Every year, my husband and I go on a very long date – two or three days long. It is our annual relationship renewal. We drive for three to four hours talking about all the things we haven’t had a chance to discuss in weeks. We laugh. We look out the window. We play loud rock music and sing. We buy Ho-Hos and eat ALL of them. We get pulled over for a traffic violation and then we arrive at the Shakespeare festival – totally ready for uninterrupted lovemaking, Thai food, and three comedies and three tragedies…not necessarily in that order.

This year “Romeo and Juliet” was playing in the outdoor theater that is timbered like the old Globe in London. The air smelled of rain. We had front row seats in the balcony and so were able to perfectly see as Tybalt killed Mercutio and Romeo killed Tybalt. Romeo looked up at the sky and yelled, “Oh, I am fortune’s fool!” Right on cue, a torrent of rain burst from the full clouds and poured onto Romeo’s upturned face. The bard could not have written it better.

Aren’t we all fortune’s fools? Do we feel like sometimes our destiny is not in our own hands? In Mormon doctrine, using our free agency is one of the most important doctrines we espouse. However, it is a hard concept for me to wrap my head around. I recently had to make one of the hardest choices of my life. My husband received revelation that I completely disagreed with. It affected me. It affected our children. It affected our finances. It affected what I regarded as my future happiness. I was mad. I wrestled with God for a confirmation for more than two months before He finally gave me an answer. The answer was again completely against what I wanted to do (notice the pronoun emphasis please). Now, here comes the hard part. Yes, I had the free agency to go against what the Lord asked me to do…but at what price? I would never want to go against His will. I relented…feeling cornered by the Lord and my husband, but hopeful that someday I would ultimately be blessed for the decision. How do we manage the fine line between obedience and our own choice? I felt like fortune’s fool.

At the end of this rendition of the play something unusual happened. Let me set the stage (ahem) for you. Romeo is dead in the Capulet tombs. He has drunk from the poison vial and fallen to Juliet’s side. She has awakened to find her love dead. She bemoans her fate in a short soliloquy and then reaches for the poison. There is not “one drop” left for her. She tries to kiss the poison off of Romeo’s lips. After she kisses him, Romeo GASPS AND SITS UP! At this point, you should have heard the response from the audience. I lurched to the front of my chair. I thought that perhaps the director had changed the ending! Oh, how everyone in that audience all hoped that Romeo was really alive and Juliet could rush him to the emergency room to get his stomach pumped! For a brief moment, stars jolted and turned and the world spun a different way. Our hopes were short-lived, however, when Romeo slumped back over and his eyes rolled back in his head. We were tricked. The lovers’ fate was sealed all along.

Have you ever had to make a choice you did not want to make because you felt it was the Lord’s will? Did it turn out well for you? Have you ever felt like you were set on a course that could not be altered? Did you ever wish to “defy the stars,” but were unable to change the course you were on?

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Situation #2: A little background: Someone close to me is actively trying to receive the Second Comforter. He is on his knees night after night asking the Lord what he needs to do next in this long process of being worthy. He knows that he must go through tests. He was in the checkout line at Maceys after a very long workday. He was tired and musing over the day. An old, very odd-looking gnarled-faced man walked up to the side of my friend and started looking over his shoulder into the cart. Disturbed by the intrustion, my friend moved his back between the man and the cart. The old man came to the side of the cart and not saying a word, looked at my friend. The man was stocky, with thin-grey hair, and huge hands. Suddenly, my friend felt he should just turn away. He did and the man left. Later, while praying, the Spirit told my friend that he was being tested to see what his response would be. The old man was not who he seemed. My friend was devastated.

Situation #3 – Last week, a man in my ward was sitting in his truck in front of the crosswalk at Macey’s grocery store. He watched a very old man start to cross the street. He was extremely old and shuffled at a very slow pace in front of all the cars. With no warning, the man fell head first on to the pavement in front of the cars. No one got out to help him. The man in my ward jumped out and helped him to his feet and helped him get across the street. The old man assured him that he was fine. My friend went back to his truck and got in. The old man was no where to be seen. Were the people in the cars being tested?

