Some Southern Gospel Perspective

A while back my friend Melanie J asked me why I think our church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, grows so slowly in the South. I've been mulling this question over for a few months now, and I think I've come up with a pretty good answer.

But first: my street cred.

I was born in North Carolina, raised in North Carolina, and, except for the three years it took me to get a degree from BYU, I have lived in the southern states for all of my 33 years, including four years in Memphis, TN for my husband's postsecondary education, and some time in South Carolina.

I was also raised a member of the LDS church -- we are more commonly referred to as Mormons. Young Mormon missionaries knocked on my parents' door a few years before I was born, and when they decided to be baptized, they grabbed on for dear life and never looked back.

So. I know the South. I know the Mormon faith. And I think I understand a little why they don't mix too well. I speak from experience, but without authority. Take my words with a grain of salt, and know that my opinions are just that: opinions.

I live in a smallish town -- we have chain restaurants and even a little mall, but we do not have a high crime rate, any buildings taller than the courthouse, or a freeway with more than two lanes in each direction. What we do have is a Baptist church on every corner. Without looking at the phone book, I can count . . . fourteen just within a few miles of my house. If we add in Methodists, the big Catholic church downtown, a couple of Presbyterians, the Lutheran church attached to my kids' preschool, and several Seventh-Day Adventists, it starts to look like Utah, only varied.

People already have religion here -- and they are devout, faithful, loving people. They love the same Jesus Christ that I do. They take meals to sick people just like I do. They send their kids to Sunday School just like I do. They read their Bibles every day just like I try to do. They set excellent examples of good Christian service. But they don't want anything new.

This is not to say there are not small-minded individuals here and there who do their part to discourage members and investigators alike from attending. There are certain congregations here, and all through the north, south, east and west, whose pastors notoriously preach against the LDS faith. They arm their congregants with pamphlets and talking points to use should they encounter a Mormon, but there isn't as much of that going on as you might think. Too often, those people are friends with a good Mormon family or two and the stuff they hear at church just doesn't jive with the things they know from experience.

And what is that experience? I have found the people I go to church with here to be an extremely interesting and diverse group. In our congregation, we have business executives, doctors, nurses, and pharmacists. We have retired soldiers, entrepreneurs, and politicians. We have factory workers, musicians, builders, and artists. Members of our ward (Mormon-ese for congregation) are involved in community organizations and local charities; they have children in the schools and own retirement homes on the golf courses (almost as numerous as the Baptist churches); they represent the Gospel well (or sometimes not) in nearly every corner of this little town. We are normal people. (However. I must insert here that we have our fair share of crazy people -- and they aren't always the best PR for the church. But every church has crazy people! They make the world go 'round!)

But, boy, let me tell you, we work hard. My sister serves as head of the Young Women's organization in her little branch out in the mountains. Her husband serves in the Branch Presidency, which is the local leadership. He also works with the Cub Scouts in their church-sponsored troop, while she teaches seminary (religious education for high school students) one night a week to the far-flung youth of their branch.

Here, visiting and home teaching routes sometimes cover a distance of 60 miles (or more!) and 10 families (or more!).

One of my best friends began coming to church here when my twins were newborn. I was also serving as the Young Women's president and my husband was Young Men's president. We ran around that church building juggling babies and tossing diapers back and forth down the halls while teaching classes, managing the inevitable teenager crises, and planning activities (a trip to Nauvoo, no less!) for the 35 or so youth of our ward. She later told me that while I looked like someone she might like to know, I was way to busy for her to "bother" me. 

And if I'm being honest, I'm not sure I would do it if I didn't already know it's true. To join a church where you have to work hard to keep the work going may be a little off-putting to someone who hasn't received a witness. Being a member of this church requires a level of commitment that some people are just not willing to give. Especially if they've already got religion.

And especially if that religion is truly a way of life: many people are so heavily involved in their church communities on a social level that being baptized into the LDS church really feels like a divorce from all of their friends. When your family, friends, neighbors, and childhood confidants still go to the same church on the corner where you have gone since you were born, it's a really big deal to start going someplace else.

