I missed testimony meeting today. My wonky body at fault, not a reluctance to go. The following testimony--the stories of my life--isn't likely to be told from a pulpit anyway.
The experiences I think to tell come once or twice a decade. They are real in the sense that I never think to question that something happened. They are real in the sense that they changed my life. On the other hand, whether the immediate cause is an angel or indigestion isn't always clear, and the meaning is often obscure or unfolds over many years.
I am 13 years old. Dad and I have gone fishing. I’m stretched out on a big branch hanging over the river. The sun is shining. I am wearing my favorite shirt, a corduroy that mother cut down from one of dad's old shirts. The feeling comes over me, not words but a warm, bright, arms-around-me sort of feeling that communicates "you are loved."
I am a new senior companion, months before my language skills are adequate. Visiting in a home, we show a filmstrip and play a tape about Joseph Smith. I'm running the projector but otherwise a spectator and I hear as if for the first time. I have a warm burning-in-the-bosom feeling that says to me "something really happened."
I am sitting in the temple during an endowment session, Christmas break during my first year back after my mission. I'm worrying over my engagement, about which I have doubts. I really want a yes or no. Instead, I am blessed with a vision. It's of a hike in the mountains, with alternating views of a high narrow ridge and a broad open meadow. The voice-over says "this is what you should be thinking about, now you figure it out."
I am giving a blessing. One of many. The words are not my own. In some fashion I am a channel, an instrument, and someone else is playing.
I am driving home from a Saturday leadership meeting at the Stake Center, thinking ahead to the name-and-blessing ceremony for our new son the next day. As I drive, a strong impression comes over me that says "I know this boy, his name is Peter."
My best friend calls me, saying that his life has come apart, that he is an alcoholic now just acknowledging and trying to do something about it, that he has strayed far from religion and church. He is mostly confessing, but also invites support and advice. I recognize a classic golden moment missionary opportunity but I hesitate. The next day I hike up into the mountains. As the sun rises, I find a flat spot and pray. And then, in the closest to an actual voice of any experience of my life I hear "tell him to return to the church of his childhood, where he will receive the support that he needs." That “church of his childhood” is Catholic. I am surprised.
I stand at the veil, welcoming an old friend through. (The only thing I’ve ever done that exceeded my mother’s expectations.) He turns to me and says “in that moment you are acting out Christ’s role.” I shiver.
A young woman brings her baby daughter to the Church for a name and blessing. She is a recent convert, not married, not familiar with Mormon practice and not instructed in Mormon ways. She carries her daughter to the stand with the unspoken expectation that she will hold while we bless. We take the baby and close ranks, physically pushing the mother away. With that push I feel a physical pain like I've been stabbed. As we finish the prayer I determine not to do that again. It occurs to me that if the mother were included and my sister stood with me, I wouldn't feel that pain any more.
I kneel in prayer in my study, in the midst of mental/spiritual/emotional anguish. Direct help comes later by way of psychotherapy and the passage of time. But I do get two blessings. One is a vision that gives me a peek into how I am seen. The second is a name for G_d. Not a name I've heard anywhere else, before or since. For 20 years now it's the name I use.
After years of Mormon church interviews, on both sides of the table, I am struck with the awareness that I will not do that again. That my legs will not walk me into the room and my knees will not allow me to sit. Consequences follow.
I walk into a Mormon chapel and the whole front of the room is tinged red. This happens over and over, for 5 years or more. It occurs to me that "seeing red" as a metaphor for anger is not just a metaphor.
I am in recovery after cancer-related surgery dramatic enough that my every breath is a second life celebratory event. I have the impression that my only task in life now is to keep going for another 10 minutes, and when I get done, then another 10.
I am holding one of my grandchildren. The feeling comes over me that for purposes of any discussion about grace and works, or my mission in life, or The Plan, or The Way, this infant grandchild is my life's greatest accomplishment. And I did so very little.
