A Mormon in Midtown

A Fifth Avenue Family Home Evening

2012-02-19T19:48:00.000Z

The 5th Avenue exterior of St. Thomas'

Now that we are again living together (hurray!), my husband and I have renewed our efforts of having Family Home Evening weekly as counseled by modern-day-prophets, a time when families get together weekly for a short spiritual lesson, a fun activity, prayer, and a treat. This is billed church-wide as a Monday-night affair, but we've had to modify the timing in order to keep this commandment to Friday evenings or Saturday mornings because of my husband's demanding work schedule.

In any event, our activity this week was visiting four churches Saturday morning on or near Fifth Avenue: St. Bart's Episcopal on Park Avenue, St. Patrick's Cathedral (Catholic), St. Thomas' (Anglican), and Fifth Avenue Presbyterian.

The architecture and feel of each was completely distinct. My favorite was St. Thomas' - intimate, and we walked in to beautiful organ music and the smell of lilies and roses from what must have been wedding arrangements. The Presbyterian felt astonishingly familiar, as somehow the Salt Lake Tabernacle and the replica in Provo were built in near-identical architectural style (anyone know why this is?). St. Patrick's was the most crowded, with tourists filling the gothic chapels. At St. Bart's, however, we had the most interesting experience.

We timed our visit to coincide with the Morning Prayer service, but then thought better of it, as we did not want to be caught the whole morning in that first church. On our way out the door, we encountered the female pastor conducting the service, and she asked us to stay. As it would only be ten minutes, we determined to stay.

We were glad of it: the service included beautiful verses and prayers. And did you know that it was the birthday of Martin Luther (the one with the 95 theses, not Dr. King also celebrated this weekend) yesterday? As the service closed and we again rejoined the pastor at the door, I asked what the significance to them was of the altar which formed the center piece of the chapel (and most churches). She was a bit surprised by the question and cited it as merely being historical and that that was where they prepared the eucharist.

She then asked to what church we belonged and whether we had altars and what we used them for. My husband and I explained that our altars date from Old Testament time when animals were sacrificed on altars to show the commitment of the faithful. Christ was the last blood sacrifice, the tomb acting as the altar (I often envision the Carl Bloch painting, pictured right). Our Sacrament, representing that sacrifice--the flesh and blood of Christ--is now placed upon our altars. We mentioned that our temples also have altars, but didn't go into depth of the similar significance of them.

She seemed to remember that their altars represented something similar. It was a good reminder to me that I know but should not let familiarity lull me into forgetting what the altars of my faith represent, and that those things that are placed upon them share spiritual real estate with Christ's body and blood, broken for me such that I may keep the covenants I have made and return to the Father some day.

doors to St. Bart's

gilded ceiling of St. Bart's

interior of St. Bart's - altar piece straight ahead (but the morning service was in a side chapel)

Hard to capture the beauty of the rose windows we saw

interior of St. Patrick's

holy water dispenser at St. Patrick's

baptismal font at St. Patrick's

The altarpiece of St. Thomas' (and the back of Lance's head)

Sorry - blurry picture of the rose window and organist at St. Thomas' below

anyone recognize this building?

hard to see, but it has an organ that looks similar to that in the Salt Lake Tabernacle

Defying Gravity

2012-02-19T18:43:00.000Z

See the man in the orange jacket up on the beam, placing it?
He's laying the frame for the 20 or 30-something floor (would be 29th floor in my building)...

I have spent the last week in New York City finishing up and submitting an article on which I have been laboring off-and-on for over three years(!), and have spent most of the time at my desk in our apartment facing this sight.

As I have watched the construction workers scale not walls, but large chunks of metal hundreds of feet above New York streets, seemingly without fear, I have gained new respect for the construction workers of this city. Not only must they have hard skills, they must also be able to rock climb, rappel, tight-rope walk, lift (and drag, carry, and place) weights, follow engineering designs, and understand and carry out precise math--all while braving the cold and enormous heights from which they work.

And I sit at my desk and think what I'm doing is not only hard, but should be paid significant sums of money. When did using a solitary bodily asset (one's mind) become worth more than using, say, 10?

Goodnight, Flat

2012-02-12T21:34:00.000Z

Well, as Adams said to Washington upon his succession of the presidency, our London sublettor is fairly in, and we are fairly out.

Looking over these pictures reminded me of the childhood classic, “Goodnight Moon.”

Here’s me saying goodbye to our belongings (actually used to create a picture inventory for our sublettor...)—until January 2013. Goodnight, Primrose Hill flat - you've been good to us!

Goodnight wine cabinet that we turned into a china closet.

Goodnight cutting board and counter, home to many a creative concoction.

Good night cooking implements and Lance's spade (!).

Goodnight table and chairs that I will recover and refinish upon our return.
Goodnight Minerva and Mossimo's iron candlesticks.

Goodnight Ikea shelves, bowl, and boxes.
Goodnight Habitat ottoman.

Goodnight Habitat couch that turns into a single bed (with the ottoman attached).
Goodnight ivory lamp.
Goodnight wicker magazine holder.
Goodnight mirror.
Goodnight gray walls.

Goodnight bed.

Goodnight office.

Goodnight birdbath.

Goodnight side table.
Goodnight brass lamps.

The Height of Discombobulation

2012-02-10T20:43:00.001Z

Marelybone High Street from the top.

I have begun to like New York. There is a certain familiarity in its demanding rush and efficiency designed around allowing busy people to get work done. I often will puzzle over how to get more done more efficiently and try to limit the amount of time, attention, and money I pay to the menial tasks of life. It seems all of New York agrees with this sentiment. There are grocery stores and drugs stores it seems on almost every block. There is a dry cleaner, tailor, and launderer, at least where I live, on the ground floor of every residential building. I need hardly leave my building let alone a one-block radius of where I live to run all errands. All restaurants deliver. Scratch that—everyone, restaurant or no, delivers.