Situation #4 – My husband holds the key to our storage room sacred. A couple of weeks ago, I put the key in my shallow pants pocket and fully intended to put it back where it belongs, but left for the grocery store not doing so. While I was in Macey’s, I put my hand in my pocket and felt it there and reminded myself I HAVE to put it away when I got home. While I was checking out, I heard something metal drop, looked around and didn’t see anything. I thought maybe I had dropped a penny. I didn’t think about checking for the key in my pocket until I got home. I did and the key was not there. I had lost it. I called Macey’s and begged them to look for it. I dreaded telling my husband. I stewed about it all day. I thought I might have a two-day reprieve until he realized it was missing and maybe Macey’s would find it. I said a prayer that it would be found. Of course, within an hour of getting home he asked me, “Where is the key to the storage room?” I felt like Bluebeard’s wife. I told him everything. He was really nice and said I should check my coat pocket. I walked into the living room and checked my coat. There was nothing. He walked into the kitchen and I followed him. As I was saying the words, “I’m sorry. I don’t know where the key went….” when I loud PLING sound went off right in front of me on our tile floor. I looked down and there was the key, right in front of me. I SWEAR this happened. My husband turned around and I, pointing at the floor, started to cry. We were stunned. The Macey’s angel must have found it and brought it back to me.

Have your heart ever been tested by a stranger? Have angels ever dropped something in your lap? How does the supernatural fit into your Mormon paradigm?

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The first African-American man I ever saw, other than on television, was a doorman at the Hotel Utah, now currently known as the Joseph Smith Building. He was in his seventies with silver hair and a wide smile. He seemed tall to me. He put his hands on his knees when he bent down to look in my face. I have a picture with me standing next to him, but I don’t know who took it or why.

_____________________________________________________________________

The first polygamists I ever remember seeing, besides in family ancestor photos, were a bunch of children playing near a farmhouse. My Dad had gone there to help them with legal business and my sister, my brother, and I had accompanied him. I sat on their swingset, watching the group of dressed-alike children stare at me as long and hard as I was staring at them. I remember feeling uncomfortable in my capsleeves. A small girl, in a light blue dress walked toward me holding out a grey kitten. “Would you like to hold it?” she asked. I jumped off the swing and ran away.

___________________________________________________________

There was a single African-American boy that came to my high school my Junior year. I would see him in the halls and wonder how he felt. He graduated that year. I never spoke to him.

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Charleen pulled me into a beauty salon in downtown Florence, Italy. She was a Southern goddess and she didn’t mind telling that to everyone she met. Her hot pink fingernails and matching dress shone against her skin. She was the first black woman I had ever talked to. I was twenty. The Italian beauticians swarmed around her like butterflies, touching her hair. They had never felt a black woman’s hair before. I translated to Charlene, “They don’t know how to do your hair. They are afraid they might ruin it.” She snapped her fingers and told me to translate back.

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I heard my parents talking about him. He had been shot right in his office. He hadn’t done anything wrong to deserve it. He was just a polygamist. His name was Allred.

________________________________

Three years of being Rita’s visiting teacher and she never once let us in her house. Every month we would call, leave Ensigns, the Church News, cookies, or a letter. Eventually she started coming to Sacrament Meeting. She wore a dark pantsuit and would sit in the back. She would slip out before I could get to her. After eighteen months or so, she agreed to meet in our homes, never in hers. We became fast friends. A year after my companion and I moved away, we came back to be with Rita. We sat in the temple as her escorts. Her 48-year old black hand curled around mine.
__________________

He sat on my parents’ kitchen stool last Sunday, eating the remains of my Dad’s birthday feast. He is eighteen and living in the back room indefinitely while he takes missionary discussions. He’s from a polygamist family and the rules require him to not be at his home influencing his siblings with his decision to leave polygamy. He says that he has friends already married and he thinks he is too young. He’s from the group of Allred – the same man who’d been shot when I was young. His friends and family still live in fear of being jailed or shot. I’ve never talked to a polygamist. It’s my chance to ask questions other than the ones I’ve heard asked on Oprah.
“What are the doctrinal differences between you and Mormons, besides living polygamy?” I ask.
“Only two I can think of,” he answered confidently, “We believe in the Adam-God theory. We also believe that black people should not have gotten the priesthood because they’re Canaanites.”
“Canaanites?” I respond, confused.
“Yes. Descended from Cain.”
“Oh,” I mutter, shaking my head.

