I crunched in the gutter by my house at 9:43 pm, almost 14 hours after I had driven away from it. The sun had arched across the sky occasionally bursting through one of the first cold fronts of fall and returned to the slumber it had enjoyed when first I left. This is how Sundays sometimes pass.
It starts with bishopric meeting. Well, sort of. I have to come a bit early to print the agenda, the calling list, and other fliers for the day. I come in to notice that the bishop has beat me there and arranged his own appointment. I have no idea why, it panics me a little even though I know if I need to know he will tell me shortly. Double checking to make sure I have all the notes from the previous meeting updated in the new agenda, I go into the meeting with a stack of paper. We start with a brief scripture from Luke that comforts me in times of stress. “Be ye therefore merciful”. A moment of light, then back to work. I distribute, we deliberate. We assess the current crisis. We solve them. Mostly. It’s time for Ward Council, the first for many of our newly called leaders. We head to the next building. I print more agendas.
All but three people come. I note it carefully. I don’t really know why but I feel like I should. This gives us 27 people in the room. The bishop takes tight control, we only have 45 minutes. We go around the room and introduce everyone. I already know the names because in the weeks before I have called, texted, emailed and sat with them outside the office to get there them. They are energetic and eager. We deal with a few minor details of various events but there isn’t time to break new ground. We are still trying to figure out who we are. We shuffle back to our building. We have two more interviews and a bunch of paperwork to print in the 25 minutes before sacrament. We finalize our calling list. 51 souls whose lives we aim to change.
I sit in a nondescript mid-ground seat in the sacrament meeting room. I pour through my notes making sure everything is in the right place. I add a few appointments for the evening. I receive a text message indicating we only have one gospel doctrine teacher. It’s me. I text the 1st counselor on the stand. He slyly checks it during the opening hymn. He looks at me with a panicked look. I shrug. They consult. Still not sure what they decided but the family history class ends up being very large. I shove all my papers under my chair along with my phone and calendar and watch the sacrament go around. Jesus, Savoir, Pilot me, the choir will sing. I’m here for that. Reflecting on the week I think of the heartbreak I have dealt, and the heartbreak I have received. I am a poor pilot of my life. I’m behind on grading, and homework, and thesis work. In three months I will be homeless and schooless and jobless. I have no idea what to do about the girls that want me gone, or the girls that wish me back, or the girls that are waiting for me to notice them, or the girl I think I am seeking. I reach out for help and get the barest taste that there is truth in the song and in the bread. There is mercy. I can make mistakes. The future still has good in it. I recall the night before when a casual friend reflecting on the strange circumstance of his last month refused to call it fate rather calling it the mercy of the Lord in making things work out to make him more comfortable. The destiny card is a little strong perhaps. After all, agency is the big point of this world and how well can agency operate in a world of destiny?
We survive the first three sacrament talks of the semester. Good ones. The 51 callings go out and I suddenly realize that there are 51 people that need hands on their heads to set them apart in their new tasks. I stand up, they know who to talk to. But I have to teach Sunday school. I bolt for the door. They catch me.
I get in a little late and try to put a few more details in my slide show. I noticed a stake presidency member on the front row. I stop making edits and start the class. A noisy crowd. I can’t seem to talk loudly enough to get their attention. But we begin. I try to cover 4 chapters in Joel and Amos. It almost works. There is a scripture about when Christ comes back to Jerusalem there will be no more strangers. It touches me because I was once a stranger there. I can’t explain it though I try. We move on. I wanted to show a clip of President Hinckley reading a prophesy. I read it instead. I feel like they don’t get it. I can’t read this crowd. I’m too rushed. I have papers to print before Elder’s quorum. I try to tell them about General Conference imperatives, #ldsconf and sister Madsen’s Isaiah Class. I manage a third of it. I try to tell them about that day in April 2008 when the spirit came upon me in a chapel in Hesparia California and told me that President Monson was indeed the chosen spokesman for the church. I fuzz out the details and they don’t understand. I close the class.
The bishopric are setting apart the Relief Society Presidencies so there is no one to direct everyone where to go and no one to lead their meetings when they get there. I wave some hands and move some people. And print some more. I move into Elder’s quorum where my printed papers are made obsolete by a projector on the wall. I sit on them and watch them split our quorum. There is a little note called “out of bounds” on the quorum roster. It includes the 27 year-old who just moved to AF whose records we will send away today, my old roommate living in Orem whose wedding day is 13 days out, and me.
