Category Archives: John

I prayed to know if I should marry John


wedding day, 1992 .

Another post in the series about my relationship with John. You can find earlier entries here and here.

When John and I were courting, I prayed to know if he was the right spouse for me. I knew that I loved him like I’d never loved another, I knew that I was super-attracted to him, and I could think of nothing better than the possibility of spending forever with him.

A part of me really didn’t want to pray about whether or not to marry John. Because I knew if the answer from God was “no”, well, I’d probably go ahead and do it anyways because I was so head over heels in love.

(Note: I don’t think I’ve ever told this to John, at least I can’t remember if I ever have)

When I prayed about it I had many warm feelings. I felt sure that God wanted me to be happy and also that he blessed our union. However, there was one caveat to the response: I kept thinking of the choice that John made at age 18 to join the LDS church. He’d willingly disobeyed his parents and was completely disowned from them for his choice. Of course I, as a devout Mormon, felt that John had done right in choosing the church over his family. Yet as I prayed to know if I should marry John I realized that John had already demonstrated a willingness to sacrifice relationships for the sake of his ideals. And that scared me. I thought of John someday leaving the church and I acknowledged this as a very real possibility. Although there was nothing in John’s behavior or in his testimony that led me to think that he would leave the church someday, perhaps even then I was seeing this in our future.

If this is you…


If your leg is finally feeling right, and you are actually itching for more places to walk because you’ve already walked pretty much everywhere, well after you go to the Newport Beach library with the family, then spontaneously suggest that you head to Big Corona beach (after all, it’s only 8 pm and the beach is open until 10). You’ll discover how easy it is to see one’s path in the light of the nearly-full moon, and you’ll delight at the pyrotechnic displays of burning Christmas trees at the firepits. And John will take your arm and point out the constellations of stars overhead. And if this is you and you are shivering because you didn’t bring a coat, your insides will be warm and happy nonetheless.

Congrats!


Hot off the press: the latest issue of Sunstone magazine with John‘s prize-winning winning essay, “Saving the Dead: A Comparative Study of Post-Funerary Rites in Japanese and Mormon Culture.”

A few quotations to whet your appetite:
“The simple ritual act of stepping through the veil profoundly influences the way [Latter-Day] Saints view death. Mormons who receive their endowment in the temple have already experienced death symbolically. They realize that their essence does not change when they have pass through the veil. Death is merely a flimsy barrier to be pushed aside as one enters into a brilliant reunion with loved ones.”


“Through a series of [Japanese] rites, the spirit moves from impure association with death to ultimate assimilation into the pure and godlike ancestral spirit… Following key ceremonies, a wooden ancestral tablet representing the spirit is sometimes moved to higher platforms, a symbolic gesture that recognizes the ancestor’s increasing status and refinement in the afterlife. The final state of the spirit represents an anonymous amalgamation of all of the spirits of family ancestors, whose purpose is to ensure the prosperity of their line. By taking care of their dead, the living Japanese are entitled, in return, to the protection and helpful intervention of their empowered predecessors.”

Worth Dying For…


This is the second in a series of posts that I’m writing about the years that John and I had conflict over religion. At this point in time John had recently voiced his doubts about LDS doctrine. I was a believing, active, Mormon. This experience below occurs a few months after this one. For those of you who can relate to the experience of having a spouse lose their testimony, I’d love to have you guest-blog your story on pilgrimgirl. Drop me a line: phddilly at yahoo dotcom.

Saving John became my daily obsession. I would read articles on the Internet, in the Ensign, and in Mormon books. I was sure that there was some way to rescue John, if only I could find it.

As a Christmas gift I made scrapbooks of our correspondence during John’s mission. I highlighted those moments where he shared his spiritual experiences. I cried many tears as I reread the letters from my genki elder. I was sure that he would be impacted from re-reading his own words about his belief in Mormonism. I wrapped the albums for him, sealing each seam with a prayer of hope, and placed them under the Christmas tree. He opened them and briefly thumbed through them, but soon put them away and didn’t look at them again.

I tried to think of people from our past who had wielded spiritual influence on my husband. I contacted our former Home Teachers, mission companions, and Institute teachers. I poured out my heart to them, pleaded for them to help me help John. This yielded some sympathetic conversations, but no help for me in reaching John.

I went to our Bishop and asked him to pray with me to reach John. I received several blessings at his hands. In one memorable blessing I was told that “I was the key that would unlock John’s heart.” I continued to search and pray to discover what that key could be, what the trick was to helping John remember his former faith in the LDS church.

In the meantime, I was losing John. I could no longer handle the conversations where he voiced his doubts. I told him not to speak to me about his diminishing testimony. My inability to face his changes created a barrier between us that was growing taller each day. We were quickly drifting apart. I began to wonder if our marriage would last. Were we on the road to divorce?

