I:

Saturday I went to the temple and I found myself sitting behind a beautiful African American woman. To my surprise, my eyes started brimming with tears. I suddenly recalled a local historian telling me that my great great grandmother, in her day, had written a number of letters to the first presidency pleading with them to allow her friend, one of the first African Americans to be baptised, to take out her endowments. Her pleas were unsuccessful, but I admired my grandmother's wisdom and courage to recognize and fight for equality for all.

It struck me how blessed I felt, just four generations later, to sit and worship in the temple where all worthy members are welcome, without any regard for race or gender.


II:

I'd been thinking.

Recently a friend made a comment about how she had never been able to understand racisim. As I contemplated her statement, I came to the conclusion that racism occurs when children fail to question the ignorance of their parents, leaders, teachers and peers. The state of the society in which they are raised.

Racisim stems from ignorance. Ignorance about one's own identity and worth and about that of others. If the nonenlightened messages of intolerance or even hate from one generation go unquestioned by the next generation, ignorance will continue to breed ignorance.

The cycle is only broken when someone has the courage to question the status quo. Someone starts to believe that things are different and that the status should be, can be and will be better.


I recall a couple of instances in recent years when certain family members of previous generations made ignorant comments that completely shocked me. I was horrified. (I still am.) Eventually I realized they were merely repeating the teachings of their parents and that their ideas, while completely unacceptable to me and totally inexcuseable, were nonetheless quite consistent with the social construct of the times in which they had lived. It was like they didn't know any better.

Still, I found myself disillusioned by the realization of their bigotry.

Yet just as I look forward to a better future, trying earnestly to bring up my children to be more enlightened and tolerant environment than the one in which I was raised, I also look back now to see evidence of baby steps of progress in the past generations. When I consider where things began, those baby steps seem like giant leaps. It came about like this:

My brother and his wife were blessed to adopt a beautiful African American baby a couple of years ago. I still remember the day when I opened the door and saw them all standing there--new baby in hand. It was such a wonderful surprise! I fell in love with Sadie immediately, but to be honest I also found myself gearing up and preparing myself to be on the defensive if necessary should intolerance raise its ugly head via any of our extended family.

Yet I ended up being most encouraged by the acceptance and love universally bestowed. What touched me most was to see one of those whose comments had so shocked me attend the temple sealing and embrace her new great granddaughter with open arms. Behind those open arms were a newly opened heart and mind.


There is hope for progress--for a better future--not just at the hands of our children, but also from the hearts of our predecessors.


III:

I guessed she must have been about 60. Which would've made her about eight years old or so when Rosa Parks courageously stood up and said, "We're not going to take this anymore." Even so young, she must have felt the sting of the injustices of her time on some level. I'm sure as she got older the hurt must have wounded more deeply. It's even possible she still suffers ignorance and intolerance.

I found myself wanting to go to her and embrace her. To thank her for being there. And to somehow apologize for any pain she has suffered for the ignorance of man. It would've been inappropriate and not at all understood. It would also have been completely inadequate. But those were the desires in my heart.



I still remember the beautiful experience of witnessing the sealing of Sadie to my brother and his family. To us.

Looking back, I see how far we have come.

Looking forward, I know we have not yet arrived.

Being able to drive five miles from my home and see world class art. From the masters. Of the Savior.

Watching a bunch of 10 and 11-year-old girls discuss symbols they noticed in the paintings and sculptures and talk about what they represent and how the art makes them feel.

Vibrant red and piercing blue on Mary's robes.

A beautiful and powerful piece depicting women attending Mary at Jesus' birth.

The face of Rembrant's Jesus.

The huge ball of fire that was the sun as it set in the haze tonight.

My 15-year-old son, who went to see the same exhibit a couple of hours later, saying, "I never realized how much I love art."


In unrelated news--that somehow now seems shallow juxtaposed with the significance of the exhibit I have just witnessed:

Having a senior account manager from New York ask me how long I've been with my company and tell me how impressed she is with my ability to capture what our clients want. (When I come home each day and have to face all the ways in which I am inadequate, something like that feels HUGELY satisfying.)

Sunday, January 14--I was not in the best of spirits as I arrived at church this morning. I had a headache from staying up too late the night before. The morning had been stressfull and we still had managed to be late for church even with the long-awaited 11:00 a.m. schedule that was somehow supposed to miraculously make everything better. Then someone had had the nerve to sit in our bench, the same back bench my family has sat in nearly every Sunday for the past 15 years.

The speaker announced her topic and the first thing I thought was, we have heard this conference talk three times in Sacrament Meeting and at least once in Relief Society already. I looked at the young beautiful, perfectly dressed and coifed--and very pregnant--mother beginning a talk about being heavy laden and prepared myself to have another "Groundhog Day" moment for the next 20 minutes or so. (I really must have been in a mood, because normally hearing one so pregnant mention the words "heavy laden" would've sent me giggling.)

She was new to the area, preparing to move in what will probably be one of the most beautiful and perfect homes in our neighborhood. I'd met her a few times and liked her. She was very sweet, and I had been hoping to get to know her better. (Not to mention, I really wanted to not be jealous of her.) But I looked at what I assumed to be her perfect life and wondered what she could possibly add to the repetitive messages about being heavy laden.

I couldn't have been more wrong. At one point in her talk she apologized for all the stories and I just wanted to say aloud, "No. Please. Keep them coming." Her stories were hard. Her experiences were real. Her talk was moving. She spoke with a depth, wisdom and maturity that belied her years.

She has substance, I thought, because she has suffered.

She told of the difficulties in forgiving oneself of an errant past. She recounted vividly the pain of an intense cancer treatment that nearly killed her but finally saved her. She was only in her mid-twenties. Her mere presence reminded us of the miracle that one who was told she may never have children now stood before us with her second child on the way. She reminded us that we can choose for the devil to have no power over us and also for the Savior to lighten the most heavy of burdens. (And yet in the same breath she admitted that she loved to watch "Labyrinth" because she liked to watch David Bowie.)

I like this girl! Her husband spoke of patience and his stories were good enough to keep my 15-year-old awake and attentive, so you know that was amazing, too. It was the best meeting!

Capped with a Relief Society lesson in which we talked of death, gave one another hand massages and bawled our eyes out over this amazing story, and I thought, going to church doesn't get any better than this!

Thought for the day: "No pang that is suffered by man or woman upon the earth will be without its compensating effect...if it be met with patience."~James E. Talmage

Geo telling me I look liked a writer today and that I didn't have to be morose to be a writer. Now if I could only write like a writer!

Lucky picking up the tab for lunch.

B. for having a birthday so we could have an excuse for lunch.

Carina for dropping by to visit even though she's allergic to CPK.

My son for starting a blog.

My friends for commenting on my son's blog.

Holding my husband's hand.

Introducing myself everywhere I went tonight as "Mr. Rowley's wife."

Clear skies.

The shade of blue in yesterday's sky.

Tonight's sunset.

The opportunity to do a good deed this morning on my way to work while I was in the process of beating myself up for being a bad person.

Hugs.