Is Family Obsolete?

David Brooks recently published an article in The Atlantic, “The Nuclear Family Was a Mistake.” He points out the extended family model was common for hundreds of years,  multiple generations living and working together, with an economic necessity to be unified. In the mid-20^th century, that model shifted to the nuclear family—a father, a mother, and their children living separately. Now we are seeing a decline of the nuclear family, more single parents, unmarried couples, and more people just living on their own.  Brooks contends that the nuclear family is obsolete, that now, instead, we rely on “forged families’ –groups of people who choose a closeness, who care for each other in ways that families used to, though they are not related.

I generally like what David Brooks has to say, but this time I disagree. Reading the article led me to think about what I have seen of this trend in my own family.

My grandmother Leah was raised in a very tight-knit extended family. Her uncles and aunts and cousins lived within blocks of her home, and her grandfather would go out every morning to visit each of his children, carrying a basket with food to share, maybe some eggs or fruit or baked goods. When my grandmother was widowed at age 25, her parents insisted she move back home with them, even though they had to sleep on a cot in the dining room so they could give their room to her and her two little daughters. 

Leah had a degree in stenography, and her parents encouraged her to go to work while her mother watched the little girls. Then, in about six years, when Leah’s father died of cancer, Leah became the main breadwinner for the household, which now included a sister who was critically ill and her two children. When that sister died, Grandma Leah also supported her children. But she had lots of family support: her mother tended the four children while Leah worked, and her sister, just next door, always did the girls’ hair before school. 

My mother, Leah’s oldest daughter, went to college, received a teaching degree, and married a smart handsome young man from just across town, Henry. Henry had also been raised in a large, supportive family. His family was what Brooks called a “corporate family”—the four boys worked the family land, planting, cultivating, harvesting. They never received any wages, but Henry’s father made sure that every child with a desire went to college. 

After Henry and Leah, my parents, graduated and were married, they left their large supportive families and set off alone for California. My dad had a scholarship to study for an MBA at Stanford University. There they were on their own. Soon there was a baby, and that was the beginning of the nuclear family I was raised in—emblematic of the mid-20^th century, as Brooks describes it. Henry worked as an accountant 6 days a week to provide a good life for the family. Leah stayed home to raise the children, honing her skills as a seamstress and homemaker to contribute.  They never returned to their families in Spanish Fork. 

Though they were far from their extended families, this new family was not without support. Wherever they lived, they created communities of friends--“forged family” as Brooks would have it--that provided support. The fellow graduate students in Palo Alto, the church community wherever they lived, all became almost like family. We celebrated holidays with these friends and when my mom had a miscarriage, one of them traveled many miles to care for her.

I’ve also seen “forged families” in my own experience. I had a very close network of friends through 6 years of college and graduate school. When we moved to Canada as newlyweds, we relied on a community of friends there who supported us through loneliness and new parenthood. 

I have experienced all three models: the extended family, the nuclear family, and the forged family. Can the forged family take the place of blood family?

In my experience no. My college friends felt like “family” at the time, but then we moved away and now that close relationship is mostly just Christmas cards, if that. My mom’s close graduate school friends were always happy to see her when she was in the area, but she didn’t go to them for help when she became fragile, she came to me.

Close networks of friends serve a very important purpose, but generally that purpose is limited by space and time. You rely on one another when you are near each other, usually during a time when actual family is unavailable. Dear friends of mine immigrated to the States from Puerto Rico in young adulthood. They formed a tight network with other young immigrants, so tight a bond they call each other “framily.” They became aunts and uncles and cousins to one another for decades. But still, now that the original framily are becoming grandparents, with strong family bonds in their own [now extended] families, the bonds are not quite as tight as they once were. They are relying on their blood relations more than on each other. 

Because this is the thing about a family, a real family. 

It lasts. 

No matter what happens you are still brother, sister, mother, father, grandchild, grandmother. You may move. You may be angry. You perhaps won’t like each other much. 

But you are family. You have a shared experience. You have shared DNA. You have family recipes. 

Even when you don’t like each other, you need to hold onto each other. Because no one can be your family but your family. Of course, there are times when safe boundaries need to be drawn. But still you are family.

I think God made families not only to make life easier—though there is that, as parents care for infants and siblings teach younger ones. 

