Singing in the Ward Choir

I’ve been singing in our LDS congregation (or "ward") choir for, I don’t know, over 30 years. When we moved to this neighborhood with two tiny little girls and a baby soon to arrive, we started going to choir practice. When the kids were little, Paul and I would take turns attending rehearsals. When they got older we would leave them in the care of the oldest child while we practiced. Neither Paul nor I are great musicians, but we go because we enjoy making music, and we enjoy being with friends while we do it. Over all these years--as I have practiced a harmony line over and over, or listened while the bass line practiced, or stood to sing the song through—I have often thought about the parallels between singing in the ward choir and serving in the Lord’s church.

First of all, a ward choir has no audition. Anyone is welcome—in fact anyone who shows up to practice is welcomed ecstatically. We are so glad for any warm body who is willing to join us. Our choir size has fluctuated over the years from as big as 20 to (more often) as small as 8. We are thrilled to have another member. We will take you as you are and help you to be better, but there will be no criticism. The director might gesture toward the sopranos as a whole and chirpily suggest, “Let’s tune up!” Someone in your section might say, “I think we tenors need to go over the harmony in measure 32.” But you won’t be singled out and shamed. All are welcomed and all have an opportunity to improve. That is what church is for. Everyone can come; everyone can learn.

Also, everyone is different. In our choir we have Kim and Maria, who are high, pure sopranos; Glenn who is a profoundly deep bass; and every other vocal range in between. This is good. The music is written for this kind of variation, just as the Lord created us all to be different and designed His church to take advantage of that variation. Some are great teachers, some are great at organizing, some are super with children, some are good speakers. Each of us has something different to contribute and thank goodness for that. Nobody can sing all the parts of a four-part harmony—certainly not at the same time! And we don’t need to feel that we should be able to do everything as well as the next person. I never feel bad that I can’t hit that low G like Brother Glenn. Likewise, I don’t need to feel bad that I’m not very good at thinking of crafts for Relief Society (the women's organization). We need each person with each different talent.

But here’s the deal. Though all our voices are very different, being a choir means we need to work together to sound like one “voice.” Our director is always saying, “Listen to each other.”  She has us practice saying our vowels the same way, practice scales so we hit the same notes on the same sound, and she keeps saying “listen.” When I was a teenager singing with my mom in our ward choir, I had a different idea. I thought, “I want everyone to hear my pretty voice.” I would sing out over my neighbors so I would stand out. That is not the way to have a successful choir. The woman who stands by me in our ward choir has a beautiful solo soprano voice. The director often reminds her to listen to the other sopranos and match her tone to them. As a whole, we have a goal to sound unified and to present the music in a way that sounds lovely. As we serve in our wards, we also need to keep our minds and hearts on the overall goal, that of helping each other to grow closer to God. We need to listen to one another, we need to help each other. We need to beware of pride.

In the choir we are helped in this goal by our good choir director. She listens to all of us and each of us. She has studied the music carefully. She has prepared herself to know how to help us become better. She helps us know which passages we need to practice more carefully. She has us practice exercises that will prepare us to sing more beautifully. She will talk to us about the meaning of the song and how the composition of the music reinforces the message. And when we sing, she uses her arms, her fingers, her face, her whole body to help us interpret the meaning of the song, singing softer or louder, tenderly or powerfully. But sometimes we don’t watch her; we bury our heads in our music following each written note, trying to figure this out on our own, rather than looking up to her to get the spirit of the music.

Sometimes I think we have the same problem in the Lord’s church. He is there to lead us through our “music.” He will help us know what we need more practice with. He will provide us with exercises to learn better. He will help us to work together to bring about His purposes. He will show us the spirit of what we are doing, the meaning behind each individual note, the purpose of all our individual actions. But in order to benefit from His direction, we need to look up, we need to connect with him. We need to listen to His guidance.

About once a month our ward choir performs in church. Often we assemble in the choir seats feeling unprepared. We are a small choir of volunteers with few really good singers. We practice once a week, and not everyone can come to every practice. Sometimes we wonder why we are even trying.

