transitions, with half of the children living on their own now and the two at home growing so quickly. And yet, we still get up every morning, drink our kale smoothies for breakfast, send the children off to school, go to work, wonder how we will pay the bills even though we know the money always comes through in the end. The sun rises and sets. The farmer will harvest the corn outside my window soon and then plant again in the spring, as he does every year.

Perhaps this year feels momentous because I want it to be, because I believe it has the possibility of sparkle and depth. Some days, many days, I feel the weariness I saw on my friend’s face last night. Today I feel oddly powerful as I sit in my office in my workout clothes, procrastinating exercise and listening to my dog snore on the floor at my feet.

For me, the new year begins with the close of summer. This year the close of summer found me in the Wyoming Rockies while I crossed “hike the Wind Rivers” off my bucket list. My adult boys and I spent a few perfect days hiking, philosophizing, and soaking up beauty in the Green River Lakes region. In the evenings, I watched the moon rise over the mountains while I stirred the fire. For me, Rocky Mountain moonrises hold a special magic, the promise of adventure. They carried me into adulthood my first summer away from home and presided over my farewell when I headed East for a new life. I can see clearly in my memory the progress of the moon over the mountaintop, teetering on the edge for strength before launching into the sky.

Obviously, the moon holds no inherent magic, whether it rises over the Rockies or over a Midwestern cornfield. But perhaps, if I work hard enough to let that moonlight shine through this change of seasons and into the next, I can bring the magic in. I can write more, pull myself out of a rut and into a rhythm, reach higher, breathe more deeply, soak in more of the beauty that surrounds me. I can make the year momentous.