A few weeks ago I found myself in India as part of an academic field study project. I was staying in Hyderabad, the capital city of the southern Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. It is India’s 6th largest city, with a population of over 7 million. To my surprise, while getting a ride down one of the major highways in the city, I noticed a building with novel yet familiar architecture:

It was an LDS chapel, and only a few miles from my hotel. I later looked it up on maps.lds.org, and decided to check it out that Sunday. I got there a bit early, and was greeted by a hired security guard stationed at the gate. Looking inside the empty chapel, I noticed the ubiquitous Del Parson paintings and other universal staples of LDS chapel decor and accessories. I saw the Elders who were out by the side of the street waiting on an investigator to arrive.

People started arriving on foot, by communal taxi, and by motorcycle—often entire families on one motorcycle—and began to mingle in true LDS fashion. The men were dressed in typical Mormon-wear: white shirts, ties, suits. The women, however, all donned traditional saris with (gasp!) matching pants (churidars, technically).

Hyderabad has the only stake in India, due largely to a substantial availability of priesthood leaders in the area. The stake was organized less than a year ago. The local language is Telugu, but all the meetings were conducted in English, which is the language of business throughout India, even among Indians. Many of the women and older folks struggle with English though, so they revert into Telugu to express themselves. As sacrament meeting started, the bishopric sat on the stand of this newly minted ward, and one of the counselors conducted. The sacrament was blessed in English, and administered as one would expect. The first speaker was one of the first seven members to be baptized in India (about 30 years ago). The second speaker was an older woman who shared her testimony in Telugu. The Elders sang a hymn as a musical number, and a younger man was the concluding speaker. The hymns were sung either a cappella or accompanied by a right-hand-only melody, courtesy of a young woman on the electric piano.

Sunday school was taught by a woman who was baptized by my good friend Sam B. who (coincidentally) served as a missionary in that ward/branch around 3 years ago. She had married a recently returned missionary (India is in the Hong Kong temple district) and had a baby in tow. The lesson was about gathering Israel, which is a difficult enough concept as it is, but is even more confusing for those without the backdrop of Judeo-Christian heritage. The lesson was in English, but clarification, follow-up, and questions were often fielded in Telugu. Elder’s quorum was as usual. There were clipboards being passed around, fussing with the thermostat and fans, and class instruction based on a general conference talk. Some men were outspoken and opinionated, others were reserved and remained quiet. As meetings ended, the members filled the halls, catching up on stories and making plans for the week. Looking around elsewhere, I found the youth being instructed by their leaders, and a group of women tending the young kids in the nursery.

After being invited to an upcoming ward activity, I headed back to my hotel, struck by how simultaneously foreign and familiar the whole experience was. I wouldn’t be going back, but I still recognized these churchgoers in a distant land to be my people. And as I sat among them in the Mormon chapel folding chairs, I was one of theirs. [Link to Photos: http://imgur.com/a/R0uJ5/layout/grid]

Goliath in Love

If you have lost me to sunny weather,
you can find me in the simple shiver
that rumbles inside your chest cavity
to announce, “I am never coming back.”
Summer has never gifted me with love,
the sparkling spell of July’s golden hand
does not know my shoulders. If rays of sun
warm the world, they ignite fires in me.
How is it that mothers can love their sons
and sons can love their mothers, but this son
cannot love another? Like the murder
of some ancient giant before battle;
layers of armor, helmet and breastplate,
I march the valley, abandon my heart.

Jeremy Windham is currently an undergraduate creative writing student at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas where he also studies violin performance. His poems can be found in The Blue Route, HUMID, and a local charity-based chapbook.

If you would like to submit your work to Psaltery & Lyre, please check out the P&L Submissions Page.

“I have a vision of artists putting into film, drama, literature, music, and paintings great themes and great characters from the Book of Mormon.”

