distant music.

Last weekend was the first General Conference I've missed since before I knew there was anything to miss. It was strange not to go; it's one of those reflexes that I developed, like saying no to coffee. It was just something I did without thinking about it-- the first weekend of every October and ever April were to be given over to four two-hour sessions of sustained sitting and listening and notetaking-- I even got excited about it! I traveled to Utah for it not once, but twice! It was a big deal to me, I guess because I always went with the expectation that I would learn something new and that, even if it was just a rotation in leadership or some mild shift in policy, something would change. And even if nothing did, I would somehow feel reconnected to the love of God that I wasn't feeling at regular church.

So not going was kind of a big deal. There have been significant changes in leadership, I suppose, that increase the distance I feel from the establishment, but I doubt anything was said last weekend would be rendered unrecognizable by the fact that I haven't been to church since, well, the last Conference. I guess what I'm really saying is that I noticed not going because it was so deliberate. Even in my last push of faithfulness, at that point where I was on the verge of being done but didn't want to admit it, I went. I spent eight hours of my weekend sitting on those new (but still hard!) Tabernacle benches. I didn't even question doing it, even as I flew into a whispered rage about the justifications being used to keep women at home. It's just what I did, it was just how I lived.

I knew all last week that I wasn't going to conference, that I wasn't even going to turn on my TV to watch it, and as the weekend ran its course, I forgot about it. I forgot about it until, on Sunday afternoon, through my cracked open window, I heard music. I don't know whether it had wafted through the valley as they piped it into Temple Square, or just out another cracked window, but there it was. Glorious intermission music, my favorite one to sing part way through because we got to stand up and really belt it out-- How Firm a Foundation.

As the music snuck in, I couldn't help but pause. It was like it was just in the back of my head, and not really realizing it, I sang along.

Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid;
I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.

I can't really describe what that song does to me. It's written in the first person-- it's not so much a song that we sing to God, but one that He sings to us. The imagery of God actually propping you up-- it's amazing, and despite everything, it's still true. It broke my heart, as it always did, that we didn't get to sing all the verses, as the powerful music gave way to words that faded into an inaudible nothing.

I've heard people say that the thing they missed the most was the music, but I'd never understood it. Sunday I did. Over a matter of years, it wove itself into the threads of my soul; it became a part of who I am. I sometimes forget how Mormon I was, instead looking back at those years as colored by a kind of anomalous, unrecognizable force that externally silenced who I was all along. It was so weird the way the music just showed up, like a fleeting scent in the air reminding me that I'm still getting over all of those years of sustained and diligent Mormanity.

Salt Lake is such a funny place to lose your faith.