I had a strange Sabbath. To put it bluntly, I wasn’t feeling the Spirit. I wish I could say that I have no one to blame but myself, but I am blaming others as well. Mea Culpa? You be the judge.

The first aggravation is that TPTB have put me as the Sunbeam teacher. The Sunbeams are all little gems to love, but this isn’t the cushy job of creating centerpieces for Enrichment, if you get my drift. After twenty-two blissful years in Relief Society, they decided to put me as the teacher to my own three-year old. Lucky me, you say? I DREAD IT! I love the Dickens (yes, as in Charles) out of him, but isn’t it enough that I have him all week, then wrestle with him in Sacrament, and now I have to deal with him for two whole more hours! That is laying the final straw on my sweet mother camel back.

The whole Sabbath morning I could feel the dread of dealing with a group of three-year olds starting to eat at me in between stopping my older sons from arguing. I kept trying to stifle it, but it kept knocking on the door over and over until I finally just opened and said, “Come on in and take a seat, already.” By the time the family entourage arrived at church to find a place among the rows of seat-saving scriptures, I knew I had no peace in my soul or song in my heart.

I pleaded, “God, take this nasty feeling from me so I will feel okay to take the sacrament.” “Father, I love your sweet Primary kids, but the fact is, I don’t want to come to church anymore. Please help.” I don’t think my prayer was really sincere though because I wasn’t making any headway in the black cloud department.

To add to my feelings of angst, a returned missionary spoke. He started talking about the atonement. I thought his words might be my balm of Gilead, but, alas, what he said only added bewilderment to my already grumpy self. He started talking about a “golden contact” that got pregnant at thirteen by a forty-year old man from the village. Then, how she married another boy and tricked him into thinking it was his baby. Then, he went on and on about the sordid details of “selling her body” and her life of “prostitution.” Luckily, at the end of the story, he brought her “hope” although she disappeared one day and they never saw or heard from her again. I looked over at my two pre-teen sons and wondered about the questions that would be forthcoming. “Mom, what does ‘selling your body’ mean?” “Why, honey, where did you hear that phrase?” “In Sacrament meeting, don’t you remember?”

After the RM, a fine high councilman got up to speak. “This should be good,” I thought. (Really, don’t read that in a sarcastic tone. I really thought he would be a good speaker). Alas, he asked a question I dread. Which drop of blood that Christ spilt am I responsible for? Which one of those drops had my name on it? This always makes no sense to me. “Oh no!” I thought. “What have you said?” My worries were confirmed when later that day our dinner conversation topic involved my eleven-year old calculating the total population of the world past and present and asked how each of them could have their name on each of Christ’s blood droplets. But, all’s well that ended well, the Speaker concluded with his rendition of the poem “Footprints in the Sand.” If you haven’t heard that poem before, I will personally send you a gift of the sheet music to the song “His Hands” or “I Heard Him Come,” if you prefer.

Before you write any comments below, I want you all to know that I am fully aware I have repenting to do. I was feeling overwhelmed, negative, and judgmental. And I will admit that this is not the usual sacrament meeting. I have felt the Spirit at my ward many times. However, the question that keeps coming up in my mind is why are there so many sacrament meetings like this? What can I personally do about it? How can I come and worship my Lord and Savior in an environment like this? Any advice? Please be kind, I need all my reserves to face the Sunbeams this coming Sunday.