Then one night as I was kneeling beside my bed (pleading with God once more to fix my husband), I had an epiphany. I realized the one thing that would ‘reach’ John. It came to my mind that if something awful happened to me–something on the scale of my cancer returning—that John would step back into his Mormon role. I imagined myself lying pale and wan in a hospital bed, my husband sitting at my side. John’s hands were clasped together and his eyes closed. I could hear him pleading with God for my healing. Then he placed his hands on my head and gave me a priesthood blessing, a petition for my recovery. I imagined his change of heart as he regained his belief in the gospel. I felt an upsurge of joy and hope. Yes, I realized, it was worth it for John’s eternal salvation.

I laid myself on the altar that night, a willing sacrifice. I told God that he could strike me with any infirmity—-even my death-—if it would bring my husband back into the fold.

The Ghost of Thanksgivings Past or what (not) to do when being accosted by a werewolf?

About seven years ago John and I decided that Thanksgiving weekend offered the perfect time for a little getaway. Our plan was to spend T-Day with my Mom and then leave the kiddoes there with her through the weekend while we spent a few days away together.

Our plan was inspired by our desire to attend LosCon–an annual SF writers/fan convention in the LA area. Connie Willis, a favorite author, would be the keynote speaker. We would attend various panels and session during the day and retire to a hotel room together each evening. A perfect plan took shape and we soon found ourselves on our way to Burbank for the Con.

I’d never been to a Con before, and it was an educational experience in many ways. First of all, I got to stalk Connie Willis, which was way cool. I went to every session and booksigning. Hung on her every word. I am sure that by the end of the weekend she was mighty glad to be away from my freaky fan self. Another thing I learned is that I am way too suburb-bland for the Con crowd. No Darth Maul makeup, spacesuit, or RenFaire outfit for me. My typical jeans & tee style made me stick out like a sore thumb. And boy did I feel left out…

But the greatest learning experience of the event occurred at the ice cream social on the last night. John and I got our bowls of ice cream w/numerous toppings and were scanning the large ballroom for famous authors to stalk (unfortunately Connie seemed to have retired early that night). The room was pretty full—with small groups chatting animatedly throughout. I felt a bit lost and lonely, despite the fact that John was right next to me. I knew this just wasn’t _my crowd_. I had no witticisms to insert into the various conversations.

It was about then that I felt a strange wet and prickly sensation on my right arm. To my horror I looked down and realized that there was a werewolf (or what, I have come to presume, was a man dressed as a werewolf) on all fours below me. And he was gnawing on my arm. With his decidedly pointy canine teeth. After a swift intake of breath and a dropping of my ice cream spoon I looked to John for help. He hesitated. Unsure of the protocol for extricating a hairy humanoid creature from his wife’s body.

Though it felt like an eternity, within seconds John settled on a course of action. He leaned over and began stroking the creature on the head, scratching a bit around his ears.

“There’s a nice doggie,” he said sweetly.

Almost immediately the wolf disengaged from my arm and shifted his attention towards enjoying John’s affection. His long pink tongue hung out of his mouth as he panted with pleasure. I backed away, with John following moments afterwards. The two of us quickly headed through the back door, tossing the remainder of our ice cream into the trash on the way out, and not stopping until we were outside in the hotel parking lot.

“Nice Doggie? Someone bites me and you say nice doggie!?”

“Hey, I didn’t want him to turn on _me_. You’ve got to be careful with wild creatures.”

“Yah…right.”

i’m grateful for…


On Friday we held our First Annual Remy family Anti-Consumer Day (a tradition inspired by Aunt Suz & Chris). A fun time had by all who attended and played board games late into the night! At one point we went around the table and each person told of something that they were grateful for that money couldn’t buy. A delightful list of things ensued, including friends, family, good jokes, community, time, air, and so forth. What did I say? That I am grateful for my memories.

So this afternoon I had a memory flashback. John came home from some errands and found me studying on the bed. From the doorway of the room he tossed a dark brown ball towards me. I grabbed it and realized that it was, quite literally, a hot potato–the particular type of yam roasted in its skin in front of Mitsuwa market during the winter months. My mind flashed back to about a year ago when it was a cold winter day in China. We were walking towards a tourist site and my hands were freezing. I saw a wizened old man on a street corner cooking something in an old barrel. As I walked past I looked down into his barrel and saw yams roasting on hot stones. I quickly reached into my pocket and pulled out an American dollar. I handed it to him and pointed at the yams. With tongs he pulled out one of the largest ones, wrapped it in a piece of old newspaper, then handed it to me. I held it like a treasure in my hands for about half an hour, then nibbled away at it as we were touring The Temple of Heaven. Pure comfort and warmth.