I think God also created families because living in a family is hard. When you have a fight, you can’t just ignore the former friend, not talk to them, and let the relationship die. Your family is always going to be there, and you need to work through the disagreement, you need to figure out how to forgive, you need to see the other person’s point of view. You need to do the hard work of loving someone.

And that is why I think families can never be obsolete. If families are indeed dwindling, if they are endangered, then we need to fight hard to maintain them. We need families, because that is where we learn to be human.

Things are Probably Not as Bad as You Might Think

“Have you heard about how raising minimum wage will destroy the economy?” I was enjoying ice cream the other day with two women I respect and admire. Then the conversation turned to current events with this comment from Friend A. From there, she moved on to health concerns, “And what about the plagues that are spreading throughout the world? No one is safe!”

I turned to Friend B, a biology teacher asked, “What do you think of the corona virus?” I was looking for a more balanced, rational approach to the concern. Friend B immediately responded, “The incidence of epidemics is increasing with global warming. We will have more and more of these epidemics unless we control climate change.”

That’s when I changed the subject. “Isn’t this great ice cream?” I exclaimed perkily. “How do you like your flavor?”

What struck me about both of my friends’ world views was the pessimism that undergirded their opinions. It seemed as though for one, liberal policies would be the downfall of the world. For the other,  it seemed climate change would destroy us. 

I like to call this kind of thinking horribilizing.

I prefer to look for more optimistic outcomes, and indeed, there is evidence to support such a view.

Let’s look at the case for economic doom. A recent piece in the Wall Street Journal, “The American Dream is Alive and Well” by Michael R. Strain explains that, though many voices on both the left and the right insist the middle class has been “permanently broken,” the fact is that the middle class is doing pretty well. The wages of workers (not managers or supervisors) has grown by 33% (after accounting for inflation) since 1990. From 1967-2018, the share of middleclass households has indeed fallen by 12%. However, the share of low-income households has also fallen, while “the share of households earning over $100,000 has tripled, rising from 10% to 30%.” So, it appears the middle class is decreasing because the upper class is increasing. Sounds like the economy is doing pretty well, even for those who are not in the top 1%. 

Now let’s look at climate change, and another recent article  (“Ignore the Fake Climate Debate”) which examined the nuanced attitudes toward climate in science journals, where even pessimistic scientists “do not believe that runaway climate change or a hothouse earth are plausible scenarios, much less that human extinction is imminent,” and the most optimistic scientists still “recognize a need for policies to address climate change.” Neither side foresees an immanent doomsday, and both sides recognize the need to do something.

But why do we general-run-of-the-mill folks tend to be filled with fears that something or other will destroy the world as we know it—Trump or Bernie; climate change or government regulations; world-wide pandemic or terrorism.

Likely it’s because we are swayed by the negativity bias—the way something bad takes so much more of our psychic space than something good. You know how you are much more likely to remember the one person who snubbed you at a party than all the friends who embraced you? The way you decide not to go to a restaurant because of one bad Yelp review, even though there are ten good ones? 

John Tierney and Roy F. Baumeister explore this bias in their recent book The Power of Bad: How the Negativity Bias Rules Us and How We Can Rule It. Tierney and Baumeister suggest that when we understand this bias in our life, we can work to find more balance. A simple example is that, at the end of the day, instead of fixating on the jerk at the office who doesn’t appreciate all the work you do, to instead make a list of three good things that happened today. This doesn’t mean you ignore the problems at the office, but that you also recognize the positive experiences. 

In a similar way, I think it is a good idea to follow the news with an awareness that of course journalists are motivated to highlight the bad stuff because that is click bait—the kidnapped child,  the plunging stock markets, the 14-car-pile-up on the freeway. We can’t help being drawn to the scary stuff. But, we can also force our brains to consider all the millions of safe children, all the times the market recovered after crashing, and the thousands of cars that safely arrived at their destinations. Usually there is more good than bad.

I saw a Japanese anime film recently that demonstrates this ability to see the good in the face of crisis. The film, “Weathering With You” by director Makoto Shinkai, depicts a Tokyo that is being deluged by never-ceasing rain. As the months go by, the water rises, until by the end of film, Tokyo is almost completely submerged. However, this is not a doomsday event. Instead, the people of Tokyo adapt. Instead of traveling by subway, they travel by boat. They move to higher ground. Their lives go on with very little change. As one character puts it, “It is not a problem.”

