A half hour before my mother’s funeral was to start, I stood in the Relief Society room with a host of others who mourned her loss. Tears were plentiful and hearts were saddened by her departure. As I stood and bowed my head solemnly, a sister whom I had never met approached me with a friendly smile, and asked warmly, “Can I share a story with you about your mother?”
The story that she told took place nearly 50 years earlier, before I was born. My mother had small children. She and her family lived in a very small and remote area in Northern Arizona. Here my father forged a living in the logging industry. It was a rustic life. It would be another 20 years before power lines came to this secluded community. In their small home, if water was needed, it was hand-pumped from a well outside. The luxury of a refrigerator was only a dream. One of the few luxuries my mother enjoyed was a gasoline-powered washing machine.
In this setting, there was not a ward or a branch of the church nearby. The nearest meetinghouse was three hours away over very rough dirt roads. Attending church on Sundays wasn’t practical. While my mother didn’t mind doing without modern conveniences, she sorely missed the blessings of church activity. With a desire to raise her children in the gospel, she sought permission from her bishop to hold primary in her home.
There were two other LDS families in the community. Every Wednesday after school, all the LDS children in the community gathered in my mother’s living room. With the help of two other sisters, meetings were conducted, prayers were said, music was sung and gospel lessons were taught to the eager children.
Amongst the small community, the word quickly spread of the “Mormon primary.” Soon non-member children were attending as well. To the nonmember children, my mother gave the option of memorizing the Ten Commandments, rather than the Articles of Faith. But no, they all insisted on learning the Articles of Faith, just like the Mormon kids. The gospel was taught. The Spirit was felt.
The good sister who shared this story with me paused as she conveyed her thoughts. It was with heart-warming emotion that she said, “I didn’t join the church until I was much older, in my 30’s. But I was introduced to the gospel as a child, by your mother, in that little Mormon primary many years ago.” She then told of two of her siblings who attended primary with her and also were baptized into the church later in life.
My heart swelled with gratitude for the example of a wonderful mother, and for the good sister who shared her experience with me.
(Note: This was submitted for publication in the Ensign Magazine Dec 17, 2009. Though it is unlikely to be accepted, the experience stands as a testament to my mother's faith and diligence.)
