Rough Stone Rolling

While on our Maui trip, we took a snorkeling excursion to Molokini, a volcanic crater off the coast of the island. As our boat headed for the destination, I met a couple from Long Island, NY, and we chatted about this and that as we enjoyed the whales splashing around us and ate mangoes. Somewhere along the way the subject of fulfilling dreams came up, and the man told me how a friend of his set out to live his dream of sailing around the world. For months, he prepared for the trip; getting supplies, mapping out a course, etc. He even purchased a gun to take in case he came across modern-day pirates. The day before he started on his journey, his friends threw him a huge party, full of toasts and great food. The next morning he shoved off and was never heard from again. Some mused that he landed on a paridisiacal tropical beach and never left. More likely, the seas swallowed him up and he perished living his dream. My new friends and I reflected on the dreams we pursue and the outcomes of those not well thought-out.

Getting back to the dead parishioner I had to dress:

After much anxiety and dread, I met the other brother in the church parking lot and together we headed for Forest Lawn with bags of temple clothes, new and still in their packaging. After we announced ourselves to the receptionist, we were escorted by a waiting attendant who took us up the elevator to the third floor and to the room where our departed brother lay.

I was surprised by what a profound and positive feeling the experience was. The first thing that struck me was the complete absence of scent. I felt like a fool carrying that jar of Mentholatum into the room (just kidding). The attendant guided us with such familiar precision as we put on the temple clothes, I finally asked, “Are you LDS?” “No,” he replied, “but I used to attend a ward a few years ago, and I know how it goes.” What are the odds, I thought. It was a surprising, yet gratefully received blessing. The gravity of what we were doing wasn’t lost on me for a moment as we carefully put the brother’s arms in his sleeves, straightened his cuffs, pulled smooth the sagging folds of his socks, then put on the robes and other items, finally ending with his shoes. He felt cool to the touch, even with the rubber gloves we were wearing, and while I knew I was handling a stiff, waxy corpse, the prospective unpleasantness never processed, blocked by the spirituality of the moment. After we were finished I asked the attendant if we could be left alone for a few minutes and we bowed our heads in prayer. The whole thing took less than a half hour.

The next day, the service began with a viewing in the RS room. Despite the brother’s lifelong dedication to the Church, his casket was surrounded by children who left the faith and grandchildren who never knew it. A sibling, a couple of cousins and a few nephews were the only family still active. It was interesting to see the contrast of the inconsolable misery of his kids’ families and the poignant smiles of the others (it didn’t help that, in the last six years of his life, the widowed man had been married to a faithful sister who stood to gain where their deceased apostate mother missed the mark). After everyone said their goodbyes, the bishop and I put on his cap on and the casket was closed (notable amplification of sobs and sniffles) and we all moved to the chapel for the service. It was a relief that messages of our family vs. yours and we don’t believe, but we’ll honor our father’s wishes never surfaced in the talks. The kids who spoke thoughtfully acknowledged the happiness their dad had with his second wife. The bishop didn’t take the opportunity to testify of the Church or living prophets, just that God loves us and Jesus is His Son. The only time the truthfulness of the Gospel ever came up was when the deceased’s sister gave the eulogy and, well, who was going to begrudge her?

The story of the man’s first wife is an interesting study in playing with a loaded weapon. She was raised in a very active, faithful family and married her husband in the temple. The early years of their marriage were textbook LDS: He was in the bishopric, she was in the RS presidency, kids were popping out in steady sequence. Then one day she and four other friends in the ward decided, wouldn’t it be interesting to take a philospohy class at UCLA? After the course was over, all but one went inactive. I know the woman who remained in the Church and am friends with her daughter. You could try to throw in all kinds of excuses for the sister’s disaffection, but I simply believe this is what happens when a member of the Church gets too caught up in the intellectualism of the world. Now, I realize this makes me sound like one of those “everything-is-black-&-white” old-school dinosaurs, but hey, the evidence doesn’t lie. And it’s a good argument against estranging oneself from the Church too rashly: The results didn’t just affect them, but their children, and children’s children as well. The weepers and wailers in the room.

Shortly after my mission I was wrapping up my bachelor’s degree at the University of Utah by taking some mandatory core courses not related to my major. One of the classes was “Existentialism” taught in the Philosophy department. I was familiar with Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” and Sartre’s “No Exit,” and thought it would be fun to learn more about that particular aesthetic. Most of my classmates were Philosophy majors, so the potential challenge to engage in dialogue with these guys was exciting. I was soon disappointed, though, when I heard the instructor and students go ’round n’ ’round over the “being of nothingness.” It was a dismal, egotistical outlook on man’s existence and I became so contemptuous towards the class, I decided I would protest by making my term paper a satirical mockery of the philosophy. I chose for my subject the short story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” wherein a hapless family crosses paths with a gang of killers and surrenders to their fate, being taken into the woods, one by one, and shot. In my paper I likened the leader of the gang to Jesus, and the family to religious followers. My tone was derisive and my arguments fortified with metaphoric lineation. I giddily expected either to get blasted with a D or F, or somehow manage to get a low B-ish grade if the teacher thought I was serious but missed the boat. What I didn’t expect was to get the highest score in the class, which i did. And I didn’t even have apostasize to do it.

I’m not saying I was a better person than those sisters; I’m saying I took the class to see what “the enemy” believed and they went to get enlightened.

And the seas swallowed them up.

Sunday happenings were pretty benign, aside from the guy who bore his testimony that you can’t sue the government for Agent Orange and the Book of Mormon is true, all in the same breath. We had a mini-shindig last night we call a “Meet & Greet.” Our stake president frowns on “Break the Fasts” after 1st Sunday blocks, so we go home, wait four hours, come back and have the same event, only we call it a “Meet & Greet.” Hey, there’s nothing in the rule books… Anyway, it struck me again last night how many active non-members we have in our ward, ’cause they all came to the party. And, I’m not trying to be mean here, but they’re not the kind who shop at D.I. and make themselves fixtures at singles dances and bus stops– these are normal people! I met a new couple in the ward– he’s a member, she isn’t– and they were so cool! She’s taking the lessons but said, as it’s her third attempt at religion, she wanted to take her time. She told me my conversion talk really helped and she feels when she comes to the ward she’s “home.” What could I say? I told her conversion is such an intimate experience and she’s smart to go her own pace, but to expect an answer. She said she did. Then her husband and I swore if AC/DC went on tour again, we’d go together. Such great folks… I love my ward.