Duffy, aka Katherine Scott

My name is not Duffy.  It is also not Katherine Scott, although I once considered that as a pen name for my future career as a professional author.  It hasn't panned out yet (the career; I still like the pen name, which incorporates both of my parents’ middle names).

My first experience being called Duffy was in Elementary school.  A boy in my class wouldn’t stop calling me Duffy even after I asked him to, but as a consolation prize he did invite me to call him Stearns-y.  I think he liked me.  That was back when boys were gross and girls had cooties.

Anyway I come from a long line of Duffy’s.  It’s a play on our last name, which I am unabashedly proud of, and as a tribute to the enduring creativity of the human mind each of my ancestors have also been called Duffy during their childhoods and in some cases into adulthood.

Also, it makes me feel like a soccer star.

The Discounting Machine

Be honest.  When you read the title to this blog, did you think of coupons? A special cash register that discounted purchases?

In Maria Semple’s national bestseller Where’d You Go,Bernadette? the main character’s father explains to her that the human brain is sometimes referred to as a discounting machine because it discounts our previous experiences so that we can focus on the next relevant event.

There is some neuroscience to back this assertion.  The human brain receives all incoming sensory stimuli simultaneously through the five senses.  Through the complementary processes of integration and inhibition, it sorts the stimuli and ‘discounts’ those that are not immediately relevant based on its recognition of having previously experienced it.  This is why novel stimuli demand attention and why you are able to ignore the low hum of the fluorescent light, the sound of the heater or air conditioner, the cricket chirping in the background, and the feel of the seat cushion beneath you in order to read this post.  Its also why there is a common misperception that children with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) are constantly “over-stimulated.”  We tend to think that with all of the competing stimuli incoming, the ASD child who is throwing himself on the floor, kicking and screaming inconsolably because he was served brown gravy on White Wednesday (Jodi Piccoult’s House Rules treats the subject of Asperger Syndrome veritably)  is suffering from an onslaught of too many sensations at once, what we label “overstimulation.”  In truth, the ASD brain is largely under-stimulated; that is, in our auditory culture where there exists a mismatch between the dominant culture and the linguistic capability of the visual learner, there is an absence of meaningful stimuli to create integration of neurons at the level of the cortex, which results in a lack of feedback to the peripheral nervous system, in turn causing a lack of inhibition of competing stimuli.  So instead of putting a weighted vest and a chew toy around the neck of a 13 year-old with Autism, try changing your language instead. But that’s a whole other subject and a soapbox for another time.

My brain as a discounting machine seems to be wired backward.  Without conscious control, I remember largely insignificant details but frequently miss the big picture.  For instance, a few weeks ago I saw a picture of the University of Portland’s French Professor in a Facebook album showcasing back-to-school fashion trends.  A lady of advancing years, she was dressed in such a fashion that she could have taught a class, boarded an airplane, entered the Temple or appeared before the Queen of England.  Her cream dress-suit, tailored with pastel yellow accent panels, a matching cream and pastel yellow purse, pastel yellow heels of modest proportion and a strand of pearls to match the pearl buttons on her suit jacket and earrings.  I was immediately reminded of a conversation with my Middle/High School BFF, Barbie, in which she talked about her Grandfather’s cousin visiting at her Grandma’s house in a matching yellow outfit and how her dream closet would include a purse, shoes and accessories for every outfit.  Barbie contends that this conversation took place over 13 years ago and was amazed that I remembered such a thing.

I can also recall the exact tone of voice, posture and words that my History of Architecture professor used as she lectured us on completing the weekly reading assignments on the day she apparently told us that that the chapter summary assignments were mandatory and would be graded.  When I got a “B” in the class (gasp), I realized I never heard the part about them being mandatory or graded.  I have literally stored up dozens of such experiences over the years, most especially around significant events such as tests, extra assignments, and special instructions.  Yes my brain is like a steel trap for auditory details… as long as they are interesting and of no particular relevance. 

Another caveat of my working brain is its propensity (actually a lack thereof) to embody the principles of common sense.  In my family we refer to any such foh-pah such as returning the Orange juice to the cupboard and the dirty cup to the refrigerator as a “Nanny moment.”  Nanny, my maternal Grandmother, experienced her first “Nanny moment” as a new wife in her early 50’s when she lost the vacuum cleaner.

Unsuspecting of the mental anguish about to descend upon her, Nanny was vacuuming her bedroom when the telephone rang.  Back in those days, telephones were attached to walls and most households had only one, which was located in the kitchen.  She went to answer the phone and when she returned to her bedroom, the vacuum had disappeared!!  Nanny searched her bedroom, then the rooms surrounding, and eventually widened her search to the entire house.  She thought she was losing her mind and was terribly embarrassed to tell her new husband, but by the time he arrived home she was so befuddled by the mystery that she admitted the loss and asked for help in locating it.  Ascertaining that she had least seen the vacuum in their bedroom, her husband (Poppy) went into the room and walked directly to the electrical outlet, whereupon he proceeded to follow the cord to where it disappeared under the bed… and retrieved the “lost” vacuum. 