We will certainly go through bad things. There are epidemics and wars and climate crises and government corruption and corporate mismanagement. We should certainly not ignore these dangerous situations. But the way we can best fight them is not by throwing up our hands and saying we have lost. We will fight them with courage and resilience, by believing that good is stronger than bad, that, whatever doomsday scenario we can imagine, we as a human race are stronger and better.

Following the Hood Ornament: St. George, January 2020

When our kids were young, most Saturdays we would toss them all in the back of the woody station wagon and take off for “high adventure with Low Daddy.”  (An allusion the kids never got to a 1950s TV show, High Adventure with Lowell Thomas.) We usually had no idea where we would end up—we just said we would “follow the hood ornament.” (In those days cars had hood ornaments, small decorative pieces of chrome sticking up from the front of the car.) In other words, we just went where the car took us.

Since Paul and I have retired, we once again are “following the hood ornament.” We just take off and see where we end up. Once we thought we would go to Vernal (a small town in east Utah, about 2 hours away) for an overnight visit. We ended up wandering around Colorado for a week (rinsing out underwear in the sink each night.) One afternoon last fall, we headed to our local Home Depot, somehow missed the freeway exit, and ended up driving all the way to Burley, Idaho. I never know quite what will happen when I get in the car with Paul. High Adventure indeed!

So last Thursday we woke up and looked out at yet another grey, cold January day, with snow flurries eddying in the air. On a whim, I checked the weather in St. George, just three and half hours to the south. Clear skies and 60 degrees!

I turned to Paul and said, let’s go!

So we threw some things in overnight bags, hastily put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and headed south for the freeway. As Paul drove, I sent a group text to my kids to let them know our destination. Then I texted our good neighbor to ask her child to pick up mail and paper. This neighbor is well aware of our impetuous travel, since her kids always take care of our house while we are away. She just replied, “Sure! Have fun!” Then I called a St. George Marriott to arrange a room.

Having taken care of all the responsibilities of travel, I then settled back in the passenger seat to blissfully watch the scenery pass by.  Around Holden, the sky cleared to a wide expanse of blue. 

In St. George, we reveled in blue sky and 60 degrees. We headed to Main Street Town Square, a charming park in the middle of downtown. There we found planters filled with blooming flowers! And palm trees! And a splash pad that was splashing! And small barefoot child splashing and playing in the water! We were clearly not in January Provo anymore.

We walked around the square enjoying historic buildings of sandstone, a colorful carousel (not running just then), and quaint little shops in quaint little buildings. We stopped at the historic St George Tabernacle, noting the sign promising tours, and stepped in the back door. Sure enough, there were two kindly senior missionaries just waiting for us. We learned how the early pioneers had sacrificed in 1869 to build this beautiful building when they themselves were barely surviving in huts. We had our photo taken behind the podium where Brigham Young spoke.

Next we drove a few blocks across town to the striking St George Temple, which rises up surprisingly against the red rock cliffs surrounding St. George. It is closed currently, under construction to make it earthquake safe and return the interior to be more like it was in pioneer times. We went in the Visitor Center which was still open, and talked to some charming young sister missionaries who told us all about the remodel. When I looked at all the construction going on, I couldn’t help thinking of how the Lord works to remodel me, and sometimes the work is not pretty.

When we follow the hood ornament, we don’t spend a lot of time finding great local food. So sorry. But I want to report that the trout fillet at Cracker Barrel was delish.

Friday morning, we were up early, enjoying the hotel breakfast, and studying maps. We love the detailed Delorme maps and Benchmark maps. 

We decided to take Highway 18 heading north out of St. George. We had never been to Snow Canyon state park, and that was our first stop.

A great choice. Snow Canyon is red rock cliffs and red sand paths, punctuated by cactus, yucca, scrub oak, and sage brush. According to the brochure, it is not uncommon to sight desert tortoises there, though we didn’t. Evidently, if you see one in the road, you are supposed stop your car,  walk up to the tortoise, carefully noting his direction of travel. Then you are to pick the big guy up, keeping him level, and walk him across the road, setting him safely down, facing the same direction he had been going, some distance from the road. I really hoped to get to do this, but sadly this was not my day to rescue a tortoise.