Trey Parker, Matt Stone and Bobby Lopez’s broadway smash hit The Book of Mormon is probably not what President Benson had in mind. But Mormons are a pragmatic people, and are known for making the best of unexpected circumstances. The Book of Mormon Musical is on its national tour, and just wrapped up three weeks here in Boston. Although it’s been two years since its opening night (Elders Price and Cunningham should have had their homecomings by now), it remains not only a hot ticket on Broadway, but the national tour tickets are selling for top-dollar as well. Latter-day saints’ opinions about the show vary a great deal, as is to be expected from a production that is foul, vulgar, and irreverent, but also celebrates the wonder of faith communities with a great deal of heart. The Church’s official response was neutral and terse, and aimed to bring attention back to the scripture itself:

“The production may attempt to entertain audiences for an evening, but the Book of Mormon as a volume of scripture will change people’s lives forever by bringing them closer to Christ.”

In the same spirit of the Church later buying ad space in the playbill, the Times Square billboard, and Elder Holland’s comment: “you’ve seen the show, now read the book,” the full-time missionaries of the Boston mission met theatergoers at the gates of the Boston Opera house to offer free copies of the actual Book of Mormon. I joined them on opening night of this initiative. We had a full box of Books of Mormon. We stuffed each copy with a flyer showing where the local chapels are and what times church meetings begin, with the missionaries’ phone number.

We stood outside the gates, where we met a delighted theater employee who thought it was wonderful that we were there. As things started to pick up, a tall black man passed us on the street, nodded, and said “Elders!” He then introduced himself as a cast member, and was just out to get a pre-show coffee. He asked if he could take a photo with us, and called over the austere-looking security guard (who had been standing by the theater entrance) to take the picture. As it turns out the actor was Kevin Mambo, who plays the role of the village father, Mafala. He later tweeted the encounter to his followers.

As people started flowing in, a number of interesting conversations started up. Some people mistook the elders for cast members, which in some ways facilitated the initial approach. One gentleman announced he was an English major, and admitted how ashamed he was for never having read the Book of Mormon despite claiming to be well-versed in American literature and world religions. He gladly accepted a copy. One woman told us that she had LDS co-workers whom she cared about deeply, and hoped her attending the play wouldn’t offend them; she took a copy an announced she would be bringing it to work the next day for show-and-tell. People started taking copies en masse as soon as they realized that others were doing likewise. Some refused our approaches with varying levels of politeness, but we still gave out the entire box twenty minutes before showtime. For some people, it was akin to nabbing some broadway memorabilia and getting a photo-op with Mickey Mouse at disneyland, but for others, it was a moment to awaken to the fact that there is an actual religious movement and scriptural text in the backdrop of the song-and-dance of their entertainment. As showtime began and the crowds outside the theater died down, we packed up and started to head out. One tardy group on their way wanted a last-minute photo with the Elders, and the security guard (who had been watching the whole time) said “See you tomorrow! Bring more books!”

The Boston mission is not a street-contacting mission by default. But the Zone leaders coordinated among themselves, and arranged for Elders and Sisters to be out at the theater doors every night for the entire run of the show in Boston. I returned a few nights later, and had a similar experience. One member from another ward joined in the efforts that night. She had a very unique story, as she was recently baptized as a round-about result of seeing the show in New York, and seeking out the real missionaries aftewards. She told passers-by about her unsusual experience which she has recounted on her blog. As we were contacting people, one theatergoing couple told the missionaries that they had an extra ticket (its intended recipient was unable to attend last-minute). The couple gave the ticket to the missionaries and asked them to give it to someone who could go. The missionaries couldn’t use it themselves, the throngs of people surrounding us already had tickets, and the others I was with all had commitments that evening.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have plans for afterwards, so I lucked out and got the spare ticket. I had seen the show in New York when it first came out in 2011, so I wasn’t in for any surprises, but was nonetheless excited to get a second round on the house. As I found my seat, I met the couple that had given up the extra ticket in the first place. They were pleased that it was not going to waste. They had accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon, and the woman had it in her purse. After introducing myself as one of the Mormons from outside, I flipped through their copy and pointed out a few passages that would be featured in the show, and spoke a bit about my own mission experience. I also offered some appreciation that only an insider could provide, such as the reference to the San Diego Temple architecture in the set design, the subtle inclusion of Abinadi’s line “Touch me not!”, the homages to the Hill Cumorah Pageant, and the familiar LDS stock art in the missionary living quarters. The butts of many of the show’s jokes flow from the fact that one of the protagonist missionaries (Elder Cunningham) had never actually read the Book of Mormon, and instead was desperately “making things up” (unbeknownst to the naive African investigators, who take his message as gospel truth). The irony was not lost on me as 2000+ spectators who likewise had never read the Book of Mormon laughed along. Perhaps some of those in attendance who had accepted copies would be sufficiently intrigued to open its pages and discover what awaits inside.