I get captured again after Priesthood so I set a few more appointments. I make it to the bishop’s office to find it empty, on the inside. Outside there are crowds seeking the bishop, or the clerk, or to be set apart. I part the crowds and discover the bishop and get him started. No lunch for him today. I take care of the small details then attend to the 5 people waiting to be set apart. Where are the 46? Ahh, choir practice. I assist the 1st counselor in setting apart. He is a little distressed by the crowd but he closes the door and calmly sits each
person in the chair and gives them a thoughtful, inspired blessing for their calling and for their life. I get nervous about what is going on in the hall. Will all the appointments show up? Will the bishop stay on time? But I also listen to the blessings. So many wonderful promises. A God who loves his children indeed. By the third one there are tears in my eyes. I want them to listen to their prayers. I want them to bend their knees and receive inspiration in their callings. I want them to reach out to each other to give and receive comfort. We are not sloths, we require constant stimulation to keep us growing. We need each other to survive the stimulation.
Between each one I step into the hall and make sure everything is working. After an hour we set apart 7 of the 51 but the rest have all gone. We’ll have to get them later. It’s down to me and the engaged couples for a while. My old roommate is one pair, there is another pair planning on the same day. Between them they take nearly an hour. We get very behind. The next group are those who request to talk to the bishop about things I will never know. Part of me wishes I could sit one on one with each person and cheer their faces and encourage them in their lives before the bishop takes care of the details. But there are 6 of them in line. They talk to each other. Except for one. She sits in the corner on the ground with her hood up and ear phones in. She needs a friend I perceive. I keep the paperwork up to date. The appointments are taking too long today. That usually means something is wrong. I feel sorrow for the troubles of the people. I know they have them. I see the tears on some faces as they come out, and know what it means when I reschedule them for next week. It means they are repenting. They are trying to become better, purer, more holy; and that is often a painful process.
Two weeks ago I was there when a friend faced a disciplinary council. I sat out the door with his weeping girlfriend and tried to talk about anything except the future. I watched him slump on a concrete floor with red eyes while the rest of the ward sang songs and wanted so much to sit with him in spite of the empty space between us and the effect of parking garage floors on suit pants. I go to him after the song because I didn’t have the courage to do so before.
Our interviews last until 6:30 pm. My sister calls during the last one from a thousands miles away. I talk with her until she figures out that I’m still at church and the bishop needs me. She needs attention in ways I don’t understand and maybe can’t but I hang up with her. The bishop misses his 5 pm meeting with the university president by a long shot. A few interviewees miss dinner. I drive to the ward boundaries and pick up a friend for the stake leadership training at 7. Off we go.
I go to another room with the other executive secretaries and learn how useful we are to our bishops because we can see conditions in the ward as we live in the midst of it. I live 1 mile west and outside of my ward boundaries. I am certain that I am an exception for a reason but I hesitate to invoke destiny. I must see this as opportunity. What am I to learn here? The phrase “my bishop” takes on a new meaning in a room full of executive secretaries. As does the agenda they hand me at the beginning. I realize that some of these wards have three of me. My YSA ward has 184 members and is perhaps the largest in the stake but I am alone. We called an assistant but he hasn’t started yet. He is out of town. I learn about the list of members with expired recommends. I have the potential to be the voice that invites them back to the church. I will call them and invite them to meet with the bishop. One hasn’t had a temple recommend in 6 years. I’ve only had one for 7 years. We are the administrators of the kingdom, but our task is still to minister. I send a text of gratitude to the girl in the ward choir who I know understands as I do how much we need a saving pilot.
I get a cookie from the meeting. Since breakfast I’ve had a banana and a few chocolate bars. The cookie is not a good addition but I eat it anyway. We then head back for ward prayer. It’s tropical theme but I’m still wearing the suit I’ve had on for 12 hours. I learn about the layers of motives for acting in the church. We go to church to take the sacrament so we can repent so we can be like Jesus so we can one day live with his Father in heaven. They say amen. I eat a chocolate cupcake. I ignore the faces which seem to need so much and go to my car. I drive home on the dark streets back to my home. I take off my tie. I eat 3 eggs cooked into a tortilla. The smoke alarm goes off.
I reflect on the day. 10 pm has come and gone. I’m tired. I’ve talked to dozens of people and connected with none. I want to whine and complain and drink root beer while watching robots fight dinosaurs until I can’t think of anything else. Never mind that the bishop went through everything I did but had to be inside the interview room while I sat outside. I want to escape. But instead the my phone vibrates. It’s a girl but not the girl. My ministry is not yet over. No one ever deserves mercy yet we all need it. Me along with everyone else. And we need to give it along the way. I pick up the phone.
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