The first indication that I may have inherited “Nanny moments” came when I was 17. I was taking a correspondence course for my early graduation from high school (back then it was by paper and pencil) and wanted to make copies of my work before mailing it in.  Being in possession of a car and independent-minded, I headed to the neighborhood Kinko’s.

Since replaced by credit card machines, at that time there existed “counters” that tracked how many copies a person made and were used to access the copy machines.  A metal tree of counters greeted me at the entrance and visually ascertaining their use (apparently I have a common sense quota and it was about to be exceeded), I proceeded to insert one into the copy machine and make my copies.  When I finished, I returned the “counter” to a branch of the tree, nestled against the its fellow blue bricks on chains of plastic and surveyed the hanging signs declaring the purpose of each desk around the open concept workspace where a hive of Kinko’s employees scurried to and fro attending to (as I read on the banners) “printing,” “design,” “signs & posters” and other such tasks.  Since none of them said “cashier” I naturally concluded that it was through these other franchises that they made their money and that printing was offered as a free service.  If it wasn’t, I was sure, somebody would stop me before I walked out the door.

It was at the dinner table that evening as I related what a nice perk it was that Kinko’s had free printing, and how I had never before been aware of this, that my sibling and step-sibs (all younger, I might add) erupted in laughter and my parents informed me I was now, however unwittingly, a thief.  Yes, my ears can burn as a bright as a 100-watt crimson bulb, thankyouverymuch.

Mom

Mom. Mother. Mama. Moeder. Ma. Nene. Meme. Ahm. Mai. Matka. Mader. Meder. Mamm. Majka. Matre. Mamma. Bata. Mara. Mati. Mor. Moeder. Mutter. Mana. Maji. Madre. Mare. Mae. Matu'a.

In languages the world over, the words for "Mom" and, similarly for Dad, all incorporate one or more of the earliest-developing lingual sounds: /m/, /p/, /b/, /n/, /d/, and /t/ with /m/ perhaps being the most common.

Is it any surprise that the people whose roles in an infant's life have the most bearing on their survival and nurture, are called by names that the infant can produce earliest?

In the LDS culture the woman's divine role as Mother is revered.  From The Family: A Proclamation to the World:  By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children.  In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners.

So what happens when parents fail to uphold their responsibilities to their children? The Proclamation continues:  We warn that individuals... who abuse spouse or offspring, or who fail to fulfill family responsibilities will one day stand accountable before God.

Its in God's hands. He alone is responsible for Justice, and He alone can relieve my pain.  Over the years I have felt the healing hand of the Lord in my life.  And yet, when my new visiting teacher said to me "My Mom sucks" in the same tone as if she were reporting on the weather, a gigantic grin spread across my face as I replied in kind, "I have experience with that" and felt a flutter in my heart at the potential discovering of a kindred spirit.

I wrote Emotional Rh Factor a number of years ago.  While it no longer stirs the same feelings of pain that it once did and I would never seek to hurt my mother with its message, I find it a therapeutic writing because it expresses a need for separation to stem the flow of poison. And yet there is hope because of the Savior's Resurrection that all things, including familial relationships, may one day be restored to their good and proper order.

Post here

Duffy

Jumpstart

A couple years ago I took a class called Jumpstart Your Writing.

I posted two writings from that class on my previous blog. The first which I gave the title Words are Too Good for Me is only about a paragraph long. I wrote it in class in response to a writing prompt.

When I read it, I still wonder who the narrator is and whether he is already dead or not:

This is my story and I can promise only two things: it will be short and you can walk away from it and come back anytime. I'll be here waiting because without you, I can't move. I'll start at the end-- you need to understand how it all ends, for the beginning to have any meaning.

They buried me in an oblong box in the oppressing heat of July.  Cedar.  I know because it smelled like fresh shavings from Grandpa's whittling wood and cedar is the best for that, he always said.  Eight people were in attendance that day but only seven spoke. I lay still, so still.  My eyes staring vacantly at the back of my lids, sun shadows causing shapes and images to dance across the stage of my mind.

The Priest stood and my parents' heads bowed in sorrow. I know they did, even if it looked to others like prayer. Sorrow for...



The second, Grocery Store Grandma, is a completed work with, in my opinion, a dissatisfying ending (a bit cliché) that is nonetheless true according to my recall.