Skies were blue, and the temperature around 60. At the visitors’ center, we asked a charming Scottish lady for recommendations for not-too-taxing hikes. “Do ye want aisy, but a leetle bit excitin’ too?” Sure, we said. 

Soon we were hiking Hidden Pinon Trail, ooh-ing and ah-ing over the scenery as we clambered over ragged lava rocks and slid on our bottoms down slick rock. Later we drove down the road a piece and hiked up to a cliff with historic graffiti—Pioneer Names Trail. We did a few more short trails, before heading out of the park on the south, marveling at the beautiful communities right there next to Snow Canyon. Tempting!

Next, we headed back out to Hwy 18, heading north again, to see what we could see. I studied the map and thought we could take a shortcut through the mountains, so we headed east at the little village of Central.  The road was paved and wide, until we reached the tiny town of Pine Valley, nestled in a wood of evergreens, so surprising in the desert country. There we lost the road, and a nice woman walking her dog told us the road did continue, but it was dirt and impassable in winter. We turned around.

But we didn’t leave until we stopped to admire the darling Pine Valley Chapel, the oldest church building still in use by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Ebenezer Bryce (who later discovered Bryce Canyon), an Australian ship builder who had immigrated to Utah to join the Saints in Zion, was asked to construct the chapel. He agreed, as long as he could build it as an “upside down boat.” It was completed in 1868 and has been in continuous use ever since. I thought it looked familiar, and sure enough, a replica of it stands at the This is The Place State Historical Park in Salt Lake City. 

We then returned to Highway 18, driving north to Hwy 56 and then east to Cedar City, where we had lunch at a Subway near the freeway interchange. (I warned you this wouldn’t be about food. But, here’s a tip: Turns out Subway can make you a great salad from all those sandwich fixings, if you are into low carb.)

Then home. As we pulled into Provo around dusk, drizzling rain was falling. At least we had sunshine for a couple of days, just a short distance to the south. We were gone just a little over 24 hours, but we enjoyed plenty of new vistas and adventures. 

Can’t wait for the next time we follow the hood ornament!

My Book Club: Women Who Challenge and Inspire Me

I was busy with our five children and teaching, but, still, I was lonely. I wanted women friends that I could share my feelings and experiences with, who would understand me, women who were like me--heck, women who would like me. Of course, I knew women at church and at work, but I didn’t feel a closeness to them at the time, and there seemed to be no space to build personal relationships. 

Around this time, I read a novel titled “And the Ladies of the Club,” by Helen Hoover Santmeyer, about a group of women in a book club that starts in 1868. The book follows their lives through decades as they support and strengthen each other through all the hard and good times of life. After I read the book, I went on a long walk and I prayed, “I want a group of friends like that. I need a group of friends like that.”

I was asked to join a book club not long after, but it kind of fizzled, and I continued to yearn for that group of women I could count on. Then, in fall of 1991, a college friend sent me a note inviting me to join a club she was starting. Debra and I had danced together in BYU Theater Ballet; we had also been in the Honor’s Program together and we had kept in touch since we both were teaching adjunct at BYU. Debra taught dance history while I taught writing. In the note, Debra explained she was getting together a group of her friends who enjoyed reading for monthly book discussions. 

I was thrilled, and eagerly attended our first meeting in October 1991. I remember walking into Debra’s living room and surveying the faces of the fifteen or so women there. I knew only a couple who were there: Claudia and her sister Elizabeth were a few years younger than I, but we had been in the same loose group of friends in college. The others were new to me, but they were friends of Debra, who was kind and intelligent and wise, and I felt certain I would come to like them. 

The next month we met to discuss Madeleine L’Engle’s book, Two-part Invention, a memoir of L’Engle’s marriage. I was further impressed by the group when our hostess, Sidney, illustrated the main motif of the book by performing on the piano a Bach two-part invention. But better than the performance was the discussion: informed, generous, insightful, inclusive, honest. I kind of fell in love with these women before I even had their names straight.

That was twenty-eight years ago, and we are still meeting monthly, ostensibly to discuss books, but mostly to share our lives. We are still the same group. We added a few during the first years, and a few have moved away (including our founder Debra), but mostly it is the same. We haven’t added anyone new in maybe twenty years. There are about twelve that attend regularly now.