During the intermission, I scanned the crowd and spotted one gentleman who had accepted a copy. He opened the book and began to glance at the pages. I snapped a picture from a distance, and couldn’t help but silently replay the lyrics in my mind:

“You simply won’t believe how much this book will change your life.”

-Submitted by KC Kern

First thing:

Next point: I KNOW my mother has zero interest in people talking about her or remembering her in some inflated, overly romanticized fashion. We’ve spoken more than once about this phenomenon, this rhetorical pedestal-placing that sometimes happens after a loved one’s death or because of some momentous milestone passing. “Don’t let your dad tell everyone I was perfect if I die first,” she once joked. So this isn’t a rose-colored Tribute to My Sainted Mother kind of Mother’s Day piece. In fact, I’ll start by saying that one thing I’ve learned from my mom is that all parents are going to be flawed in some way, and that such flaws are inescapable, thus…spending too much time bemoaning the fact that your parent did X or didn’t do Y obscures the reality that parents who did do X probably fell short on K and parents who didn’t do Y probably did lots of  M instead. So no worries, Mom – I am not presenting an overly romanticized, airbrushed version of you as a mother. I won’t pretend that I liked drinking powdered milk, because I didn’t. 

Continuing: I LOVE this poem. I have taught this poem to every single literature class I’ve taught in the last decade+. This poem usually kicks off the intro to poetry unit in said classes, so great is its value to me and so truthful its truth:

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early 
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 
then with cracked hands that ached 
from labor in the weekday weather made 
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 
and slowly I would rise and dress, 
fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

Speaking indifferently to him, 
who had driven out the cold 
and polished my good shoes as well. 
What did I know, what did I know 
of love's austere and lonely offices? 

Obviously, this poem is pained and bittersweet. There is a sense that the speaker of the poem will never have an opportunity to offer thanks to the father who kept the house warm – and cold. Such a tone, however, is not why this poem comes to my mind for Mother’s Day. But in addition to the regret, there’s something else there too, an honest admission from the son that he knew very little about being a parent or about a parent’s love when he was a child. 

So it is with me. Many times, I have paraphrased those Robert Hayden lines in my mind as such: “What did I know, what did I know / of being a mother?” When I was my mother’s daughter living under her roof, I knew that she was organized, but I lacked a full appreciation of the scope of her vision and the strength of her resolve. Every day when we came home from school, there was a snack on the counter, for example, and a list of jobs and fun activities to be accomplished. Every day. Highlights on the snack front included popcorn with melted chocolate drizzled on it and trail mix with chocolate chips! Those were special days. Our was not a house o’ junk food. Meanwhile, my mom was teaching piano lessons in the living room. But she managed to take care of business in the front and back of the house. 

Fast forward to now. I am a mother too. My kids also come home from school. They rummage for something in the snack drawer. They make do with apples that are a bit soft. They eat boatloads of goldfish crackers, and that isn’t the worst of it, nutritionally speaking. In fact, I am purposefully omitting the worst of it, nutritionally speaking, so as not to make myself look as lame as I actually am. They drink milk straight from the carton too. My daughter begs me for a job list of tasks she should accomplish, hoping and hoping that this will be the afternoon I finally implement a steady allowance system that works…and lasts, but it won’t be. Sorry. The white board in the kitchen has a bright green to do list on it, sure, but I haven’t updated the list in something like 30 days. She wants the kind of organization with which I grew up, and oh my, do I appreciate the consistent work and effort of my mother then, now.

When I was young, I took violin and piano lessons. And dance. And I practiced those instruments and those steps. No, I was not the Star Search student of the year, but I did practice those instruments enough to learn to play and to play some things well. I was in All-State orchestra. I memorized a piano concerto or two. I have memories of practicing, yes. I remember the Suzuki books and the group lessons. I remember my Dad taking us to dance lessons while my mom taught piano lessons, which as often as not, she taught in trade so that we could have our private lessons. Yes, I remember being tired at the piano bench, sleepily running scales while my sisters slept in a bit. I remember attending those piano lessons and my violin lessons as well. So yes, those were my fingers on the keyboard, my fingers on the bow. But in an interesting and not inappropriate hiccup of memory, my mind seems to attribute whatever musical prowess I accomplished to my mother. She is the reason I can sing and play. I just managed to show up. She made it possible for me and my sisters (and my dad) to learn how to perform, and because she was and is such a crack whiz accompanist, she made us sound good too. Three words: Hill Family Singers. Three more: matching cat shirts. Those were good times.