Grocery Store Grandma

That culinary mystery, the kitchen, had never been an area of expertise for me. I seemed to learn about domestic duties the hard way: Pouring every available powder and liquid into my first independent load of laundry, only to pull my favorite sage green blouse out an hour later with large while gaps, looking like a tie-dye in reverse, reinforced the concept that bleach is only for whites.   "Do not microwave foil," a rule that every 5 year-old, pop-tart eating, microwave-operating child should know, came to me much later and after a small incident involving fire.  For years I had been the recipient of regular 5 o'clock phone calls that my mother made on her way home from work, giving me step-by-step instructions on how to get a certain dish started for her so that dinner could be served promptly at her husband's demand, whatever time that might be.

Without ever having cracked a cookbook, I was confident in my ability to prepare a healthy, tasty meal. After all, I could monitor a grilling burger at Dairy Queen and I could toast bread and scramble eggs. I knew that when you put frozen vegetables in the microwave you were supposed to add enough water to cover them, but just barely.  Measurement conversions, temperatures and cooking times never crossed my threshold of awareness.  After all, I started dinner several times per week and an hour or so later, I ate it.  What could Mother possibly have done in the interim that I wouldn't instinctively know how to do, after following her step-by-step directions for so many years?

So when, as a Freshmen in college, I complained that it was too difficult to come home and cook for one after a full day of classes and waiting on customers at the Dairy Queen, my mother suggested that I purchase a crock pot.  Noting that you could throw all of the ingredients in together, saving on dishes, that it could cook all day and be ready when you came home at night, saving on time, and that it was an inexpensive kitchen tool, a primary factor in my decision, my mother quickly sold me on the idea of crock-potting my next meal.  She even suggested chicken as a starting place.

Feeling an unwarranted confidence in my culinary abilities, as only an 18 year-old living on her own for the first time can, I set off to the grocery store, an entirely different experience when I was the one making selections off of the shelves instead of trudging along behind the cart, hoping the bakery still had some good cookies left in the free sample jar and that I could convince Mother to buy my favorite cereal.  No sooner had I reached the meat aisle than a startling realization hit me: nothing in the display cases remotely resembled the chicken-on-a-stick I ate at home, nor the soft white flesh cross-hatched with black charcoal marks that epitomized the breast meat my parents preferred. I was not to be deterred, however.  I simply scanned the shelves and, seeing a tightly wrapped bundle of white plastic and orange netting that slightly resembled the shape of a fowl, I picked it up and held it in my hands for examination.  It seemed, well, small.  Glancing once more over the selection in the refrigerated cases, however, gave way to no further discoveries of familiarity in shape, color or size. In the next breath I determined to ask a store employee, if one was in sight.  Having thus decided upon a course of action, I wheeled my cart up and down the aisle, making a U-turn at the dairy section and picking up a couple of yogurts from the center display- how convenient for the next morning's breakfast.  Still no employee. Very well then, I'd just look for someone else to ask, someone.... approachable.

A harried young mother hurried by with a screaming toddler in the child seat. Not her. I kept searching. A man, tall and gruff looking, picked up a package of something red and bloody then turned on his heel and sauntered off.  Whatever he was having for dinner, I didn't think I'd like it.  Then a shorter woman, gray at the temples and wrinkled in the face and neck, pushed her cart slowly in my direction.  I paused, adjusted my cart. Picked up the small bird by its netting and cleared my throat. "Excuse me?"

The woman turned her gaze in my direction and I was rewarded for my patience with a smiling, open face.  Perhaps she would be willing to help; she looked like somebody's grandmother, and not the moth-balls and cough drops kind either, but the cookies and cocoa and story books kind.  A deep breath, "Um, do you think this is a chicken?"

The grandmotherly woman chuckled. "No dear, that's a Cornish game hen."

"Oh."  I had no idea what that meant.  "Do you think I can crock-pot it?"

The Grandmother, excusing  my verbing of the noun crock pot, moved her cart closer, her posture committing to the situation. "Usually you roast them."  Roast. Oh, great. Didn't that require special pans with holes in them for draining juices? And basting? I correlated roasting with Thanksgiving Turkey, an all-day cooking process.  As she started to launch into directions for roasting one of the little birds, I interrupted "I want to crock pot something."

Grandmother smiled at me, an indulgent smile. "First time?"

"Yeah. My mom said chicken would be easy, but..." I trailed off.  Grandmother pushed her cart further down the aisle, in the direction of the vermillion packages I had seen the man make his selection from.  She paused, finger to her lips as if considering, then pushed her cart once more and stopped in front of a small sign proclaiming "Chuck" and a dollar per pound amount that held little meaning for me.