I also appreciate the professionalism, even in small matters, although I’ve cringed a time or two at its implications. When the delivery of a few bowls and kitchen odds and ends were a day late, we got the distinct impression that the poor delivery man was excoriated.

Yet the moment I got on my British Airways flight this Monday evening for a quick trip to London (I’m helping to organize a chapter of a legal society at Oxford and was, before we moved to NYC the last week, going to use this as an excuse to see Lance, now to find a sublettor), I also had an overwhelming sense of familiarity I usually only associate with Utah and all things home. I was warmed by the stewardess asking if I’d like a spot of tea. There was a polite and kind formalism to all of the Brits around me, and I felt I knew them, or at least why they had such a difficult time being known.

Once I had landed, the sensation continued as I headed to my dentist appointment (don’t ask me why I go to a dentist in England!). On the way there, I enjoyed a leisurely stroll in the early morning down Marelybone High Street, one of my favorite London High (or Main) Streets, speckled as it was with delicious design shops, food shops, and, one of my favorites, a button shop. All of this low-lying charm was familiar, too, and I let out a sign of relief that I was in no rush.

So, who am I and to what city do I belong? Have I become a stateless person?

Love the classic black bookshelf with the turquoise inside.

Brittany, this was for you, love. Hand-painted plates!

Hard to convey here how wonderful this bookstore is. The sign inside painted on the crown moulding reads
"Through to Books Arranged by Country.

Is this the first Waitrose? Love the clock.

Can you see my reflection in this one? Finally arrive while the store was open,
wearing exactly the suit and dress coat for which I needed to match buttons...

I Think I'm Going to Like it Here

2012-02-03T03:53:00.004Z

View of Hell's Kitchen and the Hudson River from our apartment

I don't need to go far to enjoy this city. First, here is the view from our apartment over last night's sunset. Not bad.

I also am enjoying the soup from the Soup Man, otherwise made famous by Jerry Seinfeld's Soup Nazi episodes, a block away from our apartment. I asked to take a picture of the young man serving me, framed by the counter and shop front (it's not enclosed), and he looked at me steadily and I felt for one brief moment he would deny me soup.

I was lucky, and got this shot instead from a safe distance.

Together at Last - Moving to the Island

2012-01-31T02:54:00.000Z

Two weeks ago, on the day we celebrated Martin Luther King Junior's life and the ringing phrase "free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, we are free at last!," I found an apartment in New York City in which my husband and I could be together at last. I felt somewhat the same way as Dr. King.

My husband has made enormous personal sacrifices for my education and career. This has included beginning our marriage by being apart while I studied at Cambridge and then Oxford for a Masters until he moved out to England, and now, based on his prompting that it was "now or never," starting a doctorate at Penn. This second separation has been easier than the first, but still quite difficult. Thanks to a temporary transfer from his work (we'll return to London beginning 2013), we are separated no longer. Hallelujah!

More than being together, finally, it also means no more long-term, long-distance separations. Hopefully for forever.

So, for the third time this year, I have moved. This time, it is to a very small, densely populated, and brightly-lit island called Manhattan. Being a small-town girl who loves clean, beautiful places and hates spending money, I never thought I'd say this, but it's true: I'm excited to be here, and am looking forward to getting to know this little island.

I'll start by re-reading a book a good friend gave to me a few years ago - The Island at the Center of the World, perhaps getting to know one of my favorite bloggers, and checking out the Soup Nazi just around the corner...

Any other suggestions?

The Founders' Mormon Neighbors

2012-01-27T20:37:00.000Z

Now that I'm in the research phase of my doctoral program at Penn, I find myself often distracted by those things for which I am not looking, like this bizarre organizing schema for microfilm at the National Archives and Records Administration in Washington, DC.

Don't ask me why the Mormon Battalion pension (or pay) records from the 1840s were filed adjacent to the Continental Congress records, including the debates surrounding the Revolutionary War and Independence in 1776, but it was mildly amusing.

Mormon Battalion Records upper right, Continental Congress from I believe the second to fourth rows. Crazy.

Going to Church with George Washington, James Wilson, and William White

2012-01-24T23:50:00.002Z

This Sunday I was a few minutes late to my own church so I could attend a bit of a sung Eucharist with my roommate at Christchurch here in Philadelphia. I am familiar with the building, having visited it a few times over the years of tourist and research trips to Philadelphia.

Washington maintained a pew there for the many years (for the Continental Congress, Constitutional Convention, and while president) he spent in the city.

It was also good to visit the grave of James Wilson, who authored several drafts of the Constitution. He initially was buried where he died in South Carolina, but his remains were exhumed and removed here where he attended church and where one of his dearest friends, Bishop William White, preached.

William White was one of the few Anglican bishops to support the rebel’s cause and was the founder of the Episcopal church. (White also introduced Wilson to his first wife, Rachael Bird, and pled his case when she initially denied him.)

In leaving, I paid homage to Wilson, his grave covered in the fresh snow of the night before. I stopped the employee scraping walks from clearing the grave before my picture. As I walked away, I threw over my shoulder to take care of Wilson, as he had authored three constitution drafts, and was pleasantly startled when he retorted, “Oh, I know, he’s one of my people!”

Homemaker in Chief

2012-01-15T13:54:00.000Z

In law school at Brigham Young University (owned and subsidized by my church), I always knew at whose desk I could find the cookie of the week and whom to consult for knitting advice - Eliza. She was quite famous in my class of 150. She knitted in class, made amazing cakes for various occasions, and would return upon graduation to a beautiful country farm in Pennsylvania, a picture of which was printed onto her artistic business cards. And she was smart, too.

I always envied her pluck, her care for fine ingredients and natural, organic processes (she bought a loom in law school), and knowing exactly what she wanted to do with her life. I also imagined visiting her some day on that country farm and having my children come to know 'Aunt Eliza' and learn how to bake and sew and knit and be delightful in the process.

