The plan announced yesterday by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is that starting in September the ward Relief Societies, young women’s classes, priesthood quorums, and Sunday schools will meet twice as often for half as long. Motives for the change stated in the announcement are, “Gathering weekly in every [Sunday school] class helps deepen gospel learning by connecting it more closely to personal and family study,” and “There is additive strength that comes when we meet each week to counsel, learn, and support one another [in Relief Society].”

As I contemplate the change it is easy to turn to grumbling, murmuring mode, so I, and maybe you, will need to keep that in check as we consider what is going on and how this is going to work.
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You are afraid to die. You think on it sometimes. The final helplessness. We say we know what comes after but we don’t. It looms at the end. Even the Savior wept.  It is horrible.

Tragedy in the old sense. Two faces of the same coin. That which made you special and great, the source of your greatest triumphs, has led you to this, this misery and disappointment and end of all hopes. Your fire has become your ashes.

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Palm Sunday is a celebration day and it is right that it should be so.  Because the Holy Week to come is also a procession and it also ends in a coronation.  The King of Jerusalem or else the very stones would cry out!  That was how his last week began.  And it ended with the very stones crying out in earthquake, proclaiming him the King of the Universe.

It is not comfortable to ride a donkey, but perhaps it feels easier on the bones if you know you are riding to your crown.  Your pains are donkey-back pains.  They are taking you to your city and your throne.  You cannot see them, but the crowds are there, cheering.

On the sweetness.

Though it is Palm Sunday, your congregation sings all the easter hymns with enthusiasm–He is Risen!  The chapel is full.  Two sets of children join to sing Gethsemane.  Expiation, crucifixion, the Garden, the Cross, the Tomb, the Risen Lord, it is all one, and you are one.  A half hour after the service, the chapel is still full of people talking.

Your nose runs but you cannot breathe. Your throat rasps. Your head hurts. Everything hurts.  Your eyes, oh man.  You are so tired, why can’t you sleep?

Ookh. Your stomach is like a drum about to burst. The pressure–things are moving down there–this does not feel good.

They hurt—some. They are tender. They throb. Don’t bump!

You are afraid to try. You fear the laughter, the mockery, the self-contempt. The suspicion that you aren’t good enough made into a certainty. It would be bitter, and the fear of it now is bitter also.

You are afraid of the hurt. You are afraid of the wrench, the jolt, the stab, the cut, the tears. You are afraid of pain, body and soul, and the fear is sharp.  The fear itself makes you feel pain.

“Mommy and Daddy are going to be living apart now. We are still a family and we still love you, we just think its better if we get divorced.”

Two breaths, three, and the world’s turned upside down.

The Artemis 2 rocket and spacecraft were rolled back out to the launch pad for another attempt at reproducing an Apollo 8 style mission to the moon. Its next launch window is April 1 through April 6, but I wouldn’t make any significant plans that depend on that happening. Last week was Ken Mattingly’s birthday. He died two and a half years ago and was born ninety years ago in 1936. He was the last born of the Apollo astronauts who travelled beyond earth orbit. Four more of his fellows have died since Mattingly did, including all three of the Apollo 8 crew. Five of the twenty-four are still among the living.

Half of you is ripped away and turned to anger and malice. It is awful to see what the two of you are now. It is awful to remember when you weren’t.

You trusted someone. They lied to you. They led you on. Your skin is unblemished. Your bones unbroken. You do not bleed. But you are stabbed deep.

Scrapes, wounds, infections, raw, pussy, bloody, oozing, scabbed…