As I came up behind her she picked up a Styrofoam tray with some sort of reddish animal's flesh on it, streaked with veins of white that here thickened and there thinned, intersecting and spreading like a map across the Saran-wrapped surface. "I used to feed a family of 8," she told me, "and chuck roast is one of the most best things to put in a crock pot because it goes far and costs little."

I swallowed. It didn't have too much blood. And it didn't look like steak-- I didn't like steak-- but neither did it look like chicken.  Oh well, I'd take a risk, have a new taste experience.  Grandmother put the tray in my hands; cold, heavy.  Her crooked finger began to trace the veinous map, indenting the meat under the plastic wrap as she explained that the white parts were fat and gave me instructions on where to cut.  "Do you know what else to put in," she asked.

"Um, not really."  So much for appearing competent. Here was a person who was willing to assist me and I'd accept all of the help I could get.  She rattled off a list of vegetables and spices, half of which I didn't recognize and the other half of which I didn't particularly care for, ending with instructions about some kind of tomato sauce.

I thanked the kindly grandmother lady and headed toward the produce area where I bagged any sort of vegetable I recognized, namely potatoes, carrots and celery, then went in search of the tomato product.  It was while I was staring at the shelves contemplating whether there was a difference between tomato sauce, tomato paste and tomato concentrate that my would-be benefactress turned from her place in the check out line and noticed my befuddlement.  Leaving her cart in line, she deftly selected a few cans from the shelf and dropped them into my cart, then advised me that I'd better give her my phone number so that she could give me instructions on how to cook all of this.

Later that same afternoon, my cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Duffy?"

"This is she."  The phrase always felt awkward on my tongue, not unlike the way ma'am settled uncomfortably across my shoulders, the language of adulthood that I modeled after my mother but was not yet ready to have fit me.

"Its Nada, from the grocery store?"

"Oh! Oh yes, thanks for calling! And for your help today."

"Do you have something to write with? I'll give you cooking directions."  Nada held the line while I went in search of a writing stick and paper.  Settling back on a barstool at my apartment's small breakfast bar, I proceeded to take copious notes on cooking the chuck roast with accompanying vegetables. At the conclusion of the call, I again thanked Nada and, upon her request, supplied my address.

A week passed and a I invited friends over for my special crock pot meal, taking pleasure in their enjoyment and the "home-cooked" feel of it all. Of course I gave credit to Nada for her time and care, and my friends were awed at the experience as I recounted it, but even more so when a manila envelope arrived in the mail with her name in the return address.  Opening it, I found a scrawled noted with several photocopies of recipes, complete with cooking instructions, for crock pot meals.

Together with my roommate, we made the first of a series of meals from the new recipes and, remembering Nada's advice on presentation, I took the first serving and laid it out decoratively on a white etched plate against a soft blue place setting and snapped a Polaroid for Nada.

My Name is Duffy, and I'm a Mormon

Have you ever seen those "I'm a Mormon" ads on TV or on highway billboards? http://mormon.org/people

 

Members of my Church create these vignettes to share their beliefs. I happen to also think that they make the face of Mormonism more relatable, as people who are curious can see that we're just like everybody else.

 

Today some wonderful women from my church were visiting me and we joked about the "I'm a Mormon" tag lines we could put up with our varied and colorful family histories...  so while I don't have an "I'm a Mormon" video or write-up, I do have a story.  Here it is:

 

 

Act 1, Scene 1: Dairy Queen located in Scottsdale, Arizona

 

I’d been on the job for barely two hours. At fifteen, I had a spin-off of nepotism to thank for my relatively high-paying job in the fast food industry. A neighbor to whom I’d given several years of babysitting service recommended me to the owner of this franchise, who called me up one summer afternoon as I was stepping out of the shower and asked if I could come in at two… and bring black pants.

Black pants. In the middle of July. In Phoenix, Arizona. I rummaged. Came up with a pair of flare-bottom pants from the depths of my closet. Begged a ride and found myself in ritzy Scottsdale, serving ice cream and observing the change in shifts. All of a sudden my trainer, Celeste, was gone and three young men entered. One came up behind the counter and introduced himself. His name was Aaron and he wasted no time in insulting my pants. As if he could tell bell bottoms from flares. (As if there was a difference other than twenty years and semantics).

His next words caught me off guard. “I’m Mormon. What are you?”

“Umm,” I guessed at his meaning. “White?” He appeared Caucasian as well but there was no telling with these Scottsdale, rich-kid types. Could be he was referring to some abstract line of ancestry that entitled him to old wealth. Who knew?

“No,” he smiled. That smile. It melted my heart then and there. “It’s a religion.”

“Oh. In that case, I’m Jewish.”