Fast forward to now. I want my son to be a drummer like his father, yet we haven’t progressed much beyond iPad apps, honestly. And I want my daughter to learn the piano. I even tried teaching her for six months without much success, after she had already studied for a number of years with someone else. So guess what we’re doing instead? My daughter now takes FaceTime piano lessons from her grandma, my mom. Grandma also teaches piano lessons to her other granddaughters. They love the opportunity, though they probably do not yet realize just what an ace teacher they have, nor do they realize that she’s come out of retirement to teach them. She’s a psychologist now and has been for many years. But she loves the chance to make music with her grandkids! 

When I graduated from high school, I left home and ended up hundreds of miles to the west, attending the same college my mother had when she was a freshman, and even living in the same dorm she had graced back in the 1960s. And my mother’s vision for me continued – that I would have the opportunity to attend college and that I would graduate. When I managed to get engaged before I turned 20, she was a wee bit nervous, knowing that early marriage often derailed educational goals, but I stayed in school and got that diploma. And I didn’t marry until I was 25. (And I didn’t divorce until I was 36, in full disclosure.) And thanks to my parents’ careful budgeting and total commitment to my post secondary education, my job during the fall and spring semesters was being a student. I did work 40 hours a week filing papers, answering phones, and handing fast food out a drive-thru window all summer, every college summer, depositing those earnings in my college fund, but it was my parents who made my education possible, and all because my mother had a vision for us.

Her vision also included that we, her daughters, be able to play the hymns in the hymnbook before we left home and that we be able to type. This latter requirement is why I had to enroll in Basic Keyboarding as a high school senior, but you’d better believe I was grateful for all of those “f, f, f, f, j, j, j, j” lessons when it came time to type my college papers. And even though I was reared in a religious tradition that sometimes encourages submission and does not necessarily teach or reward female independence, pardon the broad brush with which I am painting, I was fortunate to have my mom as an example. She thought for herself and spoke up for herself. She taught us about the rich tradition of female strength and spirituality found in the early days of our church, and she walked the walk of developing an independent relationship with God. 

In short, I owe the skills I do possess to my mother. And it wasn’t until I became a mother that I realized just how much she did and was. Sometimes, especially when I see myself falling short on the parenting front, I wish that my kids could spend some time in my childhood life.  I would like to see them cleaning the house on Saturday mornings, drawing color coded slips of paper with chore assignments out of a Tupperware container. I wish they could help childhood me weed in the garden and husk corn on the back step. I would love them for them to learn how to pay bills the way I did, by sitting down with my mother and writing out the various checks, per her instructions. But they have the opportunity to see her now, a deeply generous and thoughtful woman who always has fun photo props when we come to visit (i.e. Mardi Gras masks or 15 colorful wigs, y’all), who takes them biking, who helps them bake muffins, who teaches them songs to perform, and more. 

In short, my mother did – and does – her job. 

So… “What did I know, what did I know / of being a mother?” Quite a bit, it turns out, thanks to her example over the years. I am not the same as my mom, and how could I be? But I know that she worked hard and planned well and sacrified a great deal so that I could be…me.

A couple days ago, I asked people to submit pictures of their moms or of themselves as moms.  Behold, the booty.

Mother’s Day is tomorrow.  Mother’s Day is not my favorite–for a whole host of reasons I’m quite sure y’all know about because I tend to not self-censor much with anyone.  That includes y’all. 

I woke up this morning and one of the first things I saw on Facebook was this meme from mormon.org which made me want to scoop my eyeballs out with a spork.