But somehow, every time we perform in Sacrament Meeting, we sound better than we did in practice. Somehow the spirit of the song, praising God, comes through. I have come to believe that, as we have tried so hard to prepare, when it comes to performance time, the singing of our little choir is augmented by heavenly voices. We somehow accomplish, together, in our good purpose, what we could not do alone.

In just the same way, I have found that as we try to serve the Lord, as we listen to others, as we humbly accept both our failings and our abilities, and, especially, as we ask for and heed divine help, we are able to do whatever is necessary to build the Kingdom. The angels are there to help.  

The Drama Llama and 3rd Grade

The Drama Llama came to my granddaughter’s 3^rd grade playground last week. Her tight group of friends suddenly told her she couldn’t play with them anymore.

This is the little girl whose motto has been “Always believe they want to play with you!” She’s the girl who can make friends after five minutes in the hotel pool on vacation.  She skips off to school every day, expecting nothing but good things.

These are the friends she had giggled and laughed with. At recess they slid down snowy playground hills in their snow pants.  They skated at the roller rink, laughing uproariously.

When the leader of her group told her, “We don’t want to play with that girl,” my granddaughter asked, “But what if she’s fun to play with?”

She went on playing with these girls.  They  sang pop songs together on Karaoke and planned on being stars. They started a classroom craze of making little creatures—called Bobs-- from pompoms. The question on everyone’s lips was, “How many Bobs do you have?”

   

Then, suddenly the Drama Llama arrived; my granddaughter was informed she could no longer play with the group. They even sent her a nasty note, saying she was a bad singer—which is not only untrue, but probably the cruelest thing they could say.

As a grandma, I wanted to hurt those mean girls. I had sleepless nights. I tried to think how to shield my sweet little granddaughter from such cruelty.

I’ve seen the Drama Llama before. I’ve seen my teenage daughters hurt by friends they had once trusted and whom they had believed would be friends forever. As a child, I had my own encounters with the Drama Llama. I remember crying silently in the dark backseat of some mother’s car, being driven home after ice skating lessons, where my friends had made fun of my skating and refused to skate with me. I remember wanting to stay inside at recess because I didn’t think anyone would want to play with me. I remember sitting on the curb playing jacks by myself and being lonely.

But the Drama Llama also visits older women. I know a woman in her 70s who doesn’t like to go to church dinners because she doesn’t think anyone would want to sit with her. As a middle aged woman, I was crushed when my best friend remarried and told me she didn’t have time to spend with me.

I have heard of a girls’ camp with an extra tent: anyone who had trouble getting along with the other girls could go to the tent. They called it the Drama Tent.

So, is the drama inevitable? How do we banish the Drama Llama?

The 2002 publication of Rosalind Wiseman’s book Queen Bees and Wannabes: Helping Your DaughterSurvive Cliques, Gossip, Boyfriends and Other Realities of Adolescence sparked widespread conversation about Mean Girls Syndrome. The hilarious and disturbing movie Mean Girls, written by Tina Fey, furthered the awareness and discussion.

But this mean girl behavior describes adolescents and older, right? A 2010 New York Times article reveals otherwise: “While the calculated round of cliquishness and exclusion used to set in over fifth-grade sleepover parties, warfare increasingly permeates the early elementary years” ("The Playground Gets Even Tougher," Pamela Paul, October 8, 2010, New York Times). Paul’s article suggests that society is to blame, that in the media and perhaps in their homes, kids see that appearance is all that matters, and it is funny to make fun of others.

What can be done? Maybe this is just life, and we need to teach our daughters and granddaughters to simply toughen up. Maybe my sweet granddaughter just needs to learn to give as good as she gets and be mean back. Maybe she should be a Drama Llama too.

But I like this research. In a 2012 longitudinal study, 9-11-year olds were asked to perform three acts of kindness per week. (A control group was instructed to visit three places per week.) The results showed the group practicing kindness were not only happier than the control group, but they were also more popular with their peers. They were more well-liked, they were less vulnerable to bullies like the Queen Bees (“KindnessCounts: Prompting Prosocial Behavior in Preadolescents Boosts Peer Acceptanceand Well-Being,”) Perhaps the best way to banish the Drama Llama is through kindness.