But people do it. People change their lives -- the Gospel changes their lives. It certainly has changed mine.

Any questions? Any further insights? Please share!

Get out the soapbox . . .

. . . 'cause I've got some venting to do. Feel free to skip this gripe session if you feel so inclined. My Sitemeter may suffer, but my feelings will be none the wiser.

Saturday night, while I lounged on the couch working on a NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle (one of my favorite short-term diversions), CPod watched one of his TiVoed truck shows. I don't know which one it was -- Truckz or Gearz or some other macho spectacle that ends in Z -- because they all sound the same to me: equally annoying. Anyway, after the show was over, CPod left the TV on and went to the kitchen to do the dishes. (While I was lounging on the couch. Yay, husband! Yay!)

Now, let me first say, that I know a lot of y'all are from Utah, and that's great. I don't have anything against people from Utah, except maybe the univowel. You know the one -- pan, pen, and pin can only be differentiated by context when pronounced by a native Utahn. Come visit me in the south, my friends. We've got five vowels for a reason, and I can broaden your language pronunciation horizons in ways you never imagined. But I digress.

I half-way listened to what happened to be on (because I was too lazy to get the remote), and what happened to be on was a new reality show about newlywed couples. Suddenly, I heard the univowel. I looked up, and saw this sweet little Utah couple talking about their marriage, and it became clear that they were LDS. Turns out, there are two Mormon couples on this show.

Now, of course, as a member of the LDS church myself, my ears perk up when I see a member of my faith in the media. I always hope they will conduct themselves in a manner that does not further the misconceptions and sterotypes that seem to be so widespread in the popular culture, and will not give my non-Mormon friends fodder for interesting questions. In defense of these couples, they didn't do or say anything that might cast the church in an unfavorable light. They were dressed modestly, and it was obvious that they were very committed to their marriages.

But. In what universe does blindfolding yourself and squishing another man's butt to determine whether or not he is your husband fall under the list of things it's okay to do in ANY marriage, much less one solemnized in the temple? Now. I can't be certain that they were married in the temple. But aren't all of these couples, Mormon or not, supposed to be in a commited relationship?

In their efforts to illustrate the strength of the Mormon marriage, these couples, probably misled by Hollywood producers, have done nothing but demonstrate that they are just like everyone else: willing to lower their standards in the right circumstances.

This is a producers dream -- a salacious window into the inner workings of that most enigmatic of animals, that statistic-defying, lasts-for-eternity institution -- the LDS marriage. I resent this capitalization of the media's tendencies to sensationalize anything that has to do with our church.

And the worst part? Other Mormons will watch it. Other members of the church will welcome filth into their homes that they would not ordinarily allow, because they will want to see how "the Mormons" fare. Instead of being a beacon of goodness, they have become the catalyst for debasing a significant portion of our demographic.

I was already pretty het up at that point. And then somebody trampled on the motherland by saying they thought they wouldn't like the couple from the south, because people from the south are stupid.

What?!? WHAT?!? People from the south are stupid? And all people from the northeast are rude, and all black people are good at sports, and all redheads have a bad temper. Fine. Underestimate my intelligence. That makes it so much more fun when you are utterly stunned, surprised, and shocked at my acerbic wit and incredibly sharp mind.

My dad grew up on a tobacco farm. He scholarshipped his way through college and professional school, and he could pass for Andy Griffith when you hear him speak. He talks a bit on the slow side, but that is in no way an indication of his nimble mind, extensive knowledge of almost everything, and a capacity to grasp any subject with extreme quickness.

When I went to BYU, some of my friends thought that my admission was some sort of Mormon affirmative action (someone actually used that phrase with me) -- you know, let in some of the less privileged/less educated/less intelligent ones so they can take notes about the way the church works in the promised land and spread the word back in the "mission field". They don't give an easier version of the ACT in the south, though, and there are plenty of smart people down here with me that will tell you the same.