Now I am sitting at my kitchen table and similarly nibbling at the yam that John brought me today. A simple pleasure. Yum. 🙂

because my dreams are yours, too

It’s late and we’ve talked for over an hour. We could talk for hours more, but we know we need to arise early in the morning. So you sing the words of Marc Almond’s “These My Dreams” into my ear as we drift off to sleep holding tight to each other (with ellycat curled in a small ball at our feet)…

You can have my smile, my tears,
My wishes, here’s a fortune
To adorn you.
I’ll whisper in the night to you,
Promise to adore and never scorn you.
And as we grow a little older,
Try to understand more of each other.
I will be your golden eye,
Your master of illusion,
Or just your lover.

I’ll be a dragonfly, a butterfly
A secret, or a little lie to test you.
A song, a verse, a lullaby,
A symphony once in a while
To try and impress you.
I’ll take your heart to the limit
The colours of my joy,
My tears to dress you.
But sometimes dear
My heart’s my own,
I don’t wish to exclude you or
Distress you.

But darling…
In my hand
The grains of sand
A thousand million moments of emotion
Oh… these
Oh… these my dreams are yours

And I hit him across the other cheek, too

[Note: this is a re-telling of an incident that happened about 8 years ago]

It was late, the kids had gone to bed hours before, and I was sitting on our upstairs balcony in the dark, waiting for John to come home from the airport. He’d been traveling on one of his many business trips—to Chicago this time, I think—and I was anxious for his return. I was weary of the days spent caring for our young children by myself and I yearned for some adult conversation. He came home, sat down next to me and began telling me about his disbelief in Mormonism.

I had counted the hours till his return home, and I was so tired, and so hungry for some affection from him. When John spoke about his doubts, a huge anger welled up in me. I realized that these ‘faith issues’ that he’d been having for a few years weren’t just going to go away. And in that moment my mind flashed backwards and forwards in time—remembering the dutiful and faithful Mormon missionary John that I corresponded with for two years; I thought of our children and my desires for them to have a strong Mormon father; I thought of my dreams that we would, as an elderly couple, serve missions to Japan or to Africa. As all of these thoughts raced through my mind and surfaced in rage as I reached out and slapped John across his right cheek, as hard as I could.

Then John took off his glasses and turned his left cheek to me, tears welling in his eyes. And I hit him across that cheek, too. Hard enough that it left a red welt on his skin. And then he bowed his head, ready for me to hit him again. Which I didn’t. I stopped, overcome with sobbing. So shocked that I had struck the person I loved most in the world, but also aware of the way I also hated what he was saying to me, that I felt betrayed down to my deepest core. This was my John. But it wasn’t my John. It was someone who was telling me these things that I just couldn’t believe, that I couldn’t reconcile with my understanding of who I had married.

As I write this I am crying. I can’t think of another time in my life that I have hit someone so intentionally, so full of anger. I had no precedent in my life for lashing out like that—I had never seen my parents hit in anger, John had never hit me, we had never spanked our children. I was hurting so badly inside. I was so upset that John’s changes were affecting my future, too. That my life wouldn’t necessarily proceed with the script that I had written when we were married. [And John, may I say once again, I am so, so sorry for hitting and hurting you].

In the months and years that followed that awful night, I have still sometimes felt anger and frustration with John’s changing religious beliefs. But I have also realized that I am not the same person that John married fourteen years ago, either. I have certainly grown and changed in ways that might surprise my 21 year-old self. And I have come to realize that these changes are okay. That life is about changing. About learning and experiencing and adapting and evolving. And while these changes sometimes bring risk–even the chance of failure–that that’s okay, too.

In the past eight years or so, as John and I have navigated the waters of Mormonism together, and as his Mormon belief and practice has waxed and waned, I have learned many important lessons. Most importantly, I have learned to appreciate the value of the journey, of the struggle to find the right path to follow. I would like to think that my relationships are not based on my idea of who John or others should be, or how they measure up to a standard that I have in my mind. Rather, I have tried to listen and learn from others’ journeys. As I interact with my students, grad school cohort, fellow freecycle moderators, Sunstoners, cyberfriends, my kids’ teachers, Mormons, Quakers, gardeners, democrats, UCI employees, or any other number of people “that I meet when I’m walking down the street,” I want to seek to understand their journeys, to learn from them. I want to make sure that I don’t react in anger to another whose beliefs differ from mine, that I can separate my expectations from my desire to affirm and love them as individuals.

More than anything, I want to learn a lesson from the time that I hit John. I want to learn not to react in rage, not to make others’ choices be about me. I want to learn to love even when I am blinded by anger, even when my ability for compassion is at a breaking point. I want to see the divine, the godliness, in each person. To understand their struggle to find it within themselves.