But this does not mean that our daughters need to appease the Queen Bees who are ostracizing them. Jesus taught us to love our enemies, and I’m sure he loved the Pharisees and the Sadducees who tried to thwart his teaching and eventually killed him. But, in his love, he clearly pointed out their faults: he told them they were whited sepulchers, he cleared the money changers. We need to teach our daughters to be kind, not to give in to unkindness. And we ourselves need to think more about how to help others than about how others treat us. Then our daughters and their mothers and grandmothers will find other kind people to support them.

This is in fact how my good daughter counseled her little girl. She sent her to school with a treat to share and said, “Go find someone who looks lonely. Share the treat and play with her.”

And our girl is now bouncing off to school again.

But she still misses those giggly friends, I’m sure. I noticed when she came to Sunday dinner, she brought along three little pompoms with googly eyes, three Bobs.

What do you think? Please comment below with your ideas for banishing the Drama Llama.

Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. (1 John 4: 7) 

Dirty Grout and a Nail Brush

Several years ago we replaced our vinyl kitchen floor with tile. My more experienced friends, like a Greek chorus, tried to warn me of the impending doom. 

“Noooo!” they cried. “Don’t do it! You will be fighting filthy grout for the rest of your life.”

But we did it anyway. Tile just seemed so sturdy, impervious to damage. Surely the grout thing couldn’t be that bad.

But within weeks the lovely tan-colored grout (Notice the second mistake I made—choosing light-colored grout) was turning dark. A few months later anyone walking into my kitchen would think my light brown tiles were fashionably accented with black grout. Except that the black grout was only in the traffic areas; the lighter grout remained by the wall and in some corners, mocking me, and clearly showing that the grout was not black but filthy.

Sure, I mopped the floor and tried to keep it clean. But the grout remained black. Once I even hired a steam cleaning company to work their magic. But no magic ensued. “Hmm.” The befuddled cleaner mused, “Guess it’s not going to come up.”

So I figured this was just my punishment for not listening to my wise friends. I was stuck--filthy grout for the rest of my life or until I replaced the tile with wood flooring or vinyl. Years went by.  I kept telling myself that no one noticed the black grout was really filth.

Then, just last week I was talking on the phone when I noticed a spill on the floor. I grabbed a rag to wipe it up and in my scrubbing I happened to scrub extra hard on the grout.

Guess what? Some of the dirt came up. I was amazed.

My phone call ended and I grabbed a bucket, spray cleaner, a micro-fiber rag, and a nail brush. You know, one of those little scrub brushes you use for getting dirt out from under your finger nails when you’ve been gardening? I sprayed the grout, let it sit a minute, then scrubbed. Years of dirt pooled in the water around the grout. I scrubbed some more, then wiped with the rag, and—hallelujah! The original tan grout appeared.

I put an audible book on my phone and set to work. In a couple of hours, my arms felt like I’d been lifting weights, but most of my floor looked like it did when it was installed: beige tile, tan grout, clean floor.

I was amazed. All those years I suffered every time I looked at that floor. All those years of being embarrassed. All those years of thinking I had no control over this situation.

All I needed to do was listen to a few chapters of a book and work out my upper body. All I needed to do was take control and try. All I needed to do was know that I was not helpless.

Makes me wonder how many other seemingly impossible problems I can actually solve, if I try.

“Therefore, dearly beloved brethren, let us cheerfully do all things that lie in our power; and then may we stand still, with the utmost assurance, to see the salvation of God, and for his arm to be revealed” (D&C 123: 17). 

Of Evil and the God Who Weeps

In Sunday School class a good man asked, “Why don’t I see more blessings in my life? I try hard to do what is right. I keep the commandments, I serve others. And now I’ve lost my job. How can the Lord let that happen?”

Another time a friend sat in my living room and shared. “I’ve always believed the Lord won’t give you more than you can bear, but now I have cancer, and I can’t bear it. How could he do this to me?”

On Facebook recently, someone shared a news account of a baby who was horrifically abused by his parents. The poster prefaced the news account with her own comment: “How can anyone believe in God? If there were a God, he would not let things like this happen.”