And thus began two and a half years of afternoons and evenings serving ice cream, debating and flirting by turns, and learning about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

Background:

My Mother was raised Lutheran, in the sense that she was dropped off at church and picked up again during the period when she was to prepare for catechism. My Father was raised Episcopalian. They took turns with the offspring: I was baptized Lutheran as an infant and my brother was dedicated Episcopalian just shy of four years later.  At one time we were apparently Quakers, and during my 6^th year of life, my mother, brother and I lived with her sister and brother-in-law, non-denominational Christians who put us to bed every night with Bible stories, song and prayer, and for whom Christianity was a way of life, as much as a Church they belonged to.

Within a year of my parents’ divorce, however, our Mother had remarried a man who abused us emotionally and physically for 15+ years. Church attendance was spotty the first few months and finally died away to nonexistent. He worshipped football and beer on Sundays and she worshipped him.

As for me, I was searching. Outwardly I claimed not to believe in God and fought my Dad and stepmom, Kathy each time they suggested going to church during our visits. The issue was never forced. Inwardly, I kept up an ongoing dialogue with Deity, in whatever form I understood Him. Mostly my prayers were petitions better received by a Genie and formed in a covering-the-bases type of way, in case Someone was inclined to grant my wishes. In middle school I wanted to join a Discipleship group at one of the local churches, a group of teenage girls who got together to study and talk about the Bible and how its lessons applied to them, but my role models were atheists and agnostics and I kept that desire locked inside.

 

Two and a half years

Aaron worked only summers and the occasional weeknight during the school year when someone called in sick and no other replacement could be found. When he did work, it was almost always the same shift- or at least an overlapping shift- as mine. Our coworkers found reasons to leave us in the same part of the store together and we found plenty to talk about. Being of the son of two attorneys, his skills in debate far outweighed my own but I continued to bate him if only to hear his answers. What at first sounded ludicrous (a mother who stayed at home with her four kids? Surely her husband was a tyrant, oppressive, a horrible and mean man to make her a homemaker instead of utilizing her law degree!) eventually penetrated my stubborn and hard exterior, got past the defense mechanisms, and settled in my heart where it was recognized as good and true.

Beyond teaching me about his religion through our ongoing, lively debates, Aaron employed every technique he could think of. “Oh, you’re taking an Anthropology class and need to study a different culture? Study mine! You could start by coming to church with me this Sunday.” (I declined).

Two years older than me, he was an ambitious (if not overly-zealous) member-missionary preparing for a full-time proselyting mission. Of course I shot down all of his attempts and never let on my interest in the gospel beyond for argument’s sake.

One afternoon Aaron pulled me aside in the hall, out of range of customers and coworkers alike. “What do you have against the Church?” he asked me. “You’ve learned enough now. Why won’t you come to church with me?”

It was a moment of truth. So I gave him the most important answer (leaving out that I didn’t own any dresses that weren’t sleeveless and hated wearing skirts and dresses anyway). “All the Christian churches have the same Bible, and they all say its true, but they each have different interpretations of it and each think they’re right. How do you know Joseph Smith didn’t do the same thing with your Book of Mormon? Maybe it started out as true (I was willing to grant that much, for I’d felt the Spirit of Truth stirring in my heart) but he could have changed it.”

All this in a single breath. I wasn’t earning any points for logic and reasoning. Mostly, I was scared of the enormity of what I had been learning. Aaron’s answer?

“All anyone has to do to know the Church is true, is read the Book of Mormon and pray about it.”

I’m pretty sure he said more. There were offers to loan me a Book of Mormon. To listen to the discussions at his home. At the DQ if I wasn’t comfortable coming to his home. And so on.  It was that sentence however that penetrated deep in my heart and stayed, ready to be called to remembrance at the appropriate time.

As it happened,  I had had a tremendous and growing crush on the boy with brown eyes, a smile that lit up a room, and dimples even deeper than mine ever since the first day we met. He asked me out. I was 17 and he was 19.

In typical Mormon style, we went miniature golfing. Less than original, but I didn’t mind too much. He had finally asked me out! As he was dropping me back off in the DQ parking lot (for all my parents knew, I was out with girlfriends that night, not on a date), he gave me the rundown of dates he’d planned for us for the next two weeks. Family home evening, and attending his farewell were included… essentially, a whole lot of churchy stuff! Just as a horribly cruel person might say to a cancer patient, “I only went out with you because you were dying,” I told Aaron “I only went out with you because you’re leaving on a mission.”

Ouch! It wasn’t what I had meant to say, but it was all I could find the words to say. I wanted to date him; I didn’t want to go to church with him.

A few days passed, Aaron collected his last paycheck and left on his mission. He didn’t even say goodbye to me! I was crushed. I was righteously indignant. I never wanted to speak to him again....

More importantly, I was able to separate my liking him from my interest in the gospel. And so, when weeks passed and I realized that the store was no longer the same without him, that I missed the light and happiness and radiance he emitted, I knew that I was missing the light of the gospel and not just a cute boy.