Over the years we’ve developed our system, which is adaptable in details, but intractable in overall expectations. We always meet once a month, but the day varies, usually on the third or fourth Wednesday or  maybe Thursday. This is how we plan: As we are beginning to break up our discussion, Claudia gets out her planner and says, “OK, what are we going to do for next month? What book? Whose house?” Claudia is a judge and, bless her, she keeps us organized. 

Then people start suggesting books that might be good to discuss. After a few disappointments, we made the rule that someone in the group must have read the entire book and recommended it or we wouldn’t read it. So, Annette might say, “I’ve just read this book.  I think we would enjoy discussing the family dynamics in it.” Then, someone might say, “Oh, I’ve heard of that. I’ve been wanting to read it.”  Someone else might say, “I’ve been reading this book. Maybe this would be good another month.” We read all genres: fiction, non-fiction, self-help, church books, best sellers, young adult, and really anything that sounds good. Once we decide, Claudia will write in her planner the name and author of the book.

“OK. Now when shall we meet?” Claudia sometimes has to work to keep us on task. We will all get out our calendars and discuss dates. Sometimes one of our number has a night class or is working in Young Women’s and so certain nights are out. We find out who is going on vacation and where. Then we choose the night when most of us can attend.

Next, Claudia will remind us we need a location. Someone, maybe Susan, will say, “You haven’t been to my place for a while. I’d love to have you come.” Susan’s house is duly marked on the approved date in all our planners. And that is done.

When the date marked on our calendars arrives, this is the way most of our meetings go. When we had younger children and busier lives, we were very flexible about starting times. Claudia’s email reminding us of the meeting would say, “Come at 7:30, or whenever you can.” We would start around 7:30, but women would join us at 8, or 9:30 if necessary, if they had a school performance or a church meeting or a family crisis.  Then and now, as people arrive, we always start by asking for personal updates. “How’s that new grandbaby?” “Tell us about your cruise.” “How is work going?”

Eventually, in an hour or so, we start to discuss the book. We don’t have any planned discussion questions, usually. We just start talking. “What did you think about X?” “Were you surprised by Y?” “Have you ever had anything happen to you like Z?” Usually the discussion of the book turns back to our personal lives. “It reminded me of the time this happened to me.” “Have you ever felt like that character?” We are very personal, sharing our experiences and feelings in this loving space where we all feel safe. 

At some point we have dessert, and then we go on talking. The time flies. Eventually someone will say, “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’d better go.” We will look at our watches and see the time is 11:30 or midnight, but still, it is hard to break up. We continue talking as we get our coats on, as we walk to our cars. Sometimes two or three will be talking on the sidewalk as others drive away.

We always meet monthly, but not always for a book discussion. In the fall, we have a sleepover. For decades, this event took place at Elizabeth Farnsworth’s family cabin up Provo Canyon. This was a real cabin, just two rooms on the main floor and a sleeping loft up a very steep flight of stairs. At the sleepover, we don’t sleep much. We eat a potluck dinner, and we talk. Then we sit in the living room and talk. Around 2 in the morning we decide we should go to bed, so we continue to talk as we get our jammies on and wait to use the one bathroom. Then we get into bed and continue to talk in whispers to whoever is in the bed closest to us. It’s the best. In the morning, we eat breakfast and continue to talk until finally we admit we have to get back to real life.

In December we have a Christmas party and let our husbands join us. The party is pretty predictable. We all bring the same things each year: Claudia brings potato casserole, Delys brings the drinks, Susan makes wonderful vegetables, and I always bring my Fennel-Pomegranate Salad. After dinner we gather in a circle to exchange wrapped books. Some are seriously good books and others are just seriously funny. The year that Diane was studying for the GRE (Graduate school admission exam), she wrapped up the GRE study guide. We go around the circle. Each person can either choose a wrapped gift from the pile, or they can steal an already unwrapped gift from someone else. Great hilarity ensues! After the gifts comes music. We have some excellent musicians in the group, so we used to sing carols around the piano. But some of us are not so great at singing, so now we play carols on little handbells. We are getting better at it each year.

Together we have seen each other through much. Women in our group have divorced, remarried, faced serious disease, suffered the deaths of children, served church missions, dealt with mental illness in their families, cared for aging parents, married off children, buried parents, and welcomed grandchildren. Through it all we have been there for each other, a solid comfort-- predictable, loving, accepting. 

