I don’t think I could have imagined in my wildest dreams anything like the past month. I don’t even have words for it. First of all, it seems like there is no time. I can never tell what day of the week it is unless I think about it and day consists of when it gets light and night consists of when it gets dark. There is no clock; there is no place I have to be. Even my doctor’s appointments come to me over FaceTime. I have had groceries brought to my car. I have had wonderful support from neighbors. I’m sure this is hard on everyone but there are times when being alone seems to be harder. I have been very grateful that Richard is no longer living, that he doesn’t have to go through this. It’s not that life is bad. In fact, in many ways, life is better. The things that I used to do to keep me busy aren’t there, so there are ways in which I have had to face myself to decide what I want and what’s important to me. This month has caused me to face my mortality in a daily way. Every time I cough or don’t feel good, I get concerned. I protect Matt with his very compromised immune system much as I would protect a baby.
My dogs keep me going. They are my constant companions now and they don’t like it when I leave them. And I don’t like it when I leave them; I’d rather be home. We spend almost every day together all day. I sing to them I talk to them and I pet them when I’m scared.
There are many things that haven’t changed. Nature hasn’t changed except for the fact that we don’t have smog right now. The trees are blooming as usual, the tulips are coming up, the weather is getting warmer and these are the things that I look to to give me stability. I look to nature–the mountains are still there, the Great Salt Lake is still there. Everything about what is real is still there. I feel very blessed to live in a wonderful home, to have plenty of food to eat, to live in a day of technology where I can not only talk to people who are not near me but where I can see them. My daily life isn’t a whole lot different because of my age and because I’m retired. If I were teaching school right now, it would be very different.
The things that are different are people wearing masks and gloves, a constant reminder that something is not OK out there. My brother and two nephews got the virus and survived it. Not going to visit my friends. Not spending money on things I don’t really need because the stores are closed. “It’s OK to have a day when you’re not OK.” Cut yourself some slack. It’s OK to be where you are.
Blog post by Colleen C Uhl, April 30, 2020
Two Hundred Years after the First Vision
By Penny Allen
As choir leader in our Centerville Seventh Ward in 1996, I had selected a very difficult version of “Oh, How Lovely Was the Morning.” We started months before the Sunday of performance, learning a little at a time, going over difficult parts where the arrangement challenged us. At the last rehearsal, after addressing some parts, we had just enough time for a run-through before the meeting.
It went well, wonderfully well, excitingly well. Suddenly, for me, the words about the Father saying, “Joseph, this is my Beloved” and the depiction of the first vision made my body fill with tingling, overwhelming electrical sensations in all my form. I had felt milder versions of such revelation before, and as I led the choir, the absolute certainty of the event we sang of pervaded my soul and I knew it was true, that Joseph Smith saw and heard the Father and the Son through the Holy Ghost. It was true then and has remained true, bedrock firm. Recalled in April, 2020