Speaking of scoops, here’s one from your mom, on Mother’s Day Eve:

You guys are awesome.  You are amazing in every possible way–and then some.  I cannot imagine life NOT as your mom (although I’m guessing y’all might have fantasized about your life with a different mom on multiple occasions . . .).  I am LOVING watching y’all grow up.  You are ambitious and hard-working and kind and smart and funny (oh, so funny) and quick-witted and curious.  And you are also needy and demanding and sometimes I feel beleaguered by trying to fill all of your needs.  And I tell you as much, which I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be doing, but maybe I’m doing you a favor:  if you become a parent, you’ll go in eyes wide open–thanks to me! 

Quite simply, I am your mom.  Imagining my life otherwise is just crazy talk.

However, motherhood is not the essence of who I am.  It does not define my identity.  And it sure as hell doesn’t define my divine stature and nature.  Motherhood is part of me, yes.  One of many parts.  I am also a woman, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a wife, an aunt, a sister-in-law, a daughter-in-law, a granddaughter, a professor, a writer, a blogger, a wanna-be runner, a jokester, a singer, a pianist, a Spanish speaker, a Mormon, a Texan, a CASA, a reader, a reader, a reader (yes, I know I included that 3X), a voter, a liberal, a Democrat, a community member, a public school advocate, a library lover, a citizen, an amateur photographer, a Diet Dr. Pepper aficionado, an overeater, a yo-yo dieter (dammit), and hopefully a bunch more things that I don’t know about yet.  I’m on the verge of turning 40, so I hope to have many more years ahead of me to become more things.

And I would have been pretty much ALL of those things even if I had not been a mother.  We could go round and round about the importance of each of those things, but I’m not interested in that (after all, clearly being a Diet Dr. Pepper aficionado is way more important in my life than being an overeater . . .).  My point is not to say that motherhood isn’t important.  I’ve devoted over 16 years of my life to the whole Motherhood-Project with many, many more to come.  My point is to say that motherhood is just one part of me.  It’s a part that I cherish (except for when I don’t), but it’s still just one part.  Motherhood does not define me.  It is not my essence.  *I* am my essence.  Me, Heather Olson Beal.  I am all of those things.  And I’m grateful for all the opportunities I’ve had in life to develop all the parts of me–not just the motherhood part (and dangit, that one’s been tough).

I don’t wish for motherhood to define you, either (or fatherhood for you, Stuart).  I want each of you to go out into the world and figure out what things/roles/activities/responsibilities/careers/endeavors define you and work on developing all of them.  And if parenthood is one of those, I hope I am around to enjoy that part of your life with you.  I will love getting to do the (few) things I’m good at with your (would-be) kids.  Remember what you told me when you were about five, Kennedy:  “Mom, you’re really not the best Pop Ramen maker.  That’s Dad.  And you’re really not the best pancake maker.  That’s Dad.  And you’re really not the best peanut butter and jelly maker.  That’s Dad.  Hmmm . . . I don’t even know what you’re good at!  Hmmm . . . oh yeah.  You’re a good book reader.”

So there you have it, folks.  The essence of my identity as a parent:  I’m literate.  ;) 

But I digress . . .

Lastly, if there is a god, I think they want us to go out and do good in the world.  I don’t think the sole purpose of our time on this planet is to become parents.  Figure out what your purpose is and work on fulfilling it.  Don’t worry about god meting out divine judgment if you choose the “wrong” thing.

And if parenthood is not one of the things that help define you–whether by choice or otherwise–you can always call me.  I’ll get it.  And I will love all the parts of what make you you.

This week, I’m especially mindful of the familial relationships and how they can challenge our spiritual growth more than any other type of relationship that exists. Why are the most intimate relationships in our lives the ones that can challenge our limits of kindness and compassion? Why is it that the people we really love and feel most comfortable with are often the very people we vent to and lose patience with the most? Ram Das said it well,“If you think you are so enlightened, go and spend a week with your parents.”

I offer two versions of motherhood to my kids. One boasts a mom who is open and honest, warm and cuddly. She laughs and listens. She bakes cookies and takes kids on hikes. The other parallel universe contains the motherhood version of me as a shrieking woman at her wit’s end, insisting that everyone around her settle down and be quiet. And tidy. Yes – tidy, quiet and happy – at all times. Somehow I expect everyone around me to know how to do that, even though I am not able to model it myself. The two realities seem so separate, so contradictory to each other. Yet both are real.