______

I think back to that very same morning in Relief Society. Kristy sits beside me. She adopted Milo who is now the same age as my boy. She has adopted her second African-American child – a baby girl she named Noelle. I ask to hold her and she is passed to me like an unwrapped present, swathed in pink, with a bow in her curly, dark hair. We play, smile at each other, she chews on my watch while I listen to the lesson about the Priesthood. “Through the keys of the priesthood, we can access all of the powers of heaven.” I hold her up and she dances lightly on my thighs.
_
We all have experiences that make us draw boundary lines. I’ve had to ask myself over and over where my lines are drawn and why. The lines have become more fluid over the years- sometimes invisible, sometimes deep. But I ask myself, “Should they exist at all?” What are your experiences that have given you insight into your own boundary lines?

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“My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires. His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.” (Song of Solomon 5)

For seventeen years, I have shared a bed with the same man. It has become a sacred place. There we have laughed, read, discussed, cried, fought, made passionate love, fed babies, comforted, been sick in, planned, prayed, dreamed, and eventually, I hope, will die in. In retrospect, everything that has happened there has brought me closer to God, but especially the lovemaking. Why? I have a few reasons.

First, I have had to overcome emotional issues that have only come up during sex. I have had to go to the Lord to help me deal and heal with those past pains. Second, because of sex, I have come to see my body in a completely different way. It went from something I despise, to an amazing gift from God that I cherish. I have learned to accept myself. I have felt life kick inside of me. I am completely amazed at the body’s power, something I never knew before sex. Third, when I truly abandon myself to this act of love and creation, for a few fleeting moments I feel like there is no beginning and end to my husband and myself. I am whole with him. Our bodies feel like one body. Our souls feel like one. Isn’t this symbolic of the oneness we should feel with God? It humbles me. When we come apart, sometimes I start sobbing. This probably doesn’t do much for my husband’s self-esteem, but how can I explain to him the deep longing to be one all the time? How can I explain how his love goes to the very core of my being?

I just finished reading the Christian fiction book Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers. It is based on the book Hosea in the Old Testament, but set in California during the Gold Rush. Sarah has been forced into prostitution at eight-years old. She is twenty when she meets Michael Hosea, a farmer and a man of God. Her bitterness toward men and God knows no bounds. Over time Michael teaches Sarah about God. When she finally abandons herself to Michael, she also symbolically and eventually abandons herself to God and His will in her life. Michael says to Sarah, “I promise to love and cherish you, to honor and sustain you, in sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, in the bad that may darken our days, in the good that may light our way, Tirzah, beloved, I promise to be true to you in all things until I die. And even beyond that, God willing.” …When he kissed her, Angel was lost in a wilderness of new sensations. It had never felt like this, warm and wonderful, exciting and right. None of the old rules applied…She was dry ground soaking in a spring rain, a flower bud opening to the sun. Michael knew and gently coaxed her with tender words flowing over her like the sweet balm of Gilead healing her wounds. And she flew, Michael with her, into the heavens.

Earthbound once more, Michael smiled. “You’re crying.”

“I am?” She touched her cheek and found a single tear.”

I think that God gives us the gift of lovemaking to remind us of Him. Through it, we are healed and made whole. Now, some people might find that thought disturbing, but I don’t. He is the Creator of us all. What a wondrous gift to give His children! For a few moments, I am completely enveloped in love and the fruits of that love are a stronger marriage and four beautiful children. I experience Oneness in my marriage bed. We are creators – creators of love, even when I am looking into the eyes of my beloved over a four-year old and the belly of a stuffed frog.

Have you ever experienced the feeling of Oneness with God? With your spouse? Do you strive for Oneness in your relationships? Has lovemaking taught you anything about God? (Now there’s a question for a Relief Society meeting).

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The first aggravation is that TPTB have put me as the Sunbeam teacher. The Sunbeams are all little gems to love, but this isn’t the cushy job of creating centerpieces for Enrichment, if you get my drift. After twenty-two blissful years in Relief Society, they decided to put me as the teacher to my own three-year old. Lucky me, you say? I DREAD IT! I love the Dickens (yes, as in Charles) out of him, but isn’t it enough that I have him all week, then wrestle with him in Sacrament, and now I have to deal with him for two whole more hours! That is laying the final straw on my sweet mother camel back.

