More on Belonging

What to do when the playwright reads your blog, but you need to comment about how you feel in response to the play, but you are worried that divulging this might offend... awkward, isn't it? But my recollection is that writers crave to know how the writing affected the audience. So knowing that every writing contains a bit of soul-self on display--an act of courage, no doubt--I hope the playwright forgives me, because I want to share how the play and my own soul (for what is art but a dialogue between the artist's soul and the observer's soul) interacted. (A long way of saying -- please don't feel bad because of what I say, because the bad is about me, not you.)

So, tonight was the annual Relief Society birthday party. And contrary to my previously stated intentions, I decided to go. The dinner was good, and somebody bravely used real plates, cups, and utensils (bless the dishwashers). As usual, I guessed wrong on where to sit (I despise that part of these parties), so it took a bit before the table where I sat filled up, but it did fill up, and I got to learn the names of people I didn't know. We played a kinda get-to-know you game, which was nice, and people were talking quite a bit.

Then we had a play about Visiting Teaching. Sigh. It was cute and clever, and got the important message across without being preachy or even a guilt trip. (Well done.)

Except, well, ok, if someone was reading my body language, they'd know I was putting up massive walls and saying "I double dog dare you to come talk to me personally about visiting teaching," because if they had they were gonna get it good. But my walls are high and tight, and nobody dare breach them (Nobody ever does. I do believe I drive people away when I'm in that mood.) I'm all leaned back in my chair, legs sticking out across the floor, arms folded solid across my chest, poker face.

Because I'm watching this play, and I'm thinking of when I've been a visiting teacher. I'm thinking of dead people. I'm thinking of moments when the Spirit was so strong that you could touch it. I'm thinking of helping someone with MS do things as basic as go to the bathroom. I'm thinking of sharing when your life is falling apart. Of showing up with a bag full of supper and a magazine, because you were standing in line at the grocery store and suddenly you know you need to bring dinner and a tabloid but you don't know why (but were right). When you couldn't fix the big wrong, but you could lend your truck so someone's husband could at least stay employed. About sitting on the floor playing with toy trains while verbally crawling inside the Proclamation, to understand it, to wrestle with it, to make it our own. About teaching someone how to find their ancestors on the computer--and coming back the next month to learn that a long-lost grandmother was still alive and loving. Thinking of people who have left the church (Lord, too many), and there was nothing you could do about it. About trying to hold people on the gospel ship as it rocked and flooded a ward in an unanswerable unthinkable tempest, and hugs in the vestibule when words won't do. About a trunk full of corn, and about scrubbing behind the washing machine before a move. Those are the memories that flooded my mind as I watched the skit.

And I'm thinking about how none of this is part of my life any more.

That sucks. I cannot express the depths of how much that sucks.

Visiting teaching has a lot of promise, and the results are real. But not right now for me. I'm not sure just where to lay the finger of blame for that fact, though I'm sure it should probably land squarely on me. And, given my attitude at the moment, I'm not sure I want to fix it, either.

The icing on the cake (the mud in the puddle?) was coming out of that bittersweet reverie and realizing that the running gag wasn't a gag but a real phenomenon. (What are they talking about? Is this for real?--not that I'd want to participate, it's the not knowing part.)

So, to hide the fact that I am way too close to losing it (I made the mistake of putting mascara on this morning), I decide to pick up the hymnbooks and put them back where they go. That way, I don't have to say anything to anybody, just do something.

I've got an armful of them ready to return to the chapel, when a tall lovely young lady walks into the room, spots me, comes over and asks "Do you remember me? You're the only person I know here." Yes. Oh yes I do remember you, I think as I open my arms wide for a hug, and then a second hug. I'm so glad you came--You were in Primary with my oldest son, when I was music leader. She unfolds a letter in her hand, and explains that her visiting teacher sent her a letter about tonight, inviting her. She just got the letter when she got off of work tonight, and came right away. Seeing the name signed at the bottom of the letter (on lovely bright yellow stationery) Shall I introduce you to your visiting teacher, I ask--She is the grandma of one of your classmates from Primary. And now she is surrounded in love by her visiting teachers and others who will soon be her friends.

As I carry the hymnbooks back where they go, a moment of truth speaks "God remembers you. You belong here. Don't you see? How else would she have known she belongs here, if you hadn't been here?"