Well, the children aren't quite here (no, that's not an announcement, unfortunately), and she's moved to a country home with 30 chickens, a huge garden, fruit trees, and surrounded by "farmlets" in upstate New York (are all cities upstate called such if not The City?), but I did visit her this last weekend, and found all my fairy tale dreams to be true.

The loom, unfortunately, is gone, but she is dying her own wool with Koolaid (who'd have thought?!) and spinning it herself, collecting and selling eggs from her chickens, cooking up a storm with local, fresh ingredients (I had homemade bread, fresh, local cream, and just-laid eggs for a second breakfast there - unreal), has two adorable children and a doting husband, and has truly made herself a home.

She and her husband have made wooden furniture, a creche, cabinets and windowseats, bookshelves, a swingset for their daughter, a coop for the chickens, quilts, dresses, bonnets, aprons, shelves of canned goods, and the list goes on and on.

And I still envy her.

Yes, her husband made the built-in book shelves

The adorable ottoman? Homemade.

Yup, homemade.

Her husband built this, and she had local Mennonites upholster the cover and cushions.

David Archuleta is Trying to Be Like Jesus

2012-01-08T21:00:00.001Z

This is why I feel so passionately about teaching children in my congregations little-people hymns - because the songs stay with them and influence them to do good throughout their life.

David Archuleto was chosen as #2 on American Idol several season ago. Since his American Idol debut, he has become a national star. Recently, he has chosen to serve a mission for my faith, putting a successful career aside for two years to serve the Lord.

I shared this video today in Primary. The children gathered close around my laptop and, I hope, felt the Spirit as David belted a song with which they are familiar. I testified that if they actually learn and feel the songs I and others teach them this year, the songs will become a part of them and influence them the rest of their lives to do good, hopefully like the example singing this song, David Archuleta.

Taking Advantage of the Elderly

2012-01-07T00:32:00.000Z

I spent two weeks in Utah and eight hours in Arizona over the holidays, and took advantage of the opportunity to visit with my paternal and maternal grandmothers and my husband's grandparents.

It was as if I got to know them for the first time. For Grandma and Grandpa Toler, this was nearly my first opportunity, as our prior visits had been limited and usually focused on conversations with others in the room. This time, we got to spend an evening alone with them cooking, visiting, watching the Cosby Show, and putting them to bed. They were mostly lucid and shared jokes, poked fun of themselves (she called her Depends 'these glorious things' and he teased that he wasn't going anywhere so we'd always know where to find him), tender with each other, and seemed genuinely distressed when we left them. The evening was bittersweet as it may have been our last and if we did see them again, they would certainly be much changed.

For my maternal grandmother, it truly was like meeting her all over again. How had I supposedly spent so much time with this wonderful, spunky, kind woman over my 32 years of life and never really gotten to know her? At 93, she is the most mentally and physically capable of all our grandparents (perhaps combined). She whooped us all at cards and wryly kept us all entertained with her facial expressions and the unexpected saucy comment (while patting her backside to get the circulation going again, I asked her, teasing, if she wanted help spanking herself, she said, referring to her soon-to-be-arriving sons but knowing how devious she sounded, no, that's what she let the men folk do). I spent real time with her, got to know her hopes and dreams (she frets over why she is still here -- I believe she is still lucid, independent, and firmly grounded in her testimony of Christ to share her faith with the posterity she loves so much), and cried a bit with her. My time with her was a gift, as I feel I have added a new friend, mentor and companion--a grandmother--to those who care for and guide me. Not that she wasn't any of those things before, I just hadn't taken advantage of my opportunity to know it. I am eternally grateful that now, I have.

Finally, I visited my 90+ Updike grandmother in Mesa, Arizona on an unexpected, long layover there. I am sure this will be the last time I see her. She has long suffered from dementia and physical ailments, but she fiercely refuses to go, even repulsing the husband who has visited her from the other side of the veil, believing he is still trying to "boss her around."

I came prepared for my visit with my laptop so I could explain who I was and how I was related to her, where I lived, that I was married, in a doctoral program, and living between Philadelphia and London. I had been warned that it would not be a pleasant visit. But it was, on the contrary, spiritual and uplifting.

With each new revelation (they were all new to her - each time), she would tell me funny things and relate them to her life experience. You don't have children? Oh, that's good! I had so many boys - they were such trouble! You've been in college for 10 years? (OK, so I overestimated by a few years...) I should go back and get my masters so you can brag about your grandma - ok, I'm just teasing, but it is important to get as much schooling as you can and apply oneself, keep learning, and understand how to use money wisely. How much does your school cost, and how much longer will it take? (The price seemed exorbitant to her, but she was adamant in helping me with $500 or $1,000 from her stores of cash in various banks. I was touched, but of course refused.) How old are you? 32? Is that all? (What, do I look 45?) I've lost track of my age - I must be at least 40 or 50.

And so it went. When I pressed her to accept grandpa's invitation to come home to heaven because he loved and missed her, she looked at me with wide eyes and asked me if he had been bossing me around, too. She couldn't go until she had her house and garden in order - so much she needed still to do. I wonder if that determined woman will ever let go.

But I was grateful for my magical hour--I was told she rarely is that sweet or coherent. I had been holding her or her hand for a while and then I finally grabbed her wrinkled and tooth-chipped face and said "Grandma, I love you!" With clarity dawning on her face for just a moment, she said, "I love you, too, and am so pleased to have a granddaughter as educated and beautiful as you!"

It was all I could do to not lose it right then and there. That was more than the goodbye I was hoping for - it was a genuine miracle. She asked me when I would come and see her again, and I was evasive in saying I would write soon, which I fully intend to do. As long as she can read, I can write. Perhaps that would be a new practice to begin with all of my grandparents in this new year as I take advantage of my wonderful old/new relationships.