The whole Sabbath morning I could feel the dread of dealing with a group of three-year olds starting to eat at me in between stopping my older sons from arguing. I kept trying to stifle it, but it kept knocking on the door over and over until I finally just opened and said, “Come on in and take a seat, already.” By the time the family entourage arrived at church to find a place among the rows of seat-saving scriptures, I knew I had no peace in my soul or song in my heart.

I pleaded, “God, take this nasty feeling from me so I will feel okay to take the sacrament.” “Father, I love your sweet Primary kids, but the fact is, I don’t want to come to church anymore. Please help.” I don’t think my prayer was really sincere though because I wasn’t making any headway in the black cloud department.

To add to my feelings of angst, a returned missionary spoke. He started talking about the atonement. I thought his words might be my balm of Gilead, but, alas, what he said only added bewilderment to my already grumpy self. He started talking about a “golden contact” that got pregnant at thirteen by a forty-year old man from the village. Then, how she married another boy and tricked him into thinking it was his baby. Then, he went on and on about the sordid details of “selling her body” and her life of “prostitution.” Luckily, at the end of the story, he brought her “hope” although she disappeared one day and they never saw or heard from her again. I looked over at my two pre-teen sons and wondered about the questions that would be forthcoming. “Mom, what does ‘selling your body’ mean?” “Why, honey, where did you hear that phrase?” “In Sacrament meeting, don’t you remember?”

After the RM, a fine high councilman got up to speak. “This should be good,” I thought. (Really, don’t read that in a sarcastic tone. I really thought he would be a good speaker). Alas, he asked a question I dread. Which drop of blood that Christ spilt am I responsible for? Which one of those drops had my name on it? This always makes no sense to me. “Oh no!” I thought. “What have you said?” My worries were confirmed when later that day our dinner conversation topic involved my eleven-year old calculating the total population of the world past and present and asked how each of them could have their name on each of Christ’s blood droplets. But, all’s well that ended well, the Speaker concluded with his rendition of the poem “Footprints in the Sand.” If you haven’t heard that poem before, I will personally send you a gift of the sheet music to the song “His Hands” or “I Heard Him Come,” if you prefer.

Before you write any comments below, I want you all to know that I am fully aware I have repenting to do. I was feeling overwhelmed, negative, and judgmental. And I will admit that this is not the usual sacrament meeting. I have felt the Spirit at my ward many times. However, the question that keeps coming up in my mind is why are there so many sacrament meetings like this? What can I personally do about it? How can I come and worship my Lord and Savior in an environment like this? Any advice? Please be kind, I need all my reserves to face the Sunbeams this coming Sunday.

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Forty is an interesting number, infinitely more interesting than thirty-nine. And, I quote, from some extremely knowledgeable internet site, “Forty is the number of trial and privation. Other negative associations for forty are:
40 years of Hebrew wandering in the desert
40 days and nights of the great flood.
40 years of Philistine dominion over Israel
40 days of Moses on Sinai
40 days of Elijah’s journey
40 days of mourning for Jacob
40 days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown, said Jonah.
40 days of Lent, the period of fasting, self-denial, and penitence traditionally observed by Christians in preparation for Easter.
40 day period of isolation in the Roman port, which survives in the word quarantine.”Christ also was in the desert for forty days and forty nights. That couldn’t have been too great of an experience either. Talk about “trial and privation!”
So, why, despite all the negative connotations associated with forty, do I feel so wonderful? This wrinkled, long-breasted, freckled, creaking body of mine has finally said, “Love me” and I feel like I’ve finally come to a place where I can unabashedly say, “Okay.” The temple in Salt Lake City took forty years to build, the same amount of time like it has taken my temple to evolve into what it is now. Its been in the arms of the man I love, borne four children, travelled the world, danced in strange places, eaten Belgian chocolate, and been sunburned by a Mediterranean sky. What more could forty ask for?
How do you feel about your age and body?