As the school year closes in and my kids are at each others throats, I wonder – how will I survive the summer? How will I bring forth the healthiest version of me playing mother? How can I stay in the present moment, when it sucks? Why would I want to be present when there is screaming and fighting and whining and begging?

At times like this I go into fantasy mode. It goes like this. I am a prisoner. I live in a small cell with no possessions, just a mattress and a toilet in the corner. There are no clothing choices, no make up – just jeans and an issued shirt. The food is terrible and I am able to release my foodie cravings. And – it is heaven. I meditate daily and spent an hour in the weight room, and give service making license plates as if they were God’s art. If I’m lucky, I get put in solitary confinement where it’s just myself. Oh, beloved silence and stillness.

You know it’s bad when your fantasy is prison.

The yogis of old took a similar route, a Vedantic and austere approach to their practice. They believed in transcending the limitations and constraints of the physical world. They saw the body and the world as an impermanent illusion to be overcome. Their practices included incredible physical deprivations and an austere lifestyle in a remote hut or jungle dwelling. No significant other. No children. No job, no money. No distractions of that nature.

Somewhere along the line the householders (ie: regular people) wanted in. They wanted to play at this game of spiritual evolution too, but they weren’t willing to give it all up. They didn’t see the typical lifestyle as something to be relinquished, or the body as something that had to be overcome. They saw regular life as the very tools to transform. And voila – tantra was born.

Tantra is a spiritual approach that eschews dualism. Tantric practitioners believe that the body is not something to be transcended, but something to be experienced and harnessed. This philosophy offers a way to go deeper into practice, using the very mundane interactions of family, sexual relationship, eating, moving, working, etc – as sacred spiritual practices. That daily life can actually move us deeply toward moksha (liberation) and self-realization – should we choose to use them wisely.

That sounds so romantic. I read about it and see rainbows and unicorns and I am inspired to honor my children as the little wise gurus that they are and I see life moving gracefully through me. I recognize that the kids are God incarnate, here to push me and refine me. And, with all that beauty in my heart, and a re-dedication to my practice, I inevitably – am yelling at the little buggers five minutes later.

How can I bridge the gap between these two versions of parenthood? How I avoid splitting into schizophrenically from the loving mom one minute and crazy shrew the next? The only way I see to do it is to break down the myth of the good and bad parent. To throw away the idea that “good” moms never yell or get frustrated, and that kids should always tow the line. The two versions of motherhood I offer are not separate entities – they are one whole.

The truth? Good parents lose it one minute and pull it together the next. Time passes and we see ways to parent better. We learn to give up control and live a bit more gracefully. The truth is, it’s a process, it’s a practice. We can give up the need for control and re-frame our reality. The kids fight because that is what kids do. They make messes, they talk back, they forget their homework and blame it on someone else. They get bored. They whine. And we, as parents – forget again to embrace it all, get frustrated and begin back at square one. All is as it should be.

Anais Nin said it best: “We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.” This gives me a greater sense of compassion, for myself, my spouse, my mother and father, and my children.

When I see it this way, I am able to embrace the mess and the chaos as normal and healthy. I can still work with it to improve it, and with less resistance, the kids are more likely to jump aboard and help. I can see the tough days of summer as the ultimate opportunity for ashram life, non-typical as it may be. Every time my daughter leaves a messy pile behind her or shrieks at her brother, I can view it as a bell ringing in the monastery to pay attention and shift gears. Perhaps I can embrace what is happening – the good, the bad, and the ugly – and resist less.

And when I can’t, I remember Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation mantra. In fact, I may just may need to tattoo it on my hand:

Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in.
Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.

Parenting is a challenge! What are your best techniques for turning the minivan into a monastery?

Elegy for a Stranger

I found the kid’s headstone during our spring
cleaning of the cemetery.   The name
was not one that I knew, but just the same,
I stood there as the clouds rolled in, staring
at the dates. I figured out the poor thing
was only eight years old.  God, what a shame
to die so young.  Soon after, the rain came.
Fat, angry drops began to pelt and sting

my skin.  Still I stayed, as the others fled
with plastic bags over their heads.  They flew,
flapping like bats, while I stayed by the stone
in the chilling drizzle, beside the dead.
No, I didn’t know him; I only knew
I could not leave him in the rain alone

James A. Clark is a long-time resident of Nacogdoches, Texas, where he tries—and sometimes fails—to balance his time between family responsibilities, his education, and his writing.  He’s been a shifty-eyed car salesman, a slouchy convenience store clerk, a sawmill hand and, for a few minutes, a telemarketer.  Through it all, though, the single constant thread has always been the act of putting words on paper.

