Life has a way of getting away from us. Blogs are no different. Honestly, I don't like writing on my blog just to stay in your face. I want to say something that matters, at least to me. And for the last, well, at least year, I haven't been putting my energy into writing.
Oh don't misunderstand. I love to write and am planning on publishing this year(More to come about that later), but from June of last year to June of this year, my time was consumed with something entirely different.
You see, as part of my faith, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day saints, we all take turns sharing responsibility for the needs of our congregation. Some jobs, or callings as we refer to them in the church, are relatively small and not as time consuming. Others, like the calling I was given last year, was lots of responsibility and time. Basically, I was responsible to care for and know the needs of all the women in my congregation. This job is called being the Relief Society President, and it was a remarkable, and really tough experience. In fact, I wrote down many of my experiences in a book I'm calling of Succulents and Sisters. Typically, I don't write about religious content, but it was such a unique experience that I wanted to record the stories. Also, I learned to love, love, love growing succulents.
I'm not sure if I will ever publish the book, but wanted to share with you, my readers and friends, a peek into the book, so I'm going to publish the first chapter on my blog tonight. Those of you who are of my faith might understand a little more, but those of you who are not but have ever felt overwhelmed by something, will appreciate it too. I'll also throw up some pics of my succulent creations.
And, in my next post, I'll get you guys all caught up on what I'm writing now. Here's the first chapter to
Of Succulents and Sisters
Chapter 1
A
Reality Check
I sit in my dining room looking around. Two
large windows and a sliding glass door frame the space painted a soothing shade
of pale blue. Lining both windowsills are small black plastic containers, and
in the containers, fragile plants grow. Some are as small as a child’s
fingernail, while others have grown up a few inches, stretching out toward the
light with their thin stems and miniature leaves. Then, beneath the windowsills low metal
shelves are filled to the edges with larger, decorative ceramic containers
growing succulents in groups of threes. Some of my favorite containers are tea
pots and oversized mugs in blue or red. Each container is unique from the salsa
dish to the distressed wooden boat. All from local thrift stores, picked out
painstakingly one at a time. Beyond the sliding glass door, I see out onto my
covered patio. The Arizona heat licks at the corners of the cement but the
sturdy stucco overhang protects more of my handiwork. Succulents. Lots of
succulents in containers, clustered on tables and most of all on a set of
rolling metal shelves, in rain gutters, capped off and turned planters by my
dear husband. I stare, noting that over the course of a year, I’d gathered
every variation of succulents that I could get my hands on. Aloe Vera, Jade
Plant, Burro’s tail cascading over the edge of a small white pot, and rose-like
Echeveria growing next to Hen and Chick plants just to name a few. And beyond
the patio, there are a few more succulent creations. Collections I put together
just to enjoy out in my yard, tucked under trees and in cooler corners where
the hot Arizona sun can’t burn them.
It’s
one of those moments, where you stop long enough to look at your life and see
how something so small has grown, flourished… and then taken over. And, in this
moment, I pose a question to myself, how did this happen?
The
answer was easy. It all started on the night that my Bishop (we’ll call him
Bishop X) wanted to drop by.
Now
you all know that a Bishop doesn’t just “drop by” especially when your ward has
just been split and lots of callings need to be filled. This was the state of
my ward, and I knew my Bishop was coming on the Lord’s errand that fateful
night. The only mystery was what would he ask me to do? Nursery? That comes
with a built-in snack. Primary? Those wild things were always fun to teach.
Maybe gospel doctrine? A girl could dream, since it was my favorite calling. No.
The Lord had a different plan, and as Bishop sat on the large leather sectional
in my family room, explaining his thoughts, I realized things were about to go
sideways in my world.
Let
me take a second to say that I do not envy the Bishop. He is the messenger and
we all know the old saying about the messenger getting shot, or something like
that. Either way, Bishop X was in the line of fire.
So, Bishop X launched into a story about how
he’d been to the temple a few months before the ward boundaries had been
changed, praying about several callings. At that time, he was not praying
about the calling I was about to be extended. As he sat in the reverence of
that holy house, he received a clear impression that I was to be called as a Relief
Society President. At this point, Bishop X knew a ward split was coming. We all
did. We’d completely outgrown our building and new families were moving in
every week. With that in mind, it made no sense to change the relief society
president, so Bishop X filed away this particular inspiration in whatever place
Bishops tuck away things to deal with later. Let me state that while he is
telling me this story, his face shows his unmasked surprise at the inspiration
he’d received. Wide eyes, body leaning forward, hands open and lifted. I could
practically hear his thoughts at the time he was receiving this prompting.
Sister Carling?
Are you sure Lord?
After all, Bishop X lived down the street from
me. He’d seen me teach gospel doctrine and knew I was a little out of the box
in my approach to teaching, and well everything.
Anyway, Bishop X continued his story. After
the ward split and new boundaries were drawn, he’d gone back to the temple with
another list of names to pray about for the calling of Relief Society President
and was told again that I was the person that should be called. Again, he wore
a shocked expression. Shocked didn’t
begin to describe my feelings which had whipped themselves into a panicked
frenzy in a matter of minutes, and now were rising in my throat like
suffocating panic. You see, I’ve dealt with clinical depression since my early
thirties which has morphed into some fairly intense anxiety and depression in
the last few years. And, in the last six months, I had just gotten it under
control. This entailed cutting way back on publishing new books and simplifying
my life to a manageable pace. Like so many others, I was learning to live with
an ailment that no can see, but in the last few months, I’d found a moment of
balance and peace.
Soon the overwhelming emotions reached my eyes
and I began to cry, which is unusual for me. I’m not the cry-at-the-drop-of-a-
hat-kind-of-girl. There can be an entire room of weeping sisters, and I’d be
the one with dry eyes.
At the same time Bishop X’s entire demeanor
sagged, and the bewildered look he’d worn earlier turned to a look of
uncertainty. My mind was filled with a torrent of chaotic and fearful thoughts.
My heart raced and finally, I couldn’t take the overwhelming barrage of
emotions anymore.
“Bishop,” I said.
“You’re upsetting me. You need to go home.”
My husband, who
has been in bishoprics before visibly cringed, probably thinking of our poor Bishop
just trying to do his job.
As
Bishop X walked to the front door, I trailed behind him.
“You
don’t understand.” I said. “I just got my anxiety under control.”
Tears
falling.
“I
don’t do anything halfway.” I rambled. My husband followed me, so now we look
like little ducklings following the leader.
“I
was raised by my father! His idea of décor was stereo wires pinned to the wall
for better reception.”
More
tears.
“I
don’t even like most women.”
At
the door, Bishop slipped out without me saying the one thing he needed to hear,
that I would accept the calling, or not. I’ve envisioned since that time, the
Bishop going home and telling his wife that they may need to move because there
was a crazy person living on their street. By the next day, I was still wracked
with fear, but I mustered my faith and contacted the Bishop. I would do my
best, I told him. Mostly, I was thinking that I would try not to break the
church by being in a position of so much responsibility, or inadvertently hurt
the women by my own ineptitude. As it had been from the moment the Bishop
extended the calling, unquenchable tension riddled my body and I began the
process of figuring out how I was going to survive what lay ahead.
