Sunday

Because of a late-night baseball game last night, I decided another visit to Newark 1st ward was only appropriate.

I arrived about 20 minutes early, which I figured would more than guarantee me a seat. And it appeared to do so, considering the chapel had perhaps a half dozen people in it at the most. So I took out my scriptures and began hunting for a particular verse in Isaiah that I could not find yesterday. I perused and skipped around while the Young Women practiced their song for Sacrament Meeting, and enjoyed the time I had to myself.

After being approached by a member of the stake high council (whose branch I regularly attend), the Bishop, and an older gentleman who politely informed me I was in his seat (which seemed awful unnecessary to me, since the pew directly in front of us was deserted, but old people are weird about strange things, so I moved down the pew), and the meeting began.

We sang our hymns, took the Sacrament, and the sermons began. After hearing a talk from one of the tallest Young Men I think I've ever seen, we heard from Sister W, a delightful sister whose family I sat near the last time I went to Newark 1st. She was masked by the podium, and we had to wait several seconds for it to be lowered before we could even see the top of her head.

She proceeded to tell us about an incident where prayer and the lessons she learned increased her testimony of the Church. The story bears repeating, of course, because it involved some car keys, a college class, a pair of pink Crocs, and some Skittles.

Brother W had accidentally taken Sister W's car keys, leaving her stranded at her house when she was due to be at her college to take some classes; one of which was a chemistry lab she needed to attend. After calling one of her friends from church to drive her to school (which I imagine must have been quite embarrassing), she arrived for her chem lab only to realize she was wearing her pink pair of Crocs. She had worn them the previous week, and her instructor had informed her that because they have holes in them, she cannot participate in labs if and when she wears them. She had become very distraught; visible in the fact that just retelling the story brought her to tears, and she told us of how she had asked for Heavenly Father's assistance as to what to do.

She then tried to think of a way to plug the holes, hoping it would be a sufficient solution for her professor. She tried dimes, but they were too large to fit into the holes. Her next solution was a bag of Skittles, which instantly instigated a quiet riot of giggling. She described how the Skittles, although they appeared bizarre, had seemingly settled her problem.

(Another reason to hate those horrid chunks of plastic, but this story isn't about my biases. Moving on!)

She then went to meet her lab partner, who couldn't help but question Sister W's odd footwear, at which point Sister W explained the entire hellish morning to her. Her partner then stated she had an extra pair of shoes in her bag if Sister W needed to borrow them. Sister W gladly did so, and then gave us the moral of her amusing, yet stressful experience.

In order to learn from the Holy Spirit, to be forgiven of our sins, to find solace in our Father in Heaven, or any of the many blessings that come through Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, we have to do the very best we can to meet our needs--like plugging the holes in our shoes with a bunch of Skittles--meeting our trials with our best efforts in order to overcome them on our own. Only then will our Heavenly Father answer our prayers and take us the rest of the way.

My initial impression of Newark was that of a very busy ward that somehow seemed impersonal. But today I saw a different side--especially when Brother W made a comment about how the counselor closest to him could have at least raised the podium "2 courtesy inches," and the counselor happily obliged him right when Brother W began to speak, which brought a chuckle from the crowd.

I see now that Newark 1st isn't just a building full of busy people. As they described it themselves, they are a "ward family."

It's good to see that my quirky, lovable Church family exists no matter where my adventures land me on the Sabbath.

Going to my first ward

Excerpt of an e-mail I sent recently:

Being in a ward is a lot different than being in a branch. I never would have though so, but it really is a huge difference.

In our branch, you can be 3-5 minutes late to Sacrament meeting, and your seat (because you have a seat) will still be there. In a ward, all the pews are full by the time you hit the opening hymn. I walked in during the first verse, and there was no where to sit. So I kinda just put myself into the first empty gap I could find in a pew in the back.... only to discover that the family I was sitting next to had sons at the Sacrament table, and I was in their seat. Their mother told me I was more than welcome to sit where I was because they had room to move down, but I was still a little embarrassed. I don't like putting people out, and I felt really out of place. But with the seating crisis averted, I opened my hymn book and sang the alto line to a song I had never heard like I'd been doing it all my life... it felt really good to finally get something right with music, I'll tell you that much. Then I saw one of my LDS friends from school, and she saw me too, which made me feel like I wasn't a complete stranger anymore. So that worked out nicely in my favor.
One thing I noticed instantly about a ward: three times the number of people means three times the toddlers... and three times the toddlers means three times the noise. By the time sacrament started going around, I was lost in all the movement that comes with young children. It seemed like everyone was always shifting and shuffling and moving because of their children. It was hard for me to be still, espcially once I saw the little girl in front of me who was climbing all over her mother, babbling incoherently, and playing with some kind of airplane toy. She was so cute, whenever I got too restless and distracted, I just watched her. I'm telling you, she was too cute! And when she stood on the chair, faced me, waved, and smiled at me while she played with her sweater, I about melted right there in my chair. Seeing her smile made me feel so much better, and everything I've been struggling with lately just faded away.... then her mother scooped her up, made the little girl stand in her lap, and little girl sneezed right into her mother's face. *cringe cringe cringe* Drool, snot, all of it. Point blank range. Ugh, I can't even describe it anymore. LOL.

So I turned my attention back to the speaker. I don't remember who it was at that moment. I'm pretty sure it was after the mumbling young man, so it was probably during the young mother's talk that eventually got a tug from the bishop. After she was done repeating herself (she was obviously very nervous), we heard from a missionary serving in the ward.

Something new I learned about myself: I love missionaries. They're awesome. I've never heard from a missionary that wasn't uplifting in exactly the way I needed to hear. After having to fight with myself for an entire sacrament meeting to be still and pay attention, it was such a relief to feel the peace that I've taken for granted for so long in Rising Sun... the sense that I'm where Heavenly Father wants me to be, and that He's speaking to me, and I'm actually hearing what He's saying. I was afraid that all those stars weren't going to align at any point during the meeting, and I was going to have to go another week without having felt that peace. But I see now that I have to trust Heavenly Father more than that.

We sang the closing hymn, which sounded amazing in a room that size with those kinds of acoustics. The organist is definitely my kind of organist. Even in songs I had never heard before, I recognized all the times he just flubbed a chord here or there. When it was happening, I found myself thinking, "he's no Sister Angerbauer." [Note to reader: Sister Angerbauer is Boyfriend's mom, and an expert organist].... but in hindsight, I think I'm finally starting to catch on to what I was supposed to see that day, in that ward, with everything around me.

As long as I keep having unrealistic expectations about my life, the people around me, and my own capabilities, I'm going to be disappointed. My problem isn't that the youth speaker mumbles, the children run down the aisles and sneeze on their mothers, the speaker repeats herself like a skipping record, or the organist plays like Mr. Carns. [Note to reader: Mr. Carns is my choir teacher, who has issues with pianos] They're all trying to do the best they can. Who am I to say their best isn't good enough? And maybe if I stop expecting so much from other people, I won't expect the impossible from myself all the time...

Maybe. And even then, it's easier said than done.

Newark is endearingly chaotic. Even though it feels oddly impersonal, I feel like it's something I could get used to.

Maybe even something I need.