When Dianne learned, after helping one son through a heart transplant, that another son had leukemia, she came to Book Club and told us. Then she said, “I think I need a hug from each of you.” She walked solemnly around the circle of chairs, embracing each of us in turn: a ceremony of love and support. 

I have learned much from these wise women: to wait, letting those we love return when they are able; to “just put on my [metaphorical] raincoat” and let criticism wash over me; to be constant in faith while charitable of questions; to continue to serve even when suffering, to listen, to learn, to accept, to love. I have become a better person because I have spent an evening every month sharing their lives and hearts.

Amy Poeler has said, “All I can tell you today is what I have learned. And that is this: you can’t do it alone. . . Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you, spend a lot of time with them, and it will change your life.”  

Almost thirty years ago, I prayed for a group of women friends like the ones I read about in a book. My prayer was granted. I have found wonderful women who challenge and inspire me, I get to spend a lot of time with them, and it has changed my life.

It’s Just You and Me, God

I walked along a beach on the Oregon coast, watching waves crash against giant black basalt boulders. The day was gray and cold and damp, as days often are in Oregon, even in August. I walked alone, though my husband was somewhere near, on that same beach. 

We were on a road trip, just the two of us, our children being old enough to have other things to do that summer, work and school. We were driving from Washington, where his parents lived, to California, where my parents lived. We were in the midst of an argument.

The topic of that quarrel doesn’t matter to this story, but it was deep and angry and seemed unsolvable. At some point I had walked away, along the hard, damp sand, the cold wind gusting at my tears. As I paced along the shore, I imagined telling my problems to someone, someone who might help. But who? Who could help me?

Not my children. Not my parents. Not my friends. Certainly not my husband. This was not something any of them could help with. There was no one on earth who could help.

I clambered out on a mammoth boulder and yelled my pain. Waves crashed around me, roaring in my ears. The wind whipped my hair against my cheeks and made my eyes sting.  Feeling utterly alone, I sobbed out into the crashing waves and roaring wind, confident no one would hear. “There’s no one to help. It’s just you and me, God! Just you and me!”

Then, through the thunder of the waves and the howling of the wind, I heard what I had just cried. Just you and me, God. 

Just me—and God. God, the creator of the universe, the Savior of the world. The one who can calm the waves and heal the leper and feed the 5,000. The one who knows me better than myself, who knows my pain and my sorrow. The one who has felt my pain and my sorrow. The one who also knows my potential and my ability. The one who cared so much about me and my life, he was willing to die for me.

At that moment, I knew. I knew. If it’s just me and this source on unlimited power, then really. I’m OK. 

My tears slowed, then ceased. I began to breath. I began to pray. I explained my problem. I listened.

I walked back up the beach to my husband, knowing we – God and I—could work through this. 

I remember this moment whenever I feel alone and afraid and overwhelmed by what seem to be impossible challenges. Whatever I face, I am not alone. God is with me. 

And with God, nothing is impossible. 

A Party, a Choir, and Blessings of Friendship

Forty years ago, I gave a party, and because of that party (at least I like to believe this) a choir was born.

We had just moved into a new house. My husband had built the house himself, and though we passed the occupancy inspection, it was not what you would call “finished.” There were no kitchen cabinets, the door trim was still being installed, and I think there was still only one functioning toilet. I was also 8 months pregnant with my third child and so huge I had to make myself a new dress so I would have something to wear.

Still I wanted to give the party. My dear friend and former roommate, Christine Craig, had recently become engaged and was in town for the Christmas holidays. Also, unfinished as it was, I did want to show off the house.  So, I got together a guest list of women who knew and loved Christine and planned an afternoon get-together. We had friends from college and Christine’s sisters and friends of friends. Everyone knew Christine, and most knew me, but not all of them knew each other.

I was in and out of the living room (which actually looked finished), taking care of hostessing duties, filling cookie trays and drink glasses, when I heard one of the women (maybe Pam Bookstaber?) say, “It just doesn’t even feel like Christmas when I can’t attend a performance of Benjamin Britten’s ‘A Ceremony of Carols.’” Some of the other women weren’t familiar with the piece, but others were. They explained it was written in 1942, setting ancient carols for a 3-part treble chorus, with harp accompaniment. Those who knew the piece were enthusiastic about the effect of the ancient words and evocative music.

