One thing Mormons do better than just about anyone is to circle the wagons. As a people, we love to help. We prepare, we practice, we take classes, we bring casseroles, and heaven knows, we store our wheat. I’ve watched with fascination over the years, as my membership in the church has mellowed from newbie to fully-aged and sort-of mellowed active, adult, endowed member. I’ve participated, as my friends practice what they preach- or at the very least, make a mighty effort to do so. I read posts like this one, and especially this one and I find myself swelling with pride. These are My People, and I am counted among the flock.
Now, I find myself in the unenviable position of needing that charity we are so famous for. For a long time, I was the newbie in my ward, the convert everyone checked on and worried about and showered with love. The bloom is long off that rose. And yet- in the middle of this horrible divorce, where I cannot see what is coming, and cannot yet sort out the wreckage behind me, I look up through the dust to see a circle around me.
The wagons have been circled, and I and my children are safely in the middle of that tight, loving, organized, closely bound company of Saints.