Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

I want to tell you a story about Martha and Rochelle, and how they changed my life.  Martha Proctor was the stake young women's president in the Columbia Missouri stake of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints back in the 1970s. I was never in her home. We only spoke a few times.  Rochelle Roskelley was a girl I met my freshman year at Brigham Young University during the second semester. She was mature and gentle and kind, and a very good listener. We talked, we laughed, we colored together, and one April night, she shifted my paradigm. When I headed to BYU in the fall of 1977, I was looking for a new beginning. All through high school, I felt awkward and out of place. I was too loud, I was too pushy, I was too immature … there were too many things that felt wrong about me, and I was looking forward to being in a new place where no one had preconceived notions about who I was. In other words, I was a normal 18 year old, but it didn’t feel normal to me. E...

About 18 years ago, I lay in bed next to my husband on a quiet fall night. The room was dark, and we were in that comfortable silent mode while we waited together for sleep to come. It was then that I spoke the words that had been brewing in my heart for several weeks.   “I don’t want my mom to die,” I said quietly, feeling like a petulant child who hates her Sunday shoes and wants to wear flip flops to church instead; frustrated and impotent. The cancer, however, was relentless and irrationally insistent. I knew what was inevitable, and over the weeks that followed, mom and I talked about all of it; life and death, the irreverent and the sacred, the real and the fantasy, and in those phone conversations we said all the loving and trusting words that a mother and daughter might want to say to one another before   goodbye. And even so, she slipped away sooner than I had imagined and before I could get there to say it all in person. I don’t blame myself for that...

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 ...

When Johnny was going through chemotherapy for leukemia (ALL), I understood for the first time that I had never known desperation in my life. David was a young Latino boy from a working-class family, about eight or nine years old. He was one of eight children. His mother may have worked previous to David's diagnosis, but when I knew of their family, she was either at home with the children, or in the hospital with David. His cancer was a rare kind of tumor, difficult to treat and not responsive to existing protocols. David's father may have been a mechanic; I am not sure, but I knew that his pay was hourly, and it was not the kind of job that offered medical benefits or family medical leave for parents. His dad got paid on the days he went to work, and that was it. When David had to go to the hospital for treatment, one parent had to go with him, meaning that his dad couldn't work - either staying home with the other kids, or going to the hospital with David. When he di...

Arthur Preston was born in 1936. Something went wrong with the delivery, and the infant boy died, but was revived. After several days on life support, the doctors determined there was nothing to be done to save him, and advised taking him off of life support. His grandfather gave him a priesthood blessing and promised that Arthur would not only live, but that he had an important mission on this earth, to do good and bless the lives of others. The tubes were removed, and the baby boy did not die after all. As a result of the profound trauma of his birth, Arthur was blind and partially paralyzed. His left hip and left arm were severely deformed. He spent most of his first years in a cast from his waist down. He was four years old before he could stand on his own, and five before he could walk. Another priesthood blessing when he was two restored his sight. His speech was delayed, and he was three before he could speak. Despite all of these delays, Arthur's mother was determined t...

I've got a song running through my head. Can't seem to find the tune, but here are my words: Crackerjack I’ve got nothing against those who live life large Truth be told, I’m impressed by folks Who just naturally seem to be in charge Of life, and ahead of the rest Cause I get all excited about crazy things And I think that I’m pulling out big diamond rings Then I notice I’m holding a crackerjack box And I sigh But the truth is, Crackerjack is sweet And I kind of love the nuts So there you go – This life is sweet enough for me You won’t see my face on the silver screen And I guess that’s probably right There’s not much room for a drama queen In this thing I call my life ‘Cause the spotlight's warm when it shines on down And I think that I’m the fanciest show in town Then I notice I’m standing on a crackerjack box And I sigh But the truth is, Crackerjack is sweet And I kind of love the nuts So there you go – ...

I’m a wimp.  It’s true.  My kids know it, and that’s okay, because I’m a mom, and don’t have to be big and buff.  The boys John and I taught in Sunday School twenty-five years ago knew it, and it was okay, because I was a ‘girl,’ even if they were totally amazed that I was both a ‘girl’ and a great wide receiver in backyard football.  We used to whup their 11 year old butts, but mostly only after they started talking trash.  My husband knows I’m a wimp (AND a great wide receiver), and it’s okay, although sometimes when we’re carrying heavy furniture or moving a mattress (I’m especially wimpish when it comes to hefting mattresses), I do hear him muttering under his breath something about wishing he had married Dick Butkis.  I let him mutter, because I know that I have less stubble than Dick Butkis after shaving.  I can’t handle eating hot foods.  My husband loves them, as do most of my kids.  Not me.  I make a delicious enchilada sau...