A Covid-19 Family Quarentine

So here's what I think about the Covid-19 quarantine: I don't know. Here are a few thoughts.

On the one hand:

Eek! It’s a world-wide plague! We are all going to die!

On the other hand:

What an overreaction! It’s another disease and some people will die from it, but, come on, we are all going to die sometime. 

And then on yet another hand (foot?):

The economy is going to implode. All businesses are going to be destroyed except Amazon and Netflix! We will be functioning like hunter/gatherers before the year is out.

And then on that other hand:

Everything will get back to normal soon. We’ll be OK. Right?

So, probably like a lot of you, I’m feeling pretty conflicted. And I don’t feel at all qualified to comment on any of the above.

But here is something I am sure of. I love this one side-effect of the quarantine. I love living in a multi-generational home.

I am not quarantining alone, as many of my friends are. Because of a variety of circumstances too complicated to go into here, I am co-quarantining with about fourteen of my immediate family. Before you begin to worry about us, we are pretty careful. Only one of us goes to the store, wearing a mask. We don’t hang out with anyone else, just us. 

We have living with us (or with us every day) for the past eight weeks or so our adult son and his two little boys, our adult daughter and her husband and baby, and our two teenaged grandchildren. Add to this my three children who live nearby and their families, who come in and out frequently, and the result is we have been together as a family, closer and longer, than we have since the kids started getting married.

And I love it.

I love waking up to the sound of piping little-boy voices asking for breakfast. I love Mary walking in the door with toddler Lucia, who runs to my arms saying “Gamma, ‘side?” And then we go outside.  I love helping the little boys with their schoolwork and getting to know Olin’s teacher and learning how to make a catapult out of popsicle sticks. 

I love having David come down for lunch and tell me about the people he works with and his challenges and successes. I love seeing Mary in the dining room working on grading papers and hearing her talk about her students. I love seeing David and Mary and Krystian take care of their little ones with such patience.  I am getting to know my adult children all over again, as I see them every day, all day. 

I love having the teenaged grandchildren around, seeing their diligence in doing their schoolwork, seeing their delight in helping the little cousins, laughing and playing games with them.

I love having help nearby when my computer doesn’t work. We finally got the TV and sound system working right, because of all the tech-savvy folks around. 

I love that Mary can drop off her child and say, “I’m going for a run.” It is such great symbiosis: I love having the baby with me and she loves having a break. 

I love that we are together all day. We can read a scripture in the morning, like this recent choice: “You will teach your children to love one another and to serve one another.” And then we can talk about it through the day—when loving and serving gets a little tricky. 

I love seeing my table full of my loved ones at every meal. I love how everyone pitches in to cook and to clean up. 

I love seeing the adults talking together, advising one another, laughing together. I love seeing the teenagers learning from their aunts and uncles.

I love worshipping together on Sundays. Even though we can’t gather with our congregation, because our church has a lay ministry, we can take the Sacrament (Communion) every week in our own living room. I love seeing my sons and sons-in-law blessing and passing the Sacrament. I love playing the piano as we sing the hymns. I love hearing everyone share what they have learned from their scripture study that week. 

As we move toward lifting the quarantine, I am of course happy. I’m happy that many lives have been saved, happy that businesses can resume business, happy to look forward to seeing friends and going to the mall without fear.  But I am also a little sad. How I will miss this time. How I wish we could remain in such closeness. 

A couple of generations ago, my ancestors all lived within a few blocks of one another in the small town of Spanish Fork. My great-grandfather would go out every morning with a basket on his arm to visit every one of his children, to bring them whatever he had to share that day. When my mother was a child, every day before school she and her sister would run next door to their aunt’s house to have their hair braided, because Aunt Edna could do it better than their mom. When my grandmother was widowed, her mom was able to tend the children so she could go to work.

Though I know it is often impossible and sometimes even not advisable, right now Covid-19 has reminded me how good it can be when family are near enough that they can help each other, not just in crisis but in everyday, ordinary, without-even-thinking-of-it-circumstances.  Just because we are family and we love each other.