I’m thinking about these comments this week because of a thoughtful essay I read in the Sunday New York Times, “Death, the Prosperity Gospel and Me,” by Kate Bowler. Ms. Bowler, an assistant professor of the history of Christianity in North America at Duke Divinity School, has recently completed a scholarly book about Christians who believe God rewards the faithful with physical blessings, what she calls the prosperity gospel, “the belief that God grants health and wealth to those with the right kind of faith” (Kate Bowler, NY Times, February 14, 2016).

Do we expect God to reward us with temporal, physical blessings because we are good? Conversely, do we believe that those who do not follow the commandments will be punished by God?

 If this were the case, surely the hospitals would be filled with non-believers. But of course, we know this isn’t true.

Ms. Bowler has also recently received a diagnosis of Stage 4 cancer. Though she is a scholar studying the cultural phenomenon of the Prosperity Gospel, and didn’t really expect God to reward her with good health, she now finds herself asking, “Why me?” She explains her response to her illness.

The most I can say about why I have cancer, medically speaking, is that bodies are delicate and prone to error. As a Christian, I can say that the Kingdom of God is not yet fully here, and so we get sick and die. And as a scholar, I can say that our society is steeped in a culture of facile reasoning. What goes around comes around. Karma is a bitch. And God is always, for some reason, going around closing doors and opening windows. God is super into that. (Bowler)

But I have also wondered  why God won't fix the problems in my life. I know he can. I have the faith. Like the woman with an issue of blood, I yearn to touch the hem of his garment and have my problems go away.

Sometimes it’s harder when you have the faith. You know God could do it—heal the dying son-in-law, cast out the demons of mental illness, send an angel to return a child to faith. He has done it before, and why doesn’t he do it now, for you?

I don’t know the answer to that, still. But I do have some thoughts.

God’s purpose is to help us become like him. This isn’t going to happen if this life is easy. So we lose our jobs and don’t have enough money or time or patience.

To help us grow, God gives us freedom to act as we will and to suffer the consequences of our behavior. He will not force us to do anything. Because of this bad people do bad things and mostly he doesn’t stop them. We suffer the consequences of our own bad choices and the bad choices of others.

As a schoolroom, He gives us a flawed, mortal world in which to live in flawed mortal bodies. This means that our bodies get sick and die.

God also offers us the ultimate help. He doesn’t say he will not give you more than you can bear. What he does say is he will help you to bear whatever you must bear, and teach you through your suffering. In other words he is not as concerned about what happens to you but how you react to it. He says, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:30).

I love this story in the Book of Mormon. The people of Alma have been made captive, forced to serve cruel masters, not even allowed to pray. But they pray silently, and this is the answer to their prayers.

And I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs. . . .And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord” (Mosiah 24:14-15; emphasis added).

The people of Alma were not immediately freed from their captivity, but they were given the strength to bear their burdens. I think that is the miracle that most of us can look for in our lives. Not that the unbearable trials we face will be taken from us, but that through faith we may be given the strength to bear them, and to even grow better through the trial.

And I do know God love us, and he weeps for our sorrows, for all the sorrow, pain, injustice, and tragedy in this mortal world.

In the Mormon book of Scripture called The Pearl of Great Price, God has a conversation with Enoch. In vision, Enoch sees with God the great suffering of God’s children. He also sees God weep. Startled, Enoch asks, “How is it that thou canst weep, seeing thou art holy, and from all eternity to all eternity?” (Moses 7:29)

God answers, “They are the workmanship of mine own hands, and I gave them their knowledge . . .; and . . . gave I unto man his agency; . . . .wherefore should not the heavens weep, seeing these shall suffer? (Moses 7: 32, 37)

So, when we lose our jobs or suffer illness or pain or sorrow or death, when children are abused, when refugees are torn from their homes, when populations are massacred, we can know that God weeps for us, for the entire world. And then he stretches out his hands, in love and compassion, to help us bear whatever it is, and to help us become more like him. 

Photo credit: James Christensen, Touching the Hem of God

Birthdays and Free Will

This week I celebrate a birthday, so I’m remembering birthdays past. Here’s a memory I am not proud of.

On my 22^nd birthday, my life was pretty wonderful. As a graduate student I studied great literature and I taught good students. I lived with delightful friends—girls I had lived with for years and with whom I had formed a kind of family. (You can see them in the photo here.) I had a boyfriend who was kind and funny (not the kind and funny man I married, by the way).

