So a couple of weeks ago, my friend. D.B. died. Suddenly. She was one of those gorgeous, thin women, lively, athletic, committed to the church without leaving her brains at the chapel door. We both had September birthdays only she was ten years older. She didn't look it. I expected her to live forever. She e-mailed me earlier in September to ask when we were going to lunch.Soon. We have lots of time.
She introduced me to NPR. I went on my last hike with her and F. I was fifty. They bought my favorite eclairs and we tailgated the birthday goodies at the top of American Fork Canyon. We ate lots of meals together, went to the Shakespeare Festival, Zion's Canyon, told our stories and then told them again. We read the same books.
A strange thing happened when I saw her in her coffin. She was not dressed in her temple clothes. I felt like she was sending me an important message: "Stop going to church; you know it's boring."
This was entirely consistent with the feeling I had when I read her obituary, which did not mention the church at all. Strange, I thought, for someone so active and committed.
So I KNEW when I saw her wearing a blouse and skirt and favorite necklace that she was sending me a message. "Change your life. Go out for brunch on Sundays."
I was rehearsing my mad thinking to my son, Ed, on the phone tonight, and he said, "It's like you have your own little DaVinci code." That made me snark with laughter.
"Does this story have an ending, or do I have to lie awake all night?" Ed asked.
It has an ending. Dorothy haunted me for days (as if she had nothing better to do) and finally I talked to F. "Why wasn't she wearing temple clothes?" I asked.
"Her daughters couldn't find them, so they put her in her favorite outfit."
"I thought she was sending me a message to stop going to church."
F. snorted. "Since when did you need anyone to tell you what to do?"
"Who wrote the obituary?"
Her daughter.
I was disappointed. I wanted permission in the form of a revelation from D. to stay home Sunday mornings.
The following Sunday I gave a lesson on Isaiah in Gospel Doctrine. Chapter 40. It begins, "Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God."
Forgive my madness, Lord. Forgive me.
Rest in peace, D.B.
Rest in peace, Ed.
Rest in peace, Louise.
Ooh, please promise me that you'll play some of Handel's Messiah for part of your lesson! Do the Overture and then the very next song is your text! I can't think of more hopeful/comforting music in all the world...
ReplyDeleteI love you. Your thinking makes perfect sense.
ReplyDeleteA stagnant life like mine makes me want what I call a church-cation. That is why I don't go looking for the closest congregation when I'm traveling.
ReplyDeleteBTW, I was thinking about you painting doors today. I hope your new digs don't require you paint any more doors.
You may know this already but there are actually special temple clothing for the deceased. It was my opportunity to dress someone when I was an expectant young mother. What I learned that day about the beauty of our bodies, the lingering spirit I couldn't ignore even though I had never met her and the tenderness of those sisters who helped me help me weather through the desire sometimes for a church-cation. (PS I would be very interested in your comments on my current blog topic)
ReplyDeleteI told my husband I wanted to be cremated. You gave me the idea really. Mr. Survival just about asphyxiated on his apoplectic tongue.
ReplyDeleteI've already created quite the stir. I have no idea if Mr. Survival would abide by my wishes or not. I find it doesn't matter. He knows.