Rollercoasters and Reminders

Rollercoasters and Reminders

My heart was heavy as we walked into the Toronto meetinghouse that Mother’s Day morning. I was a little self-conscious to be wearing slacks rather than a skirt, but I had known that space in my suitcase would be tight on our trip, and had decided that being there was more important than what I was wearing. 

Johnny was a little quiet, but I wasn’t going to press him. His sacrifice to come to church that morning may have seemed trivial to some, but I knew that it was mighty to my twelve year-old son. In his concert dress of black pants, white shirt, and tie, I knew that at least self-consciousness wouldn’t compound his disappointment. He looked like any other deacon. I wished that he was feeling more than just resignation, but I was impressed with and grateful for his willingness to be obedient, and wasn’t going to stir the pot.

In the hallway, a woman welcomed us and introduced herself. I briefly explained that we were in Toronto for the weekend from New Hampshire on a school band trip. I was a one of the parent chaperones, and also played piano for the middle- and high-school choruses. The band and choruses had performed for the Music in the Parks festival the morning before, and spent the rest of the day at the Toronto Zoo. 

Today, the itinerary called for a day at Canada’s Wonderland, a large amusement park outside the city. Johnny and I had been able to make arrangements to come to church instead, borrowing a chaperone’s van to drive to the chapel from the park. We were late to the meeting block because of the group’s schedule. The woman squeezed my hand, smiled at Johnny, and warmly welcomed us again.  She directed us to the chapel, where the gospel doctrine class was being held. With only a few minutes left in the second hour, I suggested that Johnny sit with me. I hoped that he would be comfortable going to his own priesthood class in the third hour.

We slipped into the chapel and sat down at the end of a bench. The woman who had greeted us followed and sat a few rows behind us. A few moments later, she reached over and handed me a hastily written note, which I shared with Johnny. In it, she thanked us for being at church. She explained that her daughter had been at a sleepover the night before, but had come home late in the evening so that she could attend her meetings with the family this morning, missing out on some of the fun with her friends. She told Johnny that he was where he was supposed to be, and that he was not alone in making a hard choice. I was stunned at how promptly and directly the Lord had answered my earnest prayer from the night before.

The choice to miss out on the amusement park had not been difficult to make, but had been difficult to live. Making Sunday  different from all the other days of the week was an ongoing project in our family. We weren’t perfect at Sabbath observance, but we really tried. Some choices seemed to fall into gray areas, but going to an amusement park was pretty clearly not within our family guidelines, and as disappointed as Johnny was, even he agreed. The band director had been more than accommodating to let us borrow the van, but Johnny and I were acutely aware of the weirdness of our choice to everyone else on the trip. I had hoped that the zoo and the special dinner the night before at King Arthur’s Court would help to ease the sting of what he would miss; it would have been his first chance to ride a roller coaster, and the world’s tallest one (at the time) to boot.

Unfortunately, the dinner and show on Saturday night proved a disturbing disappointment. Rather than the jousting, juggling, and flame-eating spectacular that our director had anticipated, the show was a bawdy, suggestive comedy routine not really appropriate for students as young as seventh grade. I knew that my vulgarity threshold was lower than most of the parents and teachers in the group, but even some of them later expressed surprise at the language and content of the show. Many of the students loved it, of course – it was funny and rowdy, and the costumes were great. I went home that night in tears, feeling sharply how much Johnny would be wishing now that he could go with his friends to the park on Sunday morning. To his credit, he didn't complain, but I could read his face. Before falling asleep that night, I had prayed fervently that somehow my brand-new deacon would know that his choice to observe the Sabbath and honor his priesthood was meaningful, and that the Lord was aware of his sacrifice. The unsolicited note from that sweet sister so completely answered my prayer that I was speechless, but that was not all.

When the lesson ended, I took Johnny up to the front to ask where he should go for priesthood opening exercises. A man getting up from the front row heard my question and hurried over to introduce himself as the Young Men’s president. When I quickly explained why we were visiting, his face lit up. He laughed and patted Johnny on the shoulder. “Come with me!” he invited. “You’ll be my object lesson today.” Johnny looked at him quizzically, and he continued, “The lesson is on keeping the Sabbath day holy.”

They left the chapel and I headed for Relief Society, filled with wonder and gratitude. I sat down in the Relief Society room, and noticed a man standing near the piano at the front of the room, crutches strapped to his forearms. He seemed to be waiting for someone. As the room slowly filled with women, I couldn’t help overhear his conversation with an older sister and someone who seemed to be in the Relief Society presidency. It seemed that he was supposed to sing a special Mother’s Day number with his mother, who was teaching the lesson that day, but their pianist was unable to be there. It became clear that there was no one in the ward who could step in and play an unfamiliar piece, and the disappointment on the man’s face was keen. I slipped forward and offered to accompany them, and the song was a wonderful addition to the lesson. 

In all my praying and hoping that my son would receive a witness that he was where he was supposed to be that Sabbath morning, I never imagined that I would be so tenderly reminded that I also was where I was supposed to be. It was just one Sunday out of hundreds of Sundays. What did it really matter if we were at church or not? It mattered to the man and his mother, and to the sisters who were touched by their song. It mattered to a Young Men’s leader. It mattered to the mother of a teenaged girl. I had come to the Lord’s house weighed down with worry and disappointment, and left with a renewed understanding of how carefully He watches over us all.