But my birthday was not wonderful. I woke up with expectations that all these good people would make a fuss over me. And they didn’t. No “Happy Birthday!” from my roommates. No birthday breakfast from my boyfriend. No impromptu birthday songs and cake in the graduate carrels. Nothing. All. Day. Long.

I, of course, remained silent. No hints, no reminders. But my hurt and anger grew and grew. Finally, when my poor boyfriend picked me up after dinner so we could go study at the library, as we always did, I blew up, right there in his rusty red 1965 Volkswagen bug. I cried and carried on and accused him and everyone I knew. Clearly, nobody cared about me.

We drove around. He listened. Finally, he said, “Well, I think I’d better take you home now.”

Tears still in my eyes, anger still in my heart, I walked through the door.

“Surprise!”

 There was a big sign, a big cake, and all my friends were singing. I was crying and laughing and feeling really stupid.

The next year, I had the same boyfriend. He had learned a lesson. That year he took me out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and produced a gift at every meal.

It took me longer to learn from that day. In face I’m still thinking about it.

I can think of several lessons I could learn. One is to let people know what my expectations are, rather than blaming them for not doing what they didn’t know I wanted them to do.

Another really good one would be to not be so selfish, not to assume the world revolves around me, even on my birthday.

Or I could just learn to have more faith in those I love, and to know that they wish the best for me as I wish the best for them. Maybe a surprise party is being planned!

But here is the lesson I’m thinking of now. The way other people treat me does not determine how I feel. I can choose whether I am happy or unhappy. I could have made that birthday a happy one by making breakfast for my roommates, by bringing candy to the graduate carrels, by taking time to think about the past year and the future year and all the good in my life.

I am responsible for my own happiness. I have that freedom and I have that responsibility.

But, still, I’m really glad my good husband, children, and friends made me feel loved and happy on my birthday. The party, the cake, the presents, and the flowers were great!

”Verily I say, men should be anxiously engaged in a good cause, and do many things of their own free will, and bring to pass much righteousness;  For the power is in them, wherein they are agents unto themselves. And inasmuch as men do good they shall in nowise lose their reward.”

Doctrine and Covenants 58:27-28

"Who Knoweth But . . .": Change and Attitude

When I was nine years old my dad received a big promotion. It was a great opportunity and as far as I know, my parents never considered turning it down. But this great promotion meant that our family would have to leave the beautiful San Francisco Bay Area of California, where my parents had lived for practically their entire married life. Worse yet, our destination was Minnesota. We were leaving the land of perfect weather and west coast sophistication for the land of a million lakes, humid mosquito-filled summers, and 20-below- zero blizzards.

I’ll never forget my mother’s description of the place after her trip there to look for a house. She went in March, when the chest-high drifts were melting and slushy. To tour homes, she had slogged through freezing mud and snow and sleet. I don’t remember her even trying to put a happy face on our new home in the north. For a gift she brought me something I had never owned before, footed flannel pajamas. “You’ll need them now,” she said darkly.

Still, we moved. For the first year or so my mom and I struggled. I missed my California friends and pretended I could communicate with them through telepathy. In school they made me do multiplication, which I hadn’t learned before, and they made me go outside in the snow at recess, even when it was super cold. Tears would leak out my eyes at the slightest problem.

But in a year or so, I made friends and learned to love the green summers and white winters. Minnesota became home, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Ten years later, my dad retired and we made plans to return to California. After the house was sold and the moving van loaded, my mom, dad, and I (now in college) sat in the car and looked at our lovely home and the tree-filled neighborhood. Silently we drove off. That night, we stopped in a motel in South Dakota, where I lay in the other bed and listened to my mother sob in my father’s arms.

But here is the lesson. In another year, my parents were happily settled in beautiful California.

It is always hard to leave what we know and go to what we don’t know. But we have to do it all the time.  My mom hated to leave California, and in ten years, she hated to leave Minnesota. But in both cases, we found happiness where we went.  I wish that my mom and I could have expected to find happiness sooner, I wish that instead of mourning my old friends and complaining about the cold, I could have seen the adventure and the joy of making new friends and trying new things.