I argued with myself: on the one hand, it feels right. On the other hand, they have funny underwear. But on the other hand, they treat women with respect. But on the other hand, the holy underwear thing is really weird. But the other hand…

Finally I went online and ordered a free Book of Mormon, making sure to check the box that said “do not send missionaries.” I so wasn’t about to be brainwashed by missionaries before I knew for myself if it was true or not.

 

Two Months

The Book of Mormon came the day I moved out, which was the day after my 18^th birthday. I secreted it out of the house and then kept it hidden from my roommate at my new apartment. I had finished High School a year early because I knew I was going to be kicked out; it was the easier route than trying for matriculation. So I went to the local community college during the day, and worked nights at the DQ. Every night after working the closing shift, I’d drive the 20 minutes home with my windows rolled down, enjoying the cool desert air after dark. Then I’d curl up in bed with my paperback Book of Mormon and read until my eyes burned, until I fell asleep. It was the thing I most looked forward to. I pondered what I had read during the drive home at night, looking forward to what came next, and always it just made sense to me. It clicked. It felt… right. Familiar. Almost like remembering something I had known before, and forgotten. That kind of coming-home familiar.

It took me two months to finish the Book of Mormon, then I kneeled and with faith in Moroni’s promise, asked if it was true.

 

In the midst of the Two Months

Here is where I have to backtrack. Aaron was on his mission. I didn’t know any other Mormons. And I had questions… a lot of questions! For instance, was it true that Mormon's believed women had to have a certain number of children to get into heaven? Was the number 4? That’s how many his Mom had.

I wanted the answer straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak but I didn’t know any other Mormons and I wasn’t speaking to Aaron, who incidentally had laughed heartily but neither confirmed nor denied the rumor that Mormons believed women had to have at least 4 children to get into heaven. So in the midst of these two months when I was reading the Book of Mormon for the first time, I went online and entered a search for “Mormon women email” or something like that. I ended up on a website for Mormon Women Writers. It was a website where LDS women contributed recipes and homemaking tips and so forth. It had 6 editors with their email addresses all listed. I composed an e-mail explaining that I was investigating their church and wanted to ask some questions of a Mormon woman about how women were viewed and treated within the Church, then I sent it to all six e-mail addresses. Five e-mails came back to me as undeliverable. One went through to a woman named LuJane in an obscure town in Eastern Washington called Palouse. She was inactive, at that time a practicing Buddhist in fact, and didn’t feel comfortable answering my questions. So she printed my e-mail and gave it to her visiting teacher, Terrie Teare.

A day or so later I received an e-mail from Terrie, explaining her relationship to LuJane and saying that if I’d send her a list of questions, she would do her best to answer them. And answer she did! We started e-mailing on a daily basis, so many were my questions. One time I asked “What are scriptures?” and she explained that it’s the name for Bible, Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price all put together. Then she asked my color preference and sent me the Quad Set of scriptures I have now. By the time I received my answer—I knew that the Book of Mormon was true and that, because I knew it was true, I needed to be baptized-- we were so close to each other through our writing that she asked if she could crash on my couch a couple of days so she could attend my baptism.

Anyway, backing up again. Here is the sequence of events:

1.       Meet Aaron; work together; learn about Gospel

2.       Go on date with Aaron; decide never to talk to him again; separate liking him from interest in Gospel

3.       Order Book of Mormon; begin reading

4.       Have too many questions and no available Mormons; seek answers online, find Terrie

5.       Still reading Book of Mormon… finish and pray, learn that it is true

6.       Go to Church; take missionary discussions

7.       Terrie flies out for my baptism

 

Continuing the tale at Number Six

Okay, so have you ever heard it said that if a story is told in perfectly chronological order without any going back and adding detail, it’s an almost certain sign of a falsehood? Well clearly I’m not making this up, because its all out of order!

So going back… after I found out that the Book of Mormon was true (and that’s a treasured personal, spiritual experience so I’m not going to go into more detail in this writing) I decided that I was accountable for this knowledge and that I therefore needed to be baptized. And in order to do that, I needed to go to Church. So I called up my boss and asked for a Sunday off… plus every Sunday from now on. When I was hired, it was with the understanding that I would be working either Friday or Saturday night, and every Sunday. No exceptions. Well, there was one exception: a guy named George that got Sundays off for Football. But he was the only one. Everybody else was needed on Sundays. It so happened that my boss, Susan, had been raised a “Jackmormon” (her words) and while not interested in the Church herself, was pleased on my behalf.

She reminded me that I knew when I was hired that I’d have to work Sundays. I told her I understand and that I’d be looking for another job and would let her know as soon as I found one. She reciprocated that Church was more important than football and that I could have Sundays off from then on; if they needed another body, George would just have to deal.

