I wandered from room to room in the dark chapel. The decorations were taken down, the chairs stacked, and trash emptied. The building was returned to it’s serene state of readiness, prepared for the congregations of worshipers that would come the next morning. The evening had been a success. The food had all been cooked and served and there was enough of it. Over 100 people came indicating that over half our YSA ward had attended. They almost all had dates (set up by my committee) and had danced with them and eaten with them. I even had one, a girl I liked but kept abandoning as I slipped off to check on one thing or another. The audio adapters I had rented worked, at least when a music tech major plugged the cables in the right sockets. The photographer showed up and did fantastic work. There were many smiles. Months of planning culminating in the activity of the year and now I was alone locking up the empty building.

Every time a ward activity ended I was left in the same exhausted slump. A sort of melancholy would descend on me and I would want to sit by myself and stare at nothing in particular. I would review in my mind each aspect of the event noting strengths and weaknesses. Could I do better? How can I make it work better next time? How can I include more people? How could I allow for the purposes of socialization and yet build testimony at the same time? How could I use ward activities to prepare us for the uncertain future?

I was put in charge of ward activities after gaining a reputation for organizing hiking and camping excursions. I was absolutely terrified. I’m pretty solidly on the introversion side and only organized people into activities if I had a high level of confidence about the possible outcomes. But they called me anyway. So I did the best I could. I drew myself some guidelines. One major activity a month. Minor activities were allowed once or twice a month as interest dictated. (I didn’t want to interfere with other groups within our ward structure that also organized events.) Every activity had to have a purpose as directed by the church handbook. I needed to use each activity to reach out to a different person or group of people in the ward (I hated it when ward activities became the social arm of only a few members of the ward). I realized that I would likely only have the calling for a year so I didn’t have time to practice. I couldn’t have any ¨practice¨ runs. I needed to stay in a narrow budget. Yeah…I worried a lot.

But there is a reason. I was promised that all callings are given by inspiration by those who are called of God and my performance of them would have celestial significance to the people I served, regardless of how important I thought the calling might be. So when the quiet, socially ambivalent kid in apt 209 was called to be the ward party thrower I took it seriously.

Maybe that is why after ward activities I would find myself sitting outside a darkened building feeling tired, a bit depressed, and wondering if I was good enough. Had I made a difference? Did I encourage anyone to repent? Was I promoting the unity of the saints necessary for Zion? Did I build intelligence, awareness, understanding, and courage to do the right thing? I often had people thank me for my work. “Great party Riley!” or “Thanks for putting that together!” but does that equal celestial significance? Was it enough?

Well. Yeah. Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing right? Here I am three years removed from that ward dance and a year’s worth of other activities. I’ve had other challenging callings since then that weighed on me in similar ways though not as heavily as activities chair. A few days ago I was contacted by a friend from that ward. He was asking if I had any photos from the first week of that school year. At the new semester a bunch of new people moved into our ward and our bishopric asked me to plan five activities in one week. Since nearly everyone was new I didn’t have a committee yet so I used my friends and did the best I could. I didn’t take any pictures because I was running around at each one trying to make sure everything worked. My friend mentioned that one of those activities, a dessert potluck on the lawn of an apartment complex, was the first place he met his wife. I must have known this, I mean, I watched them date for months and knew they got married. But there was something in me that said they would have been married anyway, regardless of ward activities. And maybe they would have. Maybe. But maybe not.

Celestial significance… I still have all the pictures from our ward prom night. Three years has shown me a number of other participants who are now married. Not that producing couples is the only function of a ward activity. And not that me organizing a ward dance created the relationships or made them succeed. The celestial significance for some of the others may be much more subtle. Maybe it was learning to put up with a blind date, or learning to spill lasagna on fancy clothes and get over it, or finding that joy can be found in service. I think I very rarely get to see the results of my efforts. But now and then I get perspective. And with perspective comes assurance. Assurance that I matter.

This week I wrapped up reading The New Jim Crow at the invitation of my cousin. It explores the current bias in incarceration rates among black males in America. I very much didn’t want to believe that racism on an institutional scale still existed. I mean, it’s illegal, how could it? The book painted a picture of the updated stereotype of the black male, an urban drug dealer which seems to be so widespread that even black people believe it. So while blacks and whites use drugs at roughly the same rates, blacks are 10 times more likely to go to jail for it. This (and other stereotypes) plays an almost seen role in creating the bias (both conscious and unconscious) against black men. So while blatant racism exists in diminishing numbers, this less conscious bias still has a societal grip on the country.

A few days later I met up with a friend to discuss another case of discrimination: women. For a few hours I was able to ask her about various instances of discrimination within our cultural and religious society and she painted me a picture that looked familiar. Sexism is also illegal. Yet women still get paid less, have lower expectations of them, and are discounted in councils in the business world and religious world. They are treated as prey until they are married and servants afterwards. Young Women’s groups train girls to be princesses trying to catch a male knight to take care of them the rest of their lives. 12 year-old girls plan weddings while the boys are playing basketball. The assumptions of gender roles are so deep that even women discriminate against women.

Now of course these are generalizations. Both racism and sexism have changed over the decades and conditions are improving. There are exceptions to all of these cases. But there is injustice felt by so many yet in this society. Injustice that may well be beyond my white male ability to empathize.

The second Co-ed Timberline Scout Camp hosted by the Utah National Parks Council. I was one of the adult leaders.

I took my niece and nephew to Wheeler Farm the other day. Their parents needed time so I snagged an opportunity to create one more memory for them. Wheeler Farm seems very much like I remember from 15 years ago when I went as a kid, a place to milk cows, feed geese and wander around. Anyway, I watched Bailey (4) and Benson (2) run around the playground and interact with the other kids for a few hours. I particularly remember one girl, maybe 5, who took off down the highest slide without a trace of fear. Bailey insisted that I go down with her, somewhat difficult as I’m a little long to make the turns in the slide anymore. Anyway, we followed the fearless girl down to the bottom and as we were getting up the girl went up to Bailey and said “Will you be my friend?” Bailey said yes without a thought and they both ran off giggling as though they had both just participated in some ritual that I knew nothing about. A while later we were exploring a treehouse but there were two older boys in it perhaps 6 or 7 years old. As Bailey climbed up to enter the house they said “no girls allowed, we wrote above the door, Boys only.” Bailey stood on the porch and looked perplexingly in. I told her it was okay and she could go in the treehouse but she wouldn’t until the boys left. Then she whipped out an invisible marker and wrote on the door frame “for boys and girls only” and then marched in.

With a head swimming with the week’s experiences I could just shake my head and wonder at it all. Why are we this way? Why do we have some innate need to divide ourselves? That experience is going to be part of her forever. Of course she brushed it off and moved forward but she now has this idea that sometimes girls aren’t allowed, or maybe that sometimes boys aren’t allowed. Even if she forgets the details of that day it will be enforced by other experiences. No matter where she goes or how society changes there will always be people telling her she can’t do something.

At least that day she was able to pick up the marker and change the rules. And in retrospect isn’t that something that everyone has to do constantly? They have to decide which criticisms to ignore and which ones to listen to. The truth is it’s easier to control yourself than it is to control other people. I can let myself stew and boil over the injustices of the world and blame anyone and everyone. Or I can choose to be different and focus on the good in the world, on the kind children in the playground that play with strangers, or the farmer that let a 4-year-old milk his cow, Quite possibly I will do a better job at changing the world by being a person that believes and acts as if everyone had infinite worth than any amount of finger pointing and tears of frustration.

And guess what? I do believe that everyone has infinite worth. I just have to learn act accordingly.