I wish I had been more like the brother of Jared, in the Book of Mormon. His family had lived at the time of the Tower of Babel, had seen the confusion of languages, the loss of community. A refugee, cut off from all he had known, he had every right to complain. But instead of despairing, he and his family prayed for guidance, trusting that good things could be before them. They looked forward to better times in a better place, saying “Who knoweth but the Lord will carry us forth into a land which is choice above all the earth?”

I’m thinking about this now, because my son has a great new job which means he will have to leave a beautiful home in a wooded neighborhood, by a lovely creek, walking distance from the library. They will leave dear friends and a great nanny. I feel for them, knowing how hard it is. I’m hoping they can realize that what is before can be as good—or even better than--what they have now. It might be a land choice above all the earth. I hope they can look for happiness in the change ahead.

Of course, that’s easy for me to say. I’m not the one moving.

“And it came to pass that Jared spake again unto his brother, saying: Go and inquire of the Lord whether he will drive us out of the land, and if he will drive us out of the land, cry unto him whither we shall go. And who knoweth but the Lord will carry us forth into a land which is choice above all the earth? And if it so be, let us be faithful unto the Lord, that we may receive it for our inheritance.” (The Book of Mormon, Ether 1:38) 

"They Might Not Need Me; But They Might"

In the Mormon church, when someone in our ward congregation dies, the ward donates the funeral lunch for the family, usually between 80 and 120 people. In my experience, this is one of the sweetest acts of service we do, as the whole ward contributes to providing this peaceful, healing meal.

One woman has the responsibility of coordinating all the service; in our ward right now this is Crystal. On Sunday she passes around a “sign-up sheet” on which ward members volunteer to help. The day before the services Crystal brings disposable pans to everyone who volunteered to make cake or potatoes. The men clean the building and set up tables and chairs in the gym.

On the day of the services, women arrive around 10 in the morning to cover the tables with white linen and decorate with the centerpieces and table toppers we keep in a closet. After the services, while the family is at the cemetery, the donated food begins to arrive. The ward budget has paid for ham and Crystal has sliced it, covered it in glaze, and wrapped it in foil, ready to warm in the church kitchen ovens. As the women come to the kitchen door with their offerings, Crystal checks off her list: 5 green salads for 20, 6 sheet cakes, 6 dozen rolls, and 6 pans of “funeral potatoes,” the rich, cheesy side dish that is comfort in your mouth.

When the family arrives, the volunteers cover long linen-covered tables with all the delicious food and serve out the cake. The family visits and mingles as they eat the food provided in love. The women keep the serving table full and watch to be sure no one lacks anything. They stand and wait while the family visits as long as they want.

When, little by little, the guests leave the building, always stopping by the kitchen to say thanks, there is more work to be done. Men arrive to take down the tables and chairs. The centerpieces are stacked in the closet once again, and the table cloths are piled up, ready for Crystal to take home and launder. Leftovers are packaged to take to the sick and the elderly in the neighborhood.

At this point, those who have been at the church all day are a little weary. And this is when Kim appears.

Kim works, she has a young family, and she doesn’t much like to cook. But she does get off work around 3. So whenever there is a funeral, this is what Kim does. She shows up just as the rest of us are succumbing to exhaustion. Smiling and cheerful, she sets about wiping counters and washing dishes. She scoots us out of the kitchen as she wields a mop. “You all head home. I’ll take care of the rest.”

She probably only spends 20-30 minutes in her service. But oh how appreciated it is!

I learn from Crystal the great benefits of devoting long hours to service, of putting one’s own needs and well-being aside for a time in order to provide those in need with comfort and sustenance.

And I learn from Kim that even a small act of service can provide huge relief.

So the lesson is to serve. If you are in a position to give freely of time or money or talent, enjoy that opportunity to share.

But if you ever feel you are too busy or too incompetent or too poor to provide service, try to find some small way to help out anyway. Write a note, share a smile, mop the floor.  The little bit you offer may look small to you, but may make all the difference to those you serve.

“They might not need me; but they might.
I'll let my head be just in sight;
A smile as small as mine might be
Precisely their necessity.” 
― Emily Dickinson

“Give alms of such things as ye have; and, behold, all things are clean unto you.” (Luke 11:41)