So I had a little help with figuring out where to go to church and what time. Actually this was yet another tender mercy of the Lord.  I didn’t know about the online meetinghouse locator, but I remembered that Aaron had said his church was right across the street from his high school, and I knew that was just around the corner from the DQ where we worked.  So the Sunday before my anticipated trip to church, I drove over to the LDS chapel he had referenced after work.  I was just exiting my car with the intention of checking to see if the service times were posted on the door when a man exited the building and introduced himself to me as “Bishop Bailey.”  Yup, Aaron’s Dad.  I explained to him that I knew his son and wanted to attend church the following week and he asked where I lived.  After giving him my cross streets, he exclaimed that I lived very close to his parents and gave me directions to my meetinghouse, with the instruction to go to the 9a.m. service and ask for the Baileys. 

As it happened, the following Sunday was January 3^rd, 2003. Bishop Bailey had forgotten to take into account that the wards swap meeting times at the new year, but in so doing, had sent me not to his parents’ ward, but to the correct ward nonetheless. 

During Sacrament meeting I saw a girl that I thought I recognized from High School, but wasn’t sure; I hadn’t known any of my classmates were LDS (I later found out several classmates were and finally understood that Jen’s Dad dropped her off every morning at Seminary, not the cemetery, to walk to school).  The girl I recognized also recognized me, and was a fellow flutist in our high school band, Cortnie.  She took me to Gospel Doctrine and then to Relief Society where she introduced to me to the Relief Society President, Sister Gee.  "Hi, I’m Duffy. I read the Book of Mormon and I know its true so I need to meet the missionaries so I can be baptized.” I said it really, really fast.  I do that when I’m nervous.

Sister Gee’s jaw may have dropped inwardly but outwardly she remained cool as a cucumber. “I’ll you get you their number…  Elder Britt and Elder Blevins.”

Elder? I thought. Old men?  Nevertheless and despite my concern that I was going to be inviting 90 year-olds to my home, I called them up and left a voicemail explaining that I’d like to learn more about the church.  Elder Blevins later joked “you were like I was at church, where were you?!” 

The Elders ended up stopping by my apartment that very afternoon while I was out.  My roommate Nickey made an appointment on my behalf for later that afternoon.  When I arrived back home and she told me they were coming back, I panicked: I didn’t have any lemonade!!!!

Several months prior to Aaron’s leaving on his mission I had been privy to a conversation between him and another coworker of ours, Chris.  Chris was telling Aaron about sending the missionaries away when they knocked on his door, and Aaron was instructing him on proper missionary-greeting etiquette:  invite them in and offer lemonade.  “Or you could offer iced tea,” I posited.  “No,” Aaron insisted, “they wouldn’t drink it. Lemonade is better.” 

I didn’t know the reason I couldn’t offer tea to the missionaries, but I recalled this conversation and knew that I had to have lemonade.  So Nickey and I ran to the store and while we were debating the merits of various brands of lemonade, she proposed that chocolate chip cookies would go well with lemonade.  So I bought some break-and-bake frozen cookie dough, lemonade and Nickey’s promise to both sit it on the discussion with me and not tell the Elders I’d just broken the Sabbath (I was pretty sure lemonade was that important).

Elder Britt and Elder Blevins, 19 year-olds, to my great relief, showed up promptly at 4 o’clock, just as we were taking the cookies out of the oven.  I had understood that the meeting I attended that morning was a testimony meeting—that had been explained from the pulpit.  I had not understood the implications of Fast & Testimony meeting.  So when they bowed their heads for a quick prayer after relenting on the cookies and lemonade I foisted upon them (I knew a Mormon once; he said I had to offer you lemonade….) I didn’t think about them breaking their fast early so as not to offend an investigator, but just assumed these were some super-religious teenagers.

Over the course of the next 3 weeks Elders Britt and Blevins (Matt and Chris) taught me the 6 Standard Discussions.  I had no idea at the time that there was a rule about not going into the homes of single women without another male over 16 present.  They told me later that they had struck a compromise since Matt, the laid-back one, wanted to teach me and knew I wanted to learn but might not be receptive to a strange man coming to my apartment, and Chris, more of a ‘letter of the law’ missionary, wanted to abide mission rules.  So they taught me with my roommate, they taught me with Natalie and Kaydee, sisters in the ward who became my friends, under the pretense that Natalie was preparing for a mission and wanted to see how discussions were done, and when nobody else showed up with them, they taught me outside by the apartment complex’s pool.

When Matt and Chris were both transferred a week after my baptism, Chris asked if he could keep in touch with new converts within his mission, to which his mission President replied “Absolutely. As long as they’re not 18 year-old girls.” 