(And just for you old-timers, let us not forget that volatile year we came from: 1969- Nixon becomes president, Man lands on moon, Woodstock, Charles Manson murders, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Sesame Street begins, Internet created, Judy Garland dies of overdose, 250,000 protest in Washington, death toll reaches 34,000 in Vietnam, Smothers Brothers Comedy is cancelled, Melonie is born. Whew, what a year.)

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Jane Hirschfield says in For What Binds Us,
“…see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.

There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,
as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—“

Many times standing next to the man will be a quiet old lady who nods her head in agreement and smiles pleasantly as she listens to her husband. She has stood beside him many times before. She is proud of what he has done. My husband and I are always so amazed at the sacrifices of these people. Recently, I started taking interest in the other side of the story and asking the wife questions while the men talk on. What were her war stories? “He was gone two years. I had to raise the kids by myself.” “We moved nineteen times in twenty-eight years.” “I didn’t know any different, I was an Army Brat myself.” “We lost our son…our grandson…” the stories are similar.

They want to tell me about their children and their grandchildren. They want to tell me how they survived and even flourished despite the hardships. You see, they are veterans too. Motherhood veterans, wife veterans, laundry veterans, working-woman veterans, housewife veterans, nursing veterans, teaching veterans, prayer veterans, in short, woman veterans. We share a common bond of small triumphs in battle. Our proud flesh is seen in the wrinkles around our eyes and pulled taut across our strong backs. You would probably never know to look at us. We would never wear caps across our head displaying our battle insignias; they would be too countless to cover a cap. We certainly wouldn’t wear one that said, “Retired woman.” We never retire.
What we do wear is a confidence of heart. We should certainly recognize one another in our travels. There is a certain understanding that passes between us when we lock eyes.

What war stories would you like to share?

Segullah wants to salute all the military veterans, men and women, those alive and those who have passed on, who have sworn to defend the Constitution even to the giving of their lives. We thank and honor you.

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Are names important in the eternal scheme of things? Why would the Spirit extend itself enough to tell my husband the name of my son if it wasn’t important? I know my name has importance to me. It shaped my character, in a way. My first name was spelled in a slightly unique way –giving countless teachers pause. They would stop at my name while reading the role and ask about it. I had no middle name – a vast space between the first and last – it seemed to me. My last name was like a vital backbone holding up the shape of my life. My parents and grandparents were emphatic about the people who came before me and that I had a legacy to live up to. Names can create character. Think of Al Dente or Claire Blue Waters. How about Dan D. Lyons or Harry Caray? Don’t you think that their names shaped their lives?

Justine Dorton reminds us, however, that the most important name we can take on is the name of our Savior in her essay Names. She also reminds us of the links names can create between generations. Please take a few minutes to read it, if you haven’t had a chance, and reflect on the names that have influenced you. Then, let us know what you think and share your “name” stories in the comments below.

P.S. Be sure to sign your name.

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On Sunday afternoon she brought me a book and spent some time opening herself up to me. I was sincerely grateful that she was willing to share her insights and concerns about the future and how she is preparing her family to withstand the many difficulties she sees coming. Over the last couple of weeks, I have attended essential oil classes with her and discussed many facets of preparedness that I have not thought about. There are gaps in my family’s preparedness efforts that she has brought to light. Her interest in helping me is, I feel, a direct intervention from the Lord to wake me up.

She reminded me that the parable of the ten virgins can be looked at from a different aspect than just spiritual preparedness. Because the bridegroom was delayed, all the virgins slept. The flame depleted the lamps of the five foolish virgins during that time. The lamps of the wise virgins burned also, but they had a whole other flask of oil waiting to refill their lamps. They were prepared. The five foolish virgins were sent to the vendors to purchase oil and missed the wedding. Can you buy spiritual preparedness? No. In this way, the parable also reminds us to be prepared temporally.

There is definitely a preparedness page to be on. President James Faust said, “Every father and mother are the family’s storekeepers. They should store WHATEVER their own family would like to have in the case of an emergency”¦I believe if we are provident and wise in the management of our personal and family affairs and are faithful, God will sustain us through our trials.” Have you heeded the call to prepare? What insights can you give the Segullah readers as you have prepared your family?

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