Go ahead, Yankee snob on the annoying TV show. Try to beat my dad at Trivial Pursuit. Or any other thing in this world that requires a brain. Because I would put his southern brain -- or mine, my husbands, my mothers, or any of my siblings, aunts, uncles or cousins -- up against yours any day of the week. And you would have another song to sing about the south at the end of that day.

My husband says I should stop now. My soapbox has become a Rameumptom. But thanks for listening anyway. I feel so much better now.

Critters

Lest you be misled, this post is not about my children. Although it could be. No, this one is actually about critters: creatures, beasties, varmints, wild thangs, animals. And I'm gonna be southern here, y'all. Because I cannot talk about my numerous critter encounters without the southern accent comin' out in all kindsa places. So if you can hear in southern, turn it on now.

Last night, I spent a pleasant evening in the company of some very nice women, at the home of one of my oldest and dearest friends. I have known her since seventh grade, and though we were not friends then, by the time we graduated from high school, we had enough shared years of sleep-overs, yummy food (I'm certain this was the beginning of my food snobbery) and viewings of Dirty Dancing to keep us BFFs. She married her high school sweetheart, and bless his heart, whenever we were both home from school for Christmas or summer or whatever, J would graciously accompany my friend over to my house for evenings of girl talk with my mom and my sister. Now, let the critter stories begin.

On one such evening, we were passing the time laughing and talking as we always did. J was sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen with a straight shot view of the fireplace in the living room. Suddenly, J, usually reticent, if not downright silent, piped up and said, in his born-and-raised-in-the-south, sweet-as-honey accent, "Do y'all have a hamster?"

Turns out, J had been quietly observing our cat, Boo-yah, as she channeled her inner cheetah and stalked some prey large enough to be seen two rooms away. A flying squirrel.

As J said, "That cat was on the move!"

Flying squirrels are not unusual in my parents' house. The old homestead is up on the mountain, surrounded by tall trees and all kinds of creature homes. Their house is cedar, and I guess the squirrels like how it smells. Nearly every year, at least one breaches the perimeter, reverse-scales the chimney, and escapes through the fireplace into the strange jungle that is a human habitat. To make matters worse, they aren't called flying squirrels for nothing, and the exposed beams and trusses of my parents' post & beam house regularly become a veritable jungle gym for the acrobatic antics of little, scared, fuzzy things. I have seen a squirrel soar from the beam at the top of the two-story living room and glide right onto my mom's shoulder, digging in with little claws to ensure a safe landing. Oh, yeah. I'm checking out that video when I get to heaven.

* * * * *

Another animal encounter: Many years ago, my family took a summer trip to the North Carolina Zoo. It's a big zoo. It's a great zoo if you're there when the animals are willing to cooperate. I've been when it's great, and I've been when the animals are so far into their impressively-sized habitats that I begin to think my ticket price was a little steep if it didn't include a helicopter ride to catch a view of something exotic and four-legged.

This particular trip, the zoo was great. The animals were close enough to see, and see them we did. In the African pavilion, we lingered at the mandrill exhibit. If you've never seen a mandrill, here's what we're talking about:

(photo courtesy of nationalgeographic.com)

I placed my hand on the glass enclosure and watched these comical primates gambol and play over the rocks and trees of their dwelling. One approached the wall. Our eyes met. He placed his hand on mine, bridging the impossible distance between us on the opposite side of the glass. We were soul mates. At least, he thought so. I was a little unnerved by the brightly colored face and, yes, I'll say it, the completely hairless, bright red butt.

I turned away from the glass, and he was visibly hurt, shoulders sagging as he slunk towards the back of the habitat. I turned again to the glass -- by this point, I was intrigued. And so was he. Because he came back. Over and over, I repeated the ritual. A crowd began to gather. I looked into those ape eyes, and I seriously saw some depth there. It was a long time before I had another guy willing to stare at me so intently for such a long time. There was a connection. I don't know if it was my effervescent smile, the blue and pink eyeshadow so popular in the early nineties, or the red shorts I was wearing. Something about me said, "Good breeding stock!" to a mandrill. Doesn't it go without saying? Definitely flattered.