2011 Top Tens

2012-01-01T02:34:00.001Z

As 2011 draws to a close, my husband and I have reflected on the wonderful experiences we've had over this crazy year - me with heading up ConSource again (new website to be launched soon!) and moving to Philly to start a doctorate, him by staying in London to continue in his job in finance. We are grateful for many things, including this years' top tens (in no particular order):

Top Ten Experiences

1. Early morning breakfasts from our rooftop terrace overlooking London

2. Trooping of the Color

3. Having David McCullough ask me what he could do for ConSource

4. Petting a beluga whale at Sea World with nieces and nephew

5. Seeing what is being called the best Leonardo Da Vinci exhibit ever at the National Gallery in London (for my husband)

6. Bicycling (or swimming) through the blooming tulip fields of Holland

7. Time with grandparents - my aunt letting us spend an evening with grandparents and having another grandma beat us in blackout—we hope we look as good at 90+!

8. Arguing against the proposition, “This House Believes that Democracy is Essential for Human Progress” in an Oxford Union Debate and winning in a landslide (for me - we really mean republicanism, as good government needs the kind of deliberation smaller groups allow)

9. Visiting the temple multiple days in a row on our London temple vacation

10. Getting an article on the drafts of the Constitution – and the drafts – published (for me)

Top Ten Places Visited

1. Amsterdam

2. My ancestral home in Elburg, The Netherlands where my ancestors were baptized, married and buried in the still-standing church dating from the 1300s

3. Riding horses, a four wheeler, and an ancient cart pulled by a tractor (sleigh-style) at my husband's family farm in Robin, Idaho

4. My husband's family in Clovis, California--twice!

5. Bath, England for our anniversary

6. The Vatican

7. Our friend's country home in Terni, Italy with his niece and nephew

8. San Diego for my family reunion

9. Sheboygan, Wisconsin for my nephew's baptism and having my two-year-old nephew glued to my side for a week while attempting to write a 50-page paper for school

10. Vienna Austria

Happy 2012!

A Mormon at Midnight Mass

2011-12-27T19:24:00.001Z

I was a bit of an interloper Christmas Eve.

My mother and I linked arms around our very young friend in a somewhat less young body to secure her from the ice, snow, and steps, stole through a backdoor into the priest’s quarters, and were escorted sideways through the long line of eager, possibly once-yearly worshippers and up through the gorgeous vaulted artwork and excited hush to a front side pew of the Cathedral of the Madeleine in Salt Lake City for Midnight Mass.

I had only tried this once before, perhaps ten years ago when my sister lived in Salt Lake. It didn’t last long, as my sister became ill and my brother and I had to escort her back to her apartment a few blocks away.

But tonight I was there to stay for the duration. Or something. After being seated properly, the large building became very warm and the lights went off as a spotlight highlighted the reader for the Introductory Verse. I quickly fell asleep (how did anyone stay awake under those conditions?) and then awoke for the angelic choir and orchestral music, and each time I had to stand through the hour-and-a-half service.

In between my groggy attempts to stay awake and being lulled back to sleep by the music, I felt myself aware of two things: Catholics generally do much better (other than our beautiful Tabernacle Choir) at music – where do they find such voices?! – and felt gratitude that my own faith had donated quite a bit of money towards building and upkeep of the highly decorated building.

Behold Your Little Ones

2011-12-19T18:06:00.002Z

21 And when he had said these words, he ^awept, and the multitude bare record of it, and he took their little children, one by one, and ^bblessed them, and prayed unto the Father for them.

22 And when he had done this he wept again;

23 And he spake unto the multitude, and said unto them: Behold your little ones.

24 And as they looked to behold they cast their eyes towards heaven, and they saw the heavens open, and they saw angels descending out of heaven as it were in the midst of fire; and they came down and ^aencircled those little ones about, and they were encircled about with fire; and the angels did minister unto them." (3 Nephi 17:21-24, Book of Mormon)

I have traveled out to Wisconsin for my nephew's baptism for one of nine (9!) of my sister's children. Any one who knows me well or even a little has heard me mention them -- my favorite way to add shock and awe to any conversation.

But the real reason I bring them up is because they are such wonderful examples of what it means to live our faith. Somehow, my sister and brother in law have been able to parent in a way to produce children who are clever, fun, and full of faith.

Their faith was demonstrated to me again this weekend when my sixteen-year-old niece gave a talk on the gift of the Holy Ghost at her brother's baptism. She explained that once he was baptized, he will be given the gift of the Holy Ghost by special priesthood ordinance. It would serve several functions in his life from thereon out - comfort him when sad, warn him of spiritual and physical danger, testify of truth, and, perhaps most importantly, let him know when he would need to repent and become clean again.

She explained that everyone feels the Spirit differently - she feels it as a burning in her heart - and that, while she wasn't always worthy of having it with her, she cherished it and wanted him to come to know, understand, and love the peaceful feeling which had brought her so much happiness.

It was a really powerful testimony, in part because she wasn't an adult who was "suppose" to know what to say and do. As she taught and testified, the Spirit bore witness that what she was saying was true, and my little nephew was rapt. He also said he felt the Spirit.

There have been other moments when the faith of these children have been manifest - in my two-year-old nephew's eagerness to say prayers, in my newly baptized nephew telling me upon learning that he was suppose to read his scriptures every day that (with concern in his voice) he didn't read them every day - he read them every night (cute!), in my teenage nieces' choice of words and attitudes towards helping out with the younger children, in their plans for their future, and in their philosophy about learning and seeking careers while allowing and planning for motherhood.

It has reminded me of the time during the Savior's visit to Ancient American upon his death and resurrection in the Book of Mormon when he called for the little children to be brought to surround him. He then blessed them, and, after praying (perhaps so the little ones could hear and have their own faith stimulated?), commanded the multitude to, "Behold your little ones!"as angels and heavenly fire descended to surround those children.

I wonder how often those of us who are blessed to have children of our own or to enjoy others' children pause to behold our little ones. I certainly have been in awe as I have "beheld" the faith of my sisters' children.

Making a Mistake in Primary

2011-12-11T19:56:00.001Z

I've been asked to lead music in Primary again (a promotion/transfer from pianist) in my Philly ward, and I got the kids ready to perform two songs next Sunday - something from the Church's children's magazine a couple of years ago, and "He Sent His Son" (linked below as a song - it's not a video).