Considering Mary Magdalene at Easter in a Time of Pandemic

This Easter morning, in the midst of world-wide pandemic and quarantine, I want to think about Mary Magdalene. What do we know about this woman who was the first to see the Risen Lord? What can we learn from her?

We first meet this Mary in the gospel of Luke, the first three verses of chapter 8. 

1 And it came to pass afterward, that he went throughout every ^acity and village, preaching and shewing the glad ^btidings of the kingdom of God: ^cand the twelve were with him,

2 And certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities, ^aMary called Magdalene, out of whom went seven devils,

3 And Joanna the wife of Chuza Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many others, which ministered unto him of their substance.

From this brief, almost incidental, mention we can learn much. Mary came from the town of Magdala, on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, just 3 miles north of the city of Tiberias, from which the Roman governor ruled. She may have been a woman of some wealth, for she ministered to Christ of her “substance.”

But she was greatly troubled, possessed of seven evil spirits. The number seven indicates completeness, so she was just about as bad off as you can get. She came to the Savior for relief, and he healed her. We are not given a scene of her healing, but just this glimpse. We can only imagine the joyful change in her. 

And, in gratitude, Mary followed the Savior, ministering to Him as He had ministered to her, giving to him what she had to give: service, food, funds. She evidently followed him to Jerusalem, along with the Savior’s mother Mary and other women disciples. Jesus left Galilee in the fall, months before the Passover of his death. She was likely with him that whole time, seeing to His needs, cooking, washing, providing cash. 

She probably witnessed the raising of Lazarus, the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, the teaching in the temple.

And Mary of Magdala was surely with Him at His death. In Mark we read, 

“There were also women looking on afar off: among whom was Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the less and of Joses, and Salome.”

While other disciples may have hidden in fear, Mary Magdalene, along with Jesus’s mother Mary and other women, were there at the Crucifixion site, suffering along with Jesus, trying to minister to him even in that extreme moment. It is painful, humiliating, and perhaps dangerous, but Mary will not leave her Healer (see Mark 15:40).

She even follows Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, watching as they take the body from the cross and prepare it for hasty burial. They see the body placed in the tomb and mark the location, for later on, they want to come and minister to their Lord for what they think, sorrowing, will be the last time. Being witnesses of the burial is important because if there is no burial, there will be no significance to the empty tomb. After the men have left, Mary, along with other women, stays: “And there was Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre.” (Matthew 27: 61). I can imagine the Marys there, leaning against the cold stone, weeping. 

Then, after waiting and mourning through a long Sabbath day, Mary comes back as soon as possible, at first light on the first day of the week, with the other women, prepared with spices and linens to prepare the body themselves, not trusting the men to have done it right, or perhaps just wanting to do it themselves. 

Then the great surprise: the tomb is empty. Mary and the other women do not assume that Christ has risen; they assume that enemies have taken the body and hidden it. They weep that they have not been able to handle the beloved body one last time. Mary, though she believes in the divinity of Christ, does not even begin to think that he could live again.

When Mary runs to tell the apostles of the empty tomb, it is a tale of theft:“They have taken away the ^bLord out of the sepulchre, and we know not where they have laid him.” (John 20: 2)

Mary returns with Peter and John to show them the empty tomb, but after they leave, she stays weeping in the garden, bereft and hopeless. She has known of Christ’s power, she has followed him, she has sacrificed for him, and now, it seems it is all over. She cannot even anoint his dead body.

Then she sees a man. Through her blurred, tear-filled vision, she turns to him, assuming he is a laborer, someone who cares for the garden. An accomplished woman, Mary asks politely, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.” (John 20:15)

The Man turns and says simply, “Mary.” In that word, in that greeting, she knows. It is her living Lord, her friend, her deliverer. 

And suddenly she knows this is not the end but the beginning.

Now, what do we learn? What can we learn from Mary of Magdala in this time of quarantine and worry?