* * * * *

Back to my parents' house. When Michael Crichton's book Jurassic Park was published, I was 14 years old. My mom bought the hardback, and we all took turns reading it. I think I was second. I devoured it in about 2 days, carrying it with me everywhere we went, even inducing acute carsickness just so I could find out what happened next.

One night, we got home, and I stayed in the car to keep reading. I don't know, I think I was probably just lazy. It wouldn't have been the first time. Anyway, I read until it was dark. I finished the part where Nedry catches his own entrails after being eviscerated by a velociraptor. Brutal. I opened the car door, and I could have sworn I heard one of those raptors. What, didn't you know we've revived the dinosaurs here in the mountains? It's how we keep the po-po from finding all the moonshine stills. (Which are real. The moonshine stills, I mean.) That night, I was convinced. The sound was so eerie, like a cross between a woman screaming and a baby crying, all mixed up with a dying cat, and something a little more sinister. Scariest of all, it seemed to be everywhere at once: with my grandparents land next door, there's 3 or 4 cleared acres, and that creature seemed to inhabit the entire perimeter simultaneously -- right behind me, then across the driveway by the truck, behind the house, far away, and then right behind me again. I nearly wet myself. Actually, even with the bladder integrity of someone who had not yet given birth, I think I had to change my pants when I finally mustered the courage to run the longest 50 yards of my life.

Turns out, we had the distinct pleasure of harboring a juvenile of some rare screech owl. It took my dad some serious research to find out the true identity of our velociraptor. That sound still haunts my dreams.

* * * * *

And, finally, a more tame, and more recent, critter adventure. A few summers ago, we noticed a foul, sulfurous odor around our front porch. Truth be told, it wasn't sulfur -- it was mercaptans, the compounds that make skunks stinky. I was a little worried we had one of those in residence under our porch, until I discovered the holes in the ground, and the network of tunnels circumnavigating our house.

Then, we knew it was a groundhog. I find these creatures to be fairly lovable. There is a family group of them living in the median of the interstate highway here. I once counted 16 in that median while driving a single two mile stretch. They sit up on their back legs and just watch the cars go by. I think they're charming. As long as they're not trying to share my living space.

CPod wanted to pour concrete into the cavity our little friend had dug out under the porch, but I nixed that idea. I had visions of Mafia-style entombment in concrete, and it felt pretty cruel. Plus I didn't want to smell a decomposing animal all summer.

All on his own, CPod decided to unleash his South Carolina childhood. He smuggled some M-80s and some smoke bombs across the border (Don't you know about the South Carolina special? It's peaches and fireworks, always sold in the same establishments.) and thought he'd smoke that sucker out of his hidey-hole. Our somewhat sheltered neighbors came running outside -- somebody was shooting something, and no matter how hard their mom tries to keep them from encountering . . . people like my husband, 5 little boys will not be kept from the sound of anything exploding.

Well, little ground hog went running, but he came back. Apparently the lingering odors of gun powder and smoke did little to erase the comforts of home. And he was bold. He would come up onto the porch to eat our flowers. He would look in the window to see what we were up to. We got almost near enough to pet him. But I worried about the boys.

Finally, we invested in a humane trap. But that bugger was smart. We tried baiting the trap with vanilla, and peanut butter, and leafy greens, fresh green beans, and flowers. We closed off one side of his burrow so he could only exit on the side with the trap. Finally, one day, the boys and I heard a noise. Success! Our little groundhog was trapped. We left him in little cage, carefully shoving greens through the holes, until CPod came home from work. He carted our little friend off to a happy life in an apple orchard a few miles away.

So those are a few of my long-winded tales. But this is really the tip of the iceberg, my friends. I could go on about creatures and critters on my dad's parents' farm; with family lore about exceptionally large cockroaches; and don't forget CPod, who served his mission in Australia. He's got tons of varmint tales to tell.

What about you?