Though before there had been several conversations buzzing in the room, now all were focused on the discussion of Britten’s Christmas piece.  Everyone thought it would be great to attend such a performance.

Then Christine’s sister, Martha Sargent, quietly offered, “I could conduct.” Martha had received a BA in music education and was a fine musician. Several others said they would love to sing. Pam said, “I’m not much of a singer, but I’ll take care of logistics, finding a venue, getting a harpist, programs.”

The next year, Martha and Pam got those women together, along with others that were recruited.  Someone knew someone who had connections at the local state hospital and they received permission to perform in the wonderful little chapel there. They called their group, which numbered twenty or thirty fine singers, “The Christmas Choir,” because they only practiced and performed for a few weeks at Christmas time. On a weekend in December, I was able to attend their performance, and yes, Britton’s “Ceremony of Carols” is glorious. 

And that choir has performed Britton’s “Ceremony” every year since—just about 40 years. More than that, Martha says that because of her experience conducting that choir, she returned to BYU to earn a Master of Music degree in choral conducting. Then she started a year-round community choir performing baroque music, especially Bach. This choir has gained much renown and recently toured in Europe.

I gave a party, and a choir was born--maybe two. Perhaps it would have happened without my party, but I like to think that party was important. We never know when a simple decision to bring people together might have unintended but marvelous consequences. Friendships could begin, political alliances could form, a lonely heart could find understanding. 

And, in this case, it could lead to forty years of sublime music. Last night I attended the final public performance of The Christmas Choir. The soprano and alto blended and soared sweetly, singing the ancient words in powerful harmonies: “Wolcum be ye that are here, Wolcum Yole;” “The aungels sungen the shepherd to: Gloria in excelsis Deo;” “Deo gracias! Deo gracias!”

Give thanks indeed, for music, for friendship, for the blessings of God we find in so many ways when we come together to do good.

What I Have Learned from Mary

When the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary, she was a young girl living in a tiny village, probably around 12 or 13 years old. She had no reason to believe her life would differ from that of any other girl living in Nazareth at that time. She expected to marry, have children, and care for a modest home. Some 33 years later she was sitting in a upper room in Jerusalem, participating with Peter and the other apostles in the organization of a new church based on the divinity of her own son, on his teachings, miracles, death, and resurrection. 

The message of the angel and her reaction to it would change her life and the world forever. In lesser but in some respects just as important ways, our reactions to the circumstances, the missions given to us, will also change lives. As I study Mary and the way she faced her challenges, I have learned much to help me face mine.

Mary was likely by herself, perhaps watching the family goats, or fetching water from the well, when the strange person appeared and hailed her as “highly favored” and “blessed among women” (Luke 1:28). Remember, she was about 13 years old[1]and had probably seldom met a stranger, let alone one that would single her out as someone special. She is understandably “troubled” or startled, and wonders about such a greeting.[2]Then the angel explains she will have a child who will be the “son of the Highest,” who will “reign over the house of Jacob” and whose “kingdom [shall have] no end” (Luke 1:31-33).

Pretty overwhelming stuff this, for a young village girl. But she doesn’t question these prophecies at all. Perhaps she remembers her own heritage of David’s line, and the yearning of her people for a Messiah who will save her people from being ruled by idol worshipping foreigners. Perhaps the prophecy makes perfect sense to her. Some woman will certainly bear this promised savior.

But her mind goes immediately to the practical. She is in fact in some respects “married,” her family and Joseph’s family have signed the paperwork which connects the two young people as a married couple. However, the second part of the marriage has not been completed. When she is a little older, her husband Joseph will take her into his household and into his bed for the first time. [3]Mary has not ever “known” a man, not even her husband Joseph, so she very practically asks, “How shall this be?” (Luke 1:35). 

When the angel explains that it just will be, through the miraculous power of the Holy Ghost, Mary does not ask any other questions. She does not, as she rightly could have, inquire how her life and her reputation will be salvaged in a culture that may punish adultery by stoning and certainly by ostracism. She does not ask whether her family will continue to care for her, whether Joseph will still protect her as his wife. Mary may be young, but she know what happens to girls who have babies without the protection of a husband.