Just this. When we are brought low, possessed of seven devils, completely overwhelmed, we can be healed. At this time of fear, faced with “seven devils”—Overwhelmed by sickness, loneliness, despair; beat down by loss of income, routine, and peace--We can, like Mary, turn to God and find serenity and healing.

Though our gifts may be small compared to Christ’s, they matter. We can minister to Him of our “substance” as Mary did. Even as we worry about the future, we can reach out in small (socially distant) ways to serve. 

And, most of all, we can stay by the Savior’s side, even when times are hard, never giving up even in the darkest times. When we are in tears, crying, thinking all is lost, we can look up and hear the Savior call our name. He is there, alive, and He loves us.

 **Painting by James Johnson, found in the June 2019 Ensign.

Coronavirus, Panic, and the Flu

Last week I had the flu.

Not coronavirus. Just the flu. The I-have-a-fever-and-I-want-to-sleep-all-day-but-I-ache-all-over-and-I-can’t-stop-coughing flu. It was not fun. We had to cancel a long-anticipated trip to visit my daughter’s family in Texas. I stayed in bed for most of the week. My husband took over meals and dishes and now I keep finding utensils in different locations in the kitchen. My daughter called and offered to FaceTime me so I could see my darling 18-month-old granddaughter. I replied, “But then I would have to open my eyes.”

It was not fun. But I never doubted I would recover (well, maybe a little, that first day). I knew it was just the flu, and in a week or so I would be back to normal. Flu happens.

But suddenly now there is this new illness, coronavirus, which is putting the whole world into panic mode. It seems half of China is in quarantine, as well as much of Italy. Borders are closed. Baseball games are playing to empty stadiums. Stock markets around the world are crashing. People are hoarding bottled water and toilet paper as though they expect a hurricane. The Tokyo Summer Olympics may be cancelled. The NBA is telling players not to share “high-fives” with fans. 

But really, what do we know about this new flu? One of the tricky things about it is that for most people it is not a bad illness, not even bad enough to keep you in bed. That is, of course, one reason it spreads so quickly. The carriers don’t even know they could be spreading illness. That is also why it’s hard to pin down the mortality rate. When we are not sure how many people have the disease it’s hard to say what percentage of those who get the illness will die from it. 

Reports of mortality rate that I have seen vary from 4% to .1%. That’s a big distinction. Part of the challenge in figuring the mortality is that we don’t know the total number of infected people to compare with the number of deaths. And the reason we don’t know is that many, maybe most, of those infected have very mild symptoms, so mild they may not even know they are sick. The data from the cruise ship Diamond Princess illustrates this: Of the 3,711 on board, at least 705 tested positive. Of those, more than half had no symptoms. Six deaths occurred, which is a fatality rate of .85T. (See Slate.com “Covid-19 Isn’t as Deadly as We Think”). It’s important to note that all who died were over 70 years old. 

The coronavirus is of course a danger, but should we really be as panicked as we seem to be? Why are we so scared? The answer can probably be found in the “Power of Bad.” We are prone to respond to danger more than to safety, to notice the problem not the status quo. This was a good thing when we needed to run from a saber-tooth tiger and a bad thing when we start dumping all our stocks in response to what may be passing crisis. (See my recent blog post “Things Are Probably Not as Bad as You Think They Are”; Also the book The Power of Bad: How the Negativity Effect Rules Us and How We Can Rule It by John Tierney and Roy F. Baumiester).

This is not to say that we need not be careful. Quarantines and other safeguards are probably a good idea. We need to be especially vigilant in protecting older folks. And, as we are told over and over again, let’s wash our hands carefully and stop touching our faces. (Have you been surprised as I have just how long 20 seconds is? That ABC song seems to go on forever! Also, have you noticed how much you touch your face? I feel like I do it all the time, now that I’m noticing.) 

Let’s be wise. Let’s be prudent.

But let’s not panic. Keep calm and wash your hands. 

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.