I shared the news of my upcoming baptism with my family. My Grandpa, an ex-Marine and Air Forceman who had previously told me that no matter was else I did in life, I should never join the Army or marry a Mormon, took the news well. It was actually my Aunt and Uncle, the non-denominational Christians who had been my greatest source of strength, support and unconditional love, whom I loved and admired more than anybody else in the world, who caused me to question my decision. They invited me over for dinner and to discuss “what I was doing with my life.” They gave me piles of anti-Mormon literature and an NIV Bible. I cried. And cried, and cried.

It was one of the worst and hardest times of my life up to that point. To be faced with opposition- and loving opposition at that, for there was never any doubt in mind about their love for me, or their ultimate concern for the eternal welfare of my soul (they truly believed I was joining a cult and would be damned to hell)- from the two people whom I loved and admired and respected most in the world, was probably the hardest thing that I could have faced at that time. Up to then I would have done anything not to disappoint them…. Except that now I knew of a greater Source of love and accountability.

I returned their anti-Mormon literature but held onto the Bible. It would not be the last time that they would, out of love for me, try to convince me of the error of my ways, try to reason with me with the scriptures, pointing out what they saw as inconsistencies. After being kicked out of my home for the 2^nd time at age 19 (fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me), I ended up living with them for a year-2004- before transferring from Community College to BYU-I. It was a censored year… they made sure I didn’t influence their children with my religious beliefs, and my LDS Visiting and Home Teachers couldn’t visit me there, but it was one of the best years too—filled with unconditional love and acceptance.

Anyway going back, I was baptized on February 1^st, 2003. Terrie flew out to be at my baptism and spent a couple of nights on my couch. We continued to email and talk on the phone occasionally. About a year or so after my baptism, I called her on Mothers Day. I told her she was kind of like my Adopted Gospel Mom and I wanted to wish her a Happy Mothers Day… over the next year or so, Adopted Gospel Mom became just Mom. It’s the role she fills in my life. Her husband has deemed himself my Fairy Godfather, and I know there couldn’t have been a better match made if I’d orchestrated it myself. My Mom is also a convert with an amazing conversion story of her own! She has been married twice; she has grown kids and kids at home; she has kids that are active in the Church and kids that are not. One kid that is addicted to drugs and alcohol, and her husband has Bipolar Disorder, she was not abused as a child like me, but was molested. Match for match, she has more or less ‘been there, done that,’ and experienced many of the traumas and trials that I have. In every way that my family of origin fails to understand the gospel perspective that I embrace, and could not provide the love or support that I so desperately longed for as a child, my Mom and her family now give me freely as an adult. I have come home.

Epilogue

People always ask, What happened to Aaron? Well, when I was baptized he was about 6 months into his mission. My Bishop convinced me that he deserved to know the part he played in bringing me into the Gospel. So I forgave him and wrote him a letter. He wrote back (he told me he cried). Then we wrote back and forth for the duration of his mission. When he came home we dated a few times but realized that we were good friends but not suited to be each other's eternal companions. We promised to be friends forever and have kept that promise. Although we are in touch only loosely at this time, I know that the bond is always present (D&C 18:15).

Aaron got married in 2005 to a beautiful girl of Korean/Mexican decent, Kim, and they now have two beautiful sons together. Throughout the years the two of us, as well as Chris and Matt have all kept in touch by phone and email. When I finally caught up to the rest of the world and joined Facebook, we started keeping each other updated that way. Chris and his wife Kim have a daughter and just recently welcomed a son into their family.  Matt and Sarah have a daughter and twin sons with autism (tender mercy: after losing contact for a few years, Matt logged onto Facebook at the exact time that I looked him up and sent him a friend request. He had been thinking of me because he knew I had studied Speech-Language Pathology and he needed hope right then for his non-verbal sons.  Because of my education, including recent continuing education, I was able to give him information that was unavailable where they're living in Texas right now).  It’s a happy ending to the story of their missionary efforts with me, and a beginning to the story of my someday eternal family but most of all its an ongoing story of the great and wonderful work that the Lord is performing in our lives.

#1 Rule for Reading My Blog

Dearest Reader,

If anything you read here disturbs you, please refer to my #1 rule for reading my blog:

Rule #1 When in doubt, assume sarcasm.

If, after reading any part of this blog, you feel the need for therapy, remember that while written therapeutically, this is a blog by a person who needs therapy, not a therapy substitute for readers.

Be well dear readers, be well and keep on providing me with writing material.

Duffy

Blunters Blunders

Blunters Blunders

This EPIC post was written and posted on a previous blog of mine a couple of years ago.  Rather than re-typing everything, I have simply linked to the post.  Click here.