But Mary does not ask the angel any of these questions. She simply says, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” She believes. She trusts the Lord. She recognizes the importance of the mission given to her and she believes the Lord will help her to accomplish it. She knows it won’t be easy, but she knows she will do it. She knows, as the angel told her, “with God nothing shall be impossible.”

This is the first thing I learn from Mary. Though angels have not visited me, and I am certainly not the pure and holy woman Mary was and is, I do have jobs to do here on this earth. I have missions that God is asking me to fulfill. I am to be a wife, mother, teacher, friend. I have some talents and some abilities that God wants me to consecrate to His service and to those of others. Yet often, when I feel the call, when the Holy Ghost says, “Go visit her.” Or “write about that,” I respond with, “Oh, not today. I’m tired.’ Or “What if I’m not good enough?” or “She doesn’t even like me, how can I help?” 

Instead I want to be like Mary, and meekly follow the call. To say “Be it unto me according to thy word” (Luke 1:38). And if I do, who knows what miracles may follow?

The next lesson I learn is within the story of the marvelous birth. Of course, God watches over the young mother, and Joseph does take Mary under his protection, and even takes her to Bethlehem to give birth, far from the gossiping tongues of Nazareth who may have been counting months. The Child is born, and then the shepherds come, worshipping young Mary’s newborn son. They say that angels came to them as they watched the sheep, angels proclaiming, “a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” They say the angels gave them directions leading them to the manger holding Mary’s baby, and the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest!”

Young Mary listens quietly to the shepherds. Though the shepherds return home, loudly “glorifying and praising God,” Mary quietly considers their words; she “ponder[s] them in her heart.” She is thinking through the implications of these angelic messengers. She is remembering the message of Gabriel and adding this testimony to his.

Twelve years later, Mary again is described as thoughtful. The family has journeyed to Jerusalem to worship at the Temple at the feast, probably of Passover. As Mary and Joseph start the return journey, they realize the young boy Jesus is not with their party and return to search for him. They find him in the temple, conversing with and even teaching the learned men. When asked why he stayed behind, Jesus answers, “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” (Luke 2:49). Then, he does come home with Mary and Joseph and continue to be a dutiful son, but Mary adds this experience and her Son’s confidence in His mission to the other evidences of his divinity. She ponders them all;  she “kept all these sayings in her heart” (Luke 2:51).

I want to be more like Mary. I want to ponder in my heart the miraculous events of my life, the times that God has shown his power in my behalf--the small tender mercies and the larger miracles. They are many and they are significant. I need to consider their meaning in my life and in my particular mission.

Finally, I think of Mary standing at the cross, at the feet of her son as he goes through the most agonizing of deaths. She could have been like other disciples, hiding in a room somewhere, frightened of being captured and killed as well. She could have watched from a nearby hill, perhaps with other disciples. But no. Mary stands steadfast, with her son in death as she was at his birth. She is there to offer what support she can.

No doubt she wondered how this agonizing death could come to the one the angel Gabriel promised would be king of kings, the son of Highest, who should rule over the house of Jacob without end. She couldn’t understand this end to the child whom angels proclaimed a Savior, Christ the Lord. This man who had clearly “been about His Father’s business,” how could the Father let him die in this way? The son, who turned water to wine at her request, whom she knew could heal the sick and raise the dead, was he really born to die such an ignominious death? I can understand how faith could waver at this point, how a mother might be angry with God for letting this happen.

But Mary did not lose faith. She had pondered in her heart all the witnesses of her Son’s divinity. She knew if God was letting this happen it was probably part of His Plan. So she stayed by her Son, comforting him with her faith and her presence, attending to what needs she could.

And because of Mary’s faith, she was there, to know of her Son’s resurrection, to see the unfolding of His glorious gospel to fill the earth

I want to be like Mary. Even when things do not seem to be going according to my plan, the plan that seemed to be the right one to me, I want to be steadfast in faith, and wait bravely for God’s plan to unfold.

So this is what I have learned from studying Mary. I want to respond willingly and completely to follow God’s commandments. I want to ponder in my heart the evidences of God’s love and grow in knowledge and faith. I want to be steadfast, standing with God, even when things do not seem to be going well. I want to have the faith that will allow me to grow and learn so I can know my Lord, and His glorious plan for me. 

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[1]Camille Fronk Olson, Women of the New Testament

[2]Olson, Women of the New Testament

[3]Olson, Women of the New Testament, p.