Dear Grandchildren,
[Reading to the end will be worth it, I hope.]
Don’t you just hate brushing your teeth sometimes? (This may grate on my younger sister Rebecca Jayne) Brushing your teeth means that the eating has come to a complete, dead stop. No more piecing, no more tasting, no more seconds, no more grazing at the buffet. All has ended. Yet you still feel the urge to take one more bite. Maybe two. But the brushing finishes the whole relationship you have with your fork or your spoon. All of the utensils go into the sink, there to soak or be scrubbed or be tossed unfeelingly into the dishwasher. Your fork. Your spoon. Those instruments that brought delicious, toothsome food to your mouth. Now they are there, in the sink, and your mouth has been scoured with that little brush. Nasty little brussshes. Now you settle into some other activity that, truth be told, doesn’t really take your mind away from the food items that are constantly begging you to come and rescue them from the oblivion of becoming leftovers. But wait. You brushed your teeth, and some sense of honor requires that you not to nibble on something else, thus sending you back to the bathroom and your tooth brush. After all, brushing with a wet toothbrush is almost gagging. And a hurtful reminder that you just gave into one of your base appetites, consuming until you wanted to fall asleep.
Early this past week, we went to the top of the hill called Kadifekale which is inside the town. Its ancient name was Mount Pagos. The story is that Alexander the Great fell asleep under a tree at the base of this tall hill and dreamt that a goddess told him to build the city of Smyrna where he lay. Ancient coins struck here have a representation of the dream on them. Nowadays, you find the minimal remains of the medieval fortress that stood there, sitting on foundations from a much earlier period. When we got off the bus, we walked around the top of the mount and saw Gypsy women bringing clothing items to large, wood-burning ovens. I could only think that they were heating the water in the big pans for washing the clothing. In addition, we saw a woman slap dough on the side of one of the ovens to cook it into a thin bread. Lunch. Mmmm, good!
On a more serious note, for a lot of years I have wanted to participate again in blessing and passing the sacrament. I remember wanting that opportunity in Jerusalem. But before I could claim my sacrament-passing seat on a Sabbath, some of the fellows from the student group would swoop in and take care of those tasks. "I am the district president," I would say to myself. "I can assign myself to pass the sacrament if I want." Yet I would back off and let the elders quorum take care of the sacrament. The same thing happened before when I was in the BYU Thirteenth Stake. To myself I would say, "I am the stake president here and I can assign myself to administer the sacrament." Again, I would allow the elders quorum presidencies to take care of making assignments rather than butt in. Even at Christmas time, when virtually everyone in the stake was gone, and opportunity seemed to lie directly in front of me to help with the sacrament, enough priesthood holders would march to the front of the chapel and assign themselves to prepare, bless, and pass, leaving me to sit on the stand and look important. Or something like that. Where I am now, however, at least every other Sunday I both bless and pass the sacrament. These moments have become special for me to serve the few who attend. Naturally, these experiences call up my youth when I helped with the sacrament every week. Now my rekindled desire is fully filled. I am glad for the opportunity of slowing the prayers and trying to talk to Heavenly Father.
Singing in church meetings is a most interesting, almost comical experience. Here I am with my voice reduced almost to a whisper trying to sing on key, any key. And it isn't pretty. My new first counselor has a base voice that tries to find the right notes, sometimes with success. The others in the room have rarely sung anything, let alone a church hymn or two. So they are struggling. The only male with any kind of voice attends about 60 percent of the time. And his voice isn't enough to carry us by any means. Grandma's voice is the only one that can really be heard, and she has avoided choirs over the years as if they were bastions of disease. By good fortune, Grandma can play the hymns through her iPhone, a feature that keeps us generally on task, but not necessarily in tune. In a word, we struggle. And we fill the room with unusual noises. I have no idea what the investigator thought who attended this morning. If he comes back, he will show himself to be a person who rises above trials. Even so, our meetings have become conduits for the Spirit of the Lord to join us. Songs must count if sung from the heart instead of on pitch.
I love you and pray for you.
Grandpa Brown
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