If you would like to submit your work to Psaltery & Lyre, please check out the P&L Submissions Page.

Alongside her witty talk of feminism, work and spirituality, Fey coins a version of a “Mother’s Prayer for Its Child.” We all have these hopes and dreams for our children, wanting their lives to be just a bit better than ours. Fey’s child is a girl. She begins with the request that there will be no tattoos and that the daughter be beautiful but not damaged, followed by hopes for how the child handles everything from a crystal meth encounter to career choices to her own motherhood. You can read the hilarious full version here.

When I first heard it, I immediately thought that if anyone had both high hopes for her daughter having a better life and the religious skill set to come up with a fervent prayer, it would be a Mormon mother. And so, I offer the following prayer. What did I leave out?

The [Mormon] Mother’s Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father, and psst, even though we’re not supposed to mention Her, if it’s all right, could you please put a good word in with “my Mother there” (I need all the help I can get here)

Thank you for all of my many blessings.

Please bless her that she have no extravagant piercings. Bling is not for the belly, nor for the tongue, nor for the nostril, nor for the nipple. That the reputation destroying angel of unseemly internet photos may pass by her.

May she be modest but not matronly. Let her derriere be covered but not with the words “foxy” and let the only thongs she wear be shoes on her feet. May she abandon the Shade but not the bra. May she know soft and pink as merely fashion choices, not a state of being.

When Oxy is offered, please let her remember her mother who didn’t really want to breastfeed but did it anyway, and let her choose fully-leaded Coca Cola or ice tea instead.

Lead her, guide her, walk beside her, help her find the way. Remind her that the Holy Ghost goes to bed at midnight, at 10pm if she needs to study, and insists that a Book of Mormon is always the standard of distance between she and a dance partner.

Lead her away from Happy Valley, but not all the way to the City by the Bay. Let her find somewhere to live where commutes are short and housing is affordable, where the weather is always sunny but all four seasons are represented. City of Enoch maybe?

May she pray with her own fervor and faith that she might never feel the need for a worthy priesthood holder to give her access to Thee.

Grant her a rough patch until she’s at least almost through college, so she can leave with both her MRS and a real degree (and is it too much to hope for, but if Thou could throw in a career path as well here?) that she might never have to introduce her family in sacrament meeting by saying “we” when she really means “he.”

Oh Lord, break the internet forever that she may not feel the need to compete with every “I’m a Mormon” ad and Mommy Bloggers where women are able to somehow manage a thriving career yet be an always-happy-ever-smiling-and-grateful Stay at Home Mother of six children under 5 with a husband in school who still makes homemade bread from her year’s supply of food storage and sews bonnets for the 24^th of July parade each year.

And when she tells me I’m “just a mom,” outside the Stake Youth Dance, let me strap her in the Volvo wagon and put her in time out like I did when she was a toddler.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, dear Lord, be my eyes, that I might see her strapped in a mini van of her own for hours on end with trash from last night’s drive thru on the floor and crayon drawings on the windows, all at once exhausted, almost out of gas and crazy in love with her fighting, messy, yet incredible children. “My mother once did this for me” she’ll think as she drives kids to dance lessons without taking a step and to baseball without tossing a ball. And she’ll feel a twinge of Mormon guilt at how lame she thought my made-up car songs were and how irresponsible she believed me to be for forgetting to pick people up on time or even at all, and then she’ll offer a prayer of forgiveness along with a solution that her children might have it better than she.

And then, Heavenly Father, please let them travel home in safety,

In the name of Jesus Christ,
Amen.

So if you have a special picture of yourself with your mom, or maybe just of your mom, or of your grandma or aunt or a special teacher or of yourself with your kids, please send it to Heather (heather@thebeals.net).  You can include a very short caption if you like, or no caption.  Same with names–can include them or not.

I’ll put them together in a slide show and publish it this Sunday, May 12.