The snow lay heavy on the ground this Sabbath morning, and it was still coming down as if it never meant to stop. As I gazed out my patio window, caressed by warm zephyrs from my heating grate, I congratulated myself on having the foresight to sprinkle lilac and lavender on my mattress pad the night before and changing my pillow cases this morning. Going back to bed would be a delightful pleasure. No need to risk life and limb in this blizzard to get to church at 8:30. God would understand. And even if He didn’t understand, I’d still be blissfully asleep, curled up in my perfumed bed and unaware of His displeasure . . .
But then my accursed Norwegian DNA kicked in.
“So” I heard myself sneering to myself, “you can’t manage to walk four pickin’ blocks to church for Fast and Testimony Meeting cuz you’re a snow wimp, eh?”
“I didn’t sleep well last night -- you know that. I’m just gonna take a little cat nap and then be all bright eyed and bushy tailed for helping with the Sacrament Meeting here in the apartment building at one . . . “
“Bah! You’re a sniveling feiging, that’s all. You grew up playing in the snow up in Minnesota and you took pratfalls all your life as a clown, and now two inches of snow scares you to death. You think you’re gonna slip and break your hip. You don’t deserve that pickled herring you’ve got stashed away in the fridge.”
“Who you calling a feiging, you momser! I’ll show ya . . . I’ll show ya I got crampons to put over my shoes and can walk to church anytime I darn well please -- so go stick that in your pipe and smoke it!”
Having put myself in my place, I hastily shaved, showered, and threw on a white shirt, brown necktie, tan slacks, and a black sweater vest. Then I put on my black Nike runners, and over them I put on the crampons -- rubber and wire contraptions that provide traction on snow and ice. Of course, I had forgotten that pulling them over my shoes was tantamount to pulling a sack of potatoes around the floor for twenty minutes. When I finally got them on I was bathed in sweat and panting like an Airedale. And had to go kneel at my bedside for a brief conversation with The Man Upstairs, re: my unpleasant habit of swearing when involved unexpectedly in any laborious endeavor.
But I made it in time to shake the snow off my feet and cuffs and find a pew up front in the chapel.
And, because it was Fast Sunday, I was witness to not one, not two, but THREE baby blessings. I live in a very fecund ward. What I noticed as the blessings proceeded was that fathers like to cover all the bases with their newborns at a time like this. One father actually blessed his daughter to find a handsome and industrious young man to marry in the temple. Another one blessed his baby to become a light unto the whole world because of its example and testimony. Those babies were blessed with health, wealth, popularity, advanced education, happy marriages, lots of children, and successful proselytizing missions. In other words, everything but the kitchen sink. When I blessed my own kids, I seem to recall that about the only thing I blessed them with was a sense of humor. With a father like me, they needed it.
After the Sacrament was administered it was time for the members to bear their testimonies. The Bishop went first, of course. As he began to speak half the congregation immediately bowed their heads -- and whipped out their smartphones to begin texting and playing games and reviewing lesson plans.
I went up next, playing my cane as the sympathy card so no one else tried to beat me to the microphone. I don’t wish to boast but I gave a brief yet rousing testimony of The Book of Mormon, calling it a treasure map that if studied every day will make a person feel full and rich -- and even the ramen noodles they have to eat will taste like caviar. That last part was probably not inspired by the Holy Ghost, but pure hyperbole from my fevered imagination. Still, it made an impact; I could see dozens of faces turned up to me, and turned away from the Rules of Survival game on their Android phones. I timed myself -- I only took four minutes.
There were only six testimonies in all. After me was a man that sobbed his daughter had “fallen astray.”
The fifth one up was another man, who began by saying his testimony would be brief -- at which I cringed inwardly, because anytime someone says that in Fast and Testimony Meeting they usually prose on and on until the Crack of Doom. But happily he was brief -- so brief that even though I was taking notes of the proceedings I didn’t have time to jot down what he said before he finished.
The last one up was a middle aged lady (she looked to be about my age, and I’m middle aged -- right?) who took off her glasses so she couldn’t see our individual faces (that made a fine impression on me, I can tell you that) and started things off by saying when she had got to church that morning she had no intention of bearing her testimony. Whenever I hear that line I want to leap to my feet and cry “Well why don’t you sit down then and let someone else who wants to do it have a crack at it?” She droned on about a private revelation she had received while in the temple a few days back -- I won’t repeat it, not because it is sacred but because it is screwy. By the time she finished it was time to sing the closing hymn and move on to Gospel Doctrine class. I often dream of becoming a bishop someday, and then getting an egg timer and setting it to five minutes for each testimony. Then maybe we’d hear more real testimony and less rambling.
But of course I am being judgemental and unfair. If the rest of the meeting after my sterling testimony seemed to go downhill I have only myself and my prideful scorn to blame. If a record were kept of all my solecisms and faux pas in church my cheeks would likely catch fire. I’ll have to go kneel by my bed again to seek forgiveness for this unchristian piece (after I post it . . . )