It was a lot to ask of the kids to memorize two songs in one day, but I thought them up to it. The little kids, or junior primary, did really well. The Spirit was strong, especially at the climax of the latter song: "How could the Father tell the world of sacrifice, of death? He sent His Son to die for us, and rise with living breath." Powerful words and spirit, especially as I have them crescendo towards the end of the phrase.

But the older kids, and the many boys it comprises, struggled. I told them we would keep repeating a phrase until I saw everyone's mouths moving. I had one boy sit up and after a couple of times with no mouth moving, I asked him to leave the room. I instantly felt something change.

Then another boy would not stand up and rather slouched on the floor and wouldn't budge. I didn't have time for dissenters, especially those who were so powerfully impacting others' ability to learn. So I asked him to leave the room as well.

The Spirit was not strong, even during "He Sent His Son" for senior primary. When I asked the kids if they were feeling it, none of them gave a ready answer. As I reflected on this, I realized the problem had been me. In not dealing more kindly with my quiet dissenters, and allowing them to learn in a way that was not distracting from the other kids, I had chased the Spirit out of the room. I needed to apologize.

The two boys came in near the end of Primary. I grabbed them after the closing prayer and before they fled, and told them I had been wrong, that I was very sorry, and would they please forgive me. I was shocked to hear one little boy's response "I'm sorry. I was tired." After which he promptly hugged me. Pretty big for a nine-year-old. I got hugs from both of them - I'm so glad for the experience - it taught me a how humility works and what it means to learn from mistakes and gently allow others to make them, too.

In Need of a Blessing

2011-12-05T04:15:00.001Z

One half of what would have been our Christmas picture - me in our London flat today.

I had nearly gotten over one cold only to be smitten by another this week. This right before I was scheduled to take an extended weekend trip to London for work and to visit my husband.

I was frustrated and overwhelmed—I had been preparing for this trip and its business for weeks, needed to be sharp, and was so looking forward to seeing my sweet husband and spending quality, non-sick time with him. I was also worried about not getting good sleep on the red-eye flight to London and getting others sick.

As the hour of my departure drew near and I continued to retrogress, I reached out to the only other Latter-day Saint I had yet met at Penn law (I knew there were others, but had not yet met them). I knew him to be a worthy priesthood holder, and I asked him for a priesthood blessing.

He came to my office in a quiet corner of the library and administered a blessing just before I left for the airport. As he spoke, hands placed on my head, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. For the presence of the priesthood on earth today, for the worthiness of this man, and that, although he did not know me well, he was still able to act as a mouthpiece for my Father in Heaven to provide words of comfort, healing, and peace.

And you know, the blessing worked. I am now on my way back from London, having had a wonderful, productive time. I steadily have gotten better despite the red-eye flight, the changed hours, and the busyness of the trip. I believe I presented well in my long-prepared-for meetings, and the weekend with my husband was blissful.

I hope the man seated next to me on the plane fared as well…

One Little Deception

2011-12-04T19:32:00.000Z

The other day on my walk in to school, I came across a flier on the streets of Philadelphia decrying addiction to pornography and linking it to depression.

I was surprised to find the leaflet where I did, and indeed I am surprised (and relieved) whenever I learn of society condemning this pernicious ailment—in the otherwise time-wasting movie, Larry Crowne, in other church’s leaflets, and the occasional critical individual. It is nice to know that my faith, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is not the only entity fighting this crucial fight.

Heaven knows we need all the help we can get. Pornography is the #1 use of the Internet (on the brighter side, family history, including my faith’s premier tools and website, FamilySearch, is #2).

Pornography seems to be everywhere these days. Although blatant, out-in-the-open hard porn is not as prevalent in the U.S. as it is in Europe (several free daily newspapers in Britain contain “page 3 girls,” always topless – was absolutely shocking to this naïve American girl!), we still have our fair share of soft porn in the form of “innocuous” advertisements. It is everywhere, and it harms all of us.

Unfortunately, although my faith stands firmly against it, pornography is also a problem for Latter-day Saints. Like the pernicious evil of divorce, I know no one in the Church who is not affected by it—either because they are struggling with it themselves, struggling with a loved ones’ addiction, or attempting to provide comfort and assistance to either kind of victim.

It is almost as if Satan has caught us collectively and individually unawares. The sad story for most men (and, increasingly, women through the written word) trapped in the terrible web is similar: a teenage or adolescent boy’s curiosity is peaked, then aroused, then quickly bound.

On Thanksgiving Day, I heard of a documentary called “Deep Blue,” where a young father participating in a competition to circumnavigate the earth in a solo boat was faced with the prospect of turning back and losing the funding from his sponsor (and the means of support for his family of four children) or lying about his position. He chose to radio in a lie, and set himself on a course of lies for a period of seven months. As he fixed his leaky boat and waited at sea for the others to pass him on their circumnavigation, he finally realized that after a few deaths, delays, and destruction of his co-competitors’ leaky boats, he was set to “win“ once he pulled into port. Rather than live a lie in the presence of his family, peers, and the media for the rest of his life, he abandoned the boat, leaving the two logbooks – one truthful, one false – and never was heard from again.

Those suffering from pornography addiction are like the man in the boat. The vicious secret of pornography is that the first small deception at a tender and innocent age can lead to a life of sin and deception. The whole course of one’s life, testimony, personality, and relationships can be drastically affected by the first deception to self and God. Although they can make efforts to rectify their situation, they (and all of us, really) are helpless to overcome their mistakes on their own.

What the man in the boat and perhaps those caught in the web of pornography could not foresee is that radioing in the truth or calling for help after the first, second, or even 50^th deception will be much better than an inevitably tragic ending.

“Radioing in” can do much more than indicate our true position, however. Radioing in to spouses, family, friends, and priesthood leaders should help unwitting addicts courageously and humbly approach the Lord, who, unlike any power for the man on the boat, can correct the days months, years and even decades of small, wrong decisions.

Satan may have power to bruise our heels, but the Savior has power to crush Satan’s head! The Savior’s power can heal us individually and as a Church from pornography as we turn to Him and His saving grace. He is the only antidote—early and often, we need to turn to him, turn over our pride, and let Him cure, let Him correct, what we cannot.

While there are few things that are more devastating than the destructive wake of pornography, there are few things more inspiring than reading about or knowing Church leaders and members who have humbly called upon the saving power of the Lord to heal them and make them whole. The purity of the saved life is a sure testimony of the Savior’s atoning power. As a previous president of my faith has said, “Christ changes men, and changed men will change the world.” These men have not changed themselves; they have been changed, and the light in their eyes belies the source.

In addition to testifying of the saving antidote of the atonement, I hope to facilitate another solution as a future mother: prevention. I recall as a missionary a dear companion who taught me to teach the law of chastity with boldness and with excitement. I will follow suit in motherhood. I have considered long and hard about how early and in what manner I will teach my children. I have concluded that I will be the very first in their lives to teach the sacred doctrine of chastity while being open and candid, focusing on the whys as well as the “thou shalt nots.”

Additionally, I will teach my children how Satan works and what his tricks are (probably have them read C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters) so they can learn to recognize him and, like Joseph in Egypt, flee the very appearance of evil. Too, I will teach them if they are caught, that there is a Savior. Through faith in the Savior’s atoning power and severe repentance, they can be pure again.

I certainly don’t have all the answers for how to maintain or regain personal purity in fighting pornography. Yet I write now to wage my own private war the best I know how in my own little corner of the world: by testifying not only of the change that Christ brings about, but that those changed men are now changing the world.

The "Progression" of Mitt Romney

2011-11-28T22:57:00.001Z

From my cousin's blog - Miles, the little boy covering Mitt's mouth, is too funny.

Last night I read a relatively negative article in the Washington Post undermining one of Mitt Romney's comebacks to being a flip-flopper - an enduring commitment to his faith despite its unpopularity (also an insider's dig at Huntsman, who has not been faithful by most standards) - by pointing out that even there, he has "progressed."

Yet the Post has unwittingly identified one of the great constants of my faith: eternal progression.

You see, we believe that when Christ said, "Be ye therefore perfect even as your father in heaven is perfect," that he actually meant it. That we are to strive, with the Savior's atoning help, to literally become like our Father in Heaven.

This is no small order, and has stunning breadth. Be a perfect father. Be a perfect business man. Be a perfect bishop, or whatever your "calling," or church responsibility might be. We recognize doctrinally that, for most things (it is relatively easy to be a perfect tithe payer with precision) this is not actually possible in this life, and we conceptually reserve much work on perfection, again with the Savior's help, for the next.

Thus the phrase "eternal progression." Yet progression also applies to this life. If we can't be perfect now, we at least can and should become better. As years pass, we should become more compassionate, more faithful, more knowledgeable, more...

For someone like Mitt, it is conceivable that he has adopted this philosophy in all ways, including politically. As long as he is progressing towards truer concepts and better understanding of policy, in his mind, perhaps, he is being constant. It's what our faith teaches.

Thankful for a little Turkey and a White Christmas

2011-11-25T03:06:00.001Z

The Macey's Day Parade always ends with a bit of Christmas as Santa's sleigh comes floating through. It's symbolic of American's hankering for staging their holidays one after the other - Christmas doesn't start till after Thanksgiving.

My family tradition is a bit the same way, except we end Thanksgiving Day with "White Christmas," a classic movie with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye (my all time favorite - all of his movies are a riot), famous Alto Rosemary Clooney (aunt to George), and dancer Vera-Ellen.

Although I am far from related family (left my sweetheart in California with his family to come back to school Sunday evening, but have spent the day with a bit of an adopted one here in Philly), I am still fulfilling this one tradition.

Above is a little clip of my favorite song from the movie.

I'm counting my blessings tonight as I go to sleep, one by one.

Sing, Choirs of (little) Angels

2011-11-20T22:45:00.001Z

For the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me.

D&C 25:12

Over the last month, I have been privileged to hear several prayers sung by four different choirs.

The first two were quite famous.

The Vienna Choir Boys in their tiny Hapsburg castle chapel sang beautiful Mozart auf Deutsch, with cascading, classic harmonies accompanied by a real quartet and organ. The mass they sang in their little sailor uniforms was a highlight of my recent trip to Vienna.

The other was the Gospel Choir of Greater London, who sang on set of Love Actually and other movies. A dear friend from Oxford was given an experience present for her 30^th earlier this year to be trained by and sing along with this choir in one of their weekly practices. She invited me as one of her allowed guests. I’ve never seen anything quite like it—no sheet music, no notes, just a organized and demanding conductor, jazz pianists and amps, and a chapel filled with articulate, strong voices learning the quite difficult songs together, always in harmony of thirds. In the few weeks since, I can still hear one of the songs reverberating in my head as it filled the hall:

“Jesus, be a fence all around me every day

Lord I need you to protect me as I travel on my way

Jesus, be a fence

Jesus, be a fence all around me every day”

It was really fun to see what the choir members were like—big burly men with dreads and tattoos, black women with blonde cornrows and jaw-dropping, amazing East London style. Yet these choir members were there in that church because they believed in what they were singing. I know because I could feel it. The Spirit was very strong that night, and I was thrilled to have been invited.

The last two choirs were not quite so famous, but my favorite of them all.

Once a year, LDS chapels are packed for everyone’s favorite Sacrament meeting: the annual primary program.

Because I have not yet been “released” from my calling, or congregational responsibility in London, as Primary Chorister in London and have also been asked to play the piano in Primary in the congregation I am attending in Philly, I have been able to witness two such primary programs this year, one in London, and one in Philly.

After opening song, prayer, business, and the Sacrament, or the Lord’s Supper, is passed, the stand of the chapel is filled with the littlest worshipers of the congregation, and delight all with half a dozen plus songs and give little talks while fidgeting, eating the microphone, and sharing their testimonies.

I was exceptionally proud of both groups. My little London troop were given two new songs at the last minute by the leaders who have been filling in for me the last couple of months, and so they didn’t think they could sing the songs without “visuals,” or prompts. I was sure they could, and the tykes proved me right.

The program in Philly was like none I have ever seen or participated in--and I’ve seen many, as

Primary chorister seems to be my perma-calling for each of my last five congregations. The children’s talks were their own. A thoughtful Primary President interviewed each one and put the talks into their own words, seamlessly stringing them together to fit the flow of the program as we moved in between songs from scriptures to temples to personal purity to their donations to the Ronald McDonald House.

This I have seen in Washington, DC. But in Philadelphia, each of the children—even the little three-year-olds—had memorized their talks. This also included the five year old with Turner’s syndrome, who recited the Ten Commandments. Pretty sure everyone in the congregation was moved to tears—it was flawless. You could feel all the little testimonies coming through loud and clear.

And the music had been sprinkled with extra musical instruments and harmonies by others in the congregation—French Horn, harps, organ and piano, violin. A little girl learned to play the auto harp to accompany one song and the senior primary boys learned hand bells, complete with gloves, to accompany another.

I admit to being doubtful that the Philly Primary program would be as spiritual as it could be. I know from long years of experience that the most important aspect of a program is that the children’s testimonies come through. This is often most possible when the songs are memorized and can be sung from the heart.

Yet it turns out that the Lord really does like beautiful music, and He blessed this special program with His Spirit in abundance. There may well have been choirs of angels—those with corporeal bodies and those with out—singing along in the last song, Praise to the Man. Regardless, it was a privilege.

In Search of a Diamond

2011-11-12T19:10:00.001Z

In cleaning my engagement ring (picture above, sorry it's small) this week, one of the small diamonds fell out.

I gingerly picked up the diamond and carried it towards the door of my office so I could request a small bag from the librarians in which to keep it safe. Yet as I opened the door, the tiny diamond escaped from my grasp and fell to the floor.

I promptly sank to my knees to scan the tightly-piled, multi-colored carpet within the vicinity of the door. There were “holes” in the carpet between tight piles and the carpet's base. Besides the risk that the diamond could have fallen into one of these holes, the color variations in the carpet made it very difficult to see any small item on top. After searching for 10-20 minutes, I began to be frustrated. I had gotten up awfully early to allow myself three full hours of study time before class. Now I was frittering it away in search of a lost diamond. As I am want to do about most everything, I began praying that I would find it quickly.

After several more minutes of furtive searching, I began now to be frustrated with God that my prayers were not being answered and my time wasted. I took a small break to read new emails, and found an email from a dear friend describing her decision to leave my faith and the fellowship of the Church.

She explained that she had never gotten a “yes” answer to her prayers whether the Book of Mormon was true and whether Joseph Smith was a prophet. For multiple decades, she was faithful, read the Book of Mormon, kept her temple covenants, and served dutifully in the Church. She struggled endlessly to find an answer.

My friend was not alone. I had just that morning learned of another who had similarly struggled for years to find an answer. The three miles' walk into Penn each morning occasion good opportunities to listen to my church's semi-annual general conference talks. Just that morning I had listened to a talk wherein a world-wide leader shared his multiple-decades-long walk of faith. He had prayed as a child to know whether the church was true, and did not get an answer till he was a missionary nearly 20 years later.

Why had these two decades' long walks of faith ended so very differently, one becoming a world-wide leader, the other leaving the faith altogether? Waiting so long for answers was foreign to me. I remember feeling and recognizing the Spirit at six or earlier at a siblings' baptism. I read the Book of Mormon before I was eight, prayed about it, and felt it was true. That process has repeated itself countless times throughout my 32 years. Indeed, my friend's experience prompted doubts and questions in response to which I requested re-confirmation of the truths I have long believed in, and again received a fairly immediate, positive witness of the Spirit. My divergent experience made it difficult for me to imagine the pain and agony of such a long search. Why had my experience been so different?

As I pondered these questions, I turned back to my diamond search. The analogy it presented was striking. Here, too, was something of worth. I knew it was there, somewhere, but found looking for it tiresome. I was frustrated it was taking so long, frustrated with God that He would withhold it from me for such a long period. He knew exactly where it was, but was requiring me to go through the painstaking work to find it.

Then I relaxed as overwhelming gratitude swept over me. I had never had to labor long for those things of even greater worth—the spiritual diamonds—in my life. I began to feel great compassion for my friend and her painful, long search. How difficult it must have been, how lonely, how frustrating. My physical diamond search took on greater meaning as I began to relate it to my friend's and commit, as she had, to finding that diamond no matter how long it took.

After an hour and a half of searching, I finally found the diamond—it had somehow travelled the distance from one side of the door to the other (width-wise) and was gently lodged against the wall where I could not step or press on it in my searching, driving it into the carpet. It had been kept safe for me, albeit hidden. I sat back in triumph and gratitude for many things.

I have thought much since about my diamond search and its analogy to my friend's long searching. I don't suppose I will ever know why she found an answer so very different from mine, but I can have compassion for the difficult journey she trod and respect for a decision of conscience about which she is sincere. Her experience does not weaken the strength of my conviction, but I am grateful that, for whatever reason, the nature and length of her struggle has not been the particular kind of challenge a loving Father has seen fit for me to pass through.

In the Leafy Treetops

2011-11-07T13:08:00.001Z

In the leafy tree-tops

The birds sing good morning

How do you do they say

How do you do today

In the leafy tree tops

The birds sing good morning

In the chill and calm of an early Sabbath November morning-after the pyrotechniques of Guy Fawkes night, my husband and I were serenaded by English starlings. This was to be the last such breakfast of the usual eggs, bacon, carmelized carrots and avocado (no, it never gets old) on our rooftop terrace overlooking London for quite a while – perhaps even until the Spring when I permanently return from Philadelphia.

The last two and a half weeks have been quite the European adventure, starring a gallant husband, dinner with a Supreme Court Justice, the Vienna choir boys, the Gospel Choir of Greater London, German law students and scholars, and very close and new friends here in London.

Yet possibly the most memorable moment of all came this morning when the starlings of Primrose Hill came to sing on an antenna not six feet from our rooftop breakfast table. One bird can make several different sounds at once—a chirping sound, one that runs up the scale, and a more throaty vibrating sound. If not watching the one-bird-band sing, one could imagine they were hearing several birds in chorus.

The serenity of the moment was perhaps emphasized by the juxtaposition of the night before, when we had watched a torrent of professional and amateur fireworks exploding in every direction across London from the same spot. Good friends had huddled with us there until the spitting mists and the chill drove us downstairs for a rip-roaring game of Taboo.

But now, rising early with the birds, the world was ours. It was peaceful and beautiful and scientifically awe-inspiring all in one. One golden little memory of London and quiet moments with my husband to take back with me to the States.

The Purity of Primary

2011-11-01T10:10:00.000Z

Primary seems to be my perma-calling (or lay responsibility in my faith). For the last five years and four wards, or congregations, I am always "called" to do music in the Philadelphia.

It suits me. I love getting to know the small cadre of intelligent women who serve with me in the Primary, I get to use an otherwise latent talent, I love children, and I especially love the purity of the gospel in primary.

Children need the gospel, or the message of Christ crucified, in its simplest, most basic form. I have learned by serving in Primary that when we can distill the gospel message to its basics, it is most powerful. But it is usually the children who teach this rather than the adults.

A few quotes from my little teachers are illustrative:

Q: "What does the Spirit feel like?"

A: "Strong!"

Q: "(Comparing growing faith to the sun, water, and soil need to grow a seed.) What are the three things we have to do to grow our faith?"

A: "There are actually four - reading scriptures, prayer, attending church, and going to the temple--and time."

(When encouraged to sing and do hand motions at the same time) "If Michael Jackson can do it, anyone can!"

Q: "If you can't see Him, can we really know that Heavenly Father is there?"

A: (emphatically): "I know He is there because He answers my prayers!"

Impromptu talk by my five-year-old nephew: "The 2,000 stwipling (stripling) warriors prayed a lot, and so the Lord gave them stwength (with appropriate muscle-flexing motions). In battle, not one of them died. And so, if we pray and have faith, the Lord will make us strong." (This accurate portrayal of the story is taken from Alma 56-57 in the Book of Mormon.)

It is a privilege to serve with these valiant little warriors. If my experience is representative of children all over the world, I have good hope for the future leadership of my faith.

I am not a Polygamist

2011-10-27T10:35:00.000+01:00

Taken the night before our wedding May 22, 2009.

I am always nonplused, perplexed, and slightly annoyed when I meet others' surprised gapes after they learn I am my husband's only wife.

And it happens, all the time, in disparate places of the world - in the Philadelphia airport by a fairly educated massage therapist (it happens) on my way out to Europe last week, and then again by eastern European graduate students at a conference in Austria in which I participated last weekend (again, I blogged more about this experience on my professional blog).

I read recently that a Pew poll showed the first word most Americans associate with Mormons is polygamy.

Yes, the restorers of my faith practiced polygamy from the 1840s (perhaps a bit earlier, depending on where you mark it) through the 1890s.

But, as my nephew says, "for crying in the mud!" It's been over 120 years, people!

The scapegoat for this misperception must be the media. They love doing stories on the ex-communicant group FLDS, and I hear the highly but subtly inaccurate Big Love HBO series, wherein a polygamist family is portrayed as a mainstream Mormon family, is all the rage. Makes me a bit crazy.

Culture within the church does not do much to help. We simply takes this historical fact in stride, and often make fun of it. Last go-round, Mitt Romney apparently was prohibited by his counselors not to tell a certain joke:

"It's funny that of all the Republican candidates for president, I'm the only one who has ever only had one wife."

It would have been funny regardless. The sad part of the joke--and perhaps, other than making an inappropriately personal, albeit subtle, attack on his co-candidates, the reason why he was disallowed from telling it--is that it would have only been fully understood by a very small fraction of the population.

Mitt's self-deprecating humor as applied to the faith is typical. I've often heard at extended family reunions someone pull out the wry phrase, "so which wife do you descend from?" to snickering all 'round. Too, a law school classmate at Penn had an LDS couple over for dinner. The husband said it was just too bad the other wife couldn't be there, too. When he was met with awkward stares from the guileless hostess, the LDS couple quickly explained that it was a joke and took the opportunity to explain how very far from the truth it was.

The historical fact of polygamy, however, is not always funny. I have had my own bouts of researching, struggling on my knees, and coming to terms with it. I admire the faith and courage of my pioneer ancestors who engaged in a practice they initially found revolting because they learned it was a commandment of God. (I've blogged about some of this here.)

Granted its past controversy and the current practice by break-away groups who have nothing at all to do with my faith, the misperception lingers. I believe at least some of the fault for it lies with members. Some church member should have taken measures to encourage HBO to change or discontinue its show long, long ago. We should not make the jokes, and we should be crystal clear about current practices and non-practices.

But then again, polygamy is so far from present LDS experience that it may just not occur to us on a regular basis that the misperception persists. I'm sure that is why I am always nonplused when I encounter surprised stares or make jokes that belly-flop.

You light up my something

2011-10-20T22:30:00.000+01:00

I write briefly from Austria (will post more tomorrow on my professional blog as to why I am here) to share this amazing union-jack/Aussie light-up tie my train conductor in Philadelphia was wearing with all of my British/Anglophiliac friends out there.

He seemed somewhat validated when I asked to take the picture and then post it on my blog.

Long live the "special relationship"!