An Attempt

I was happy when I first heard the news, but later hit at some point, and it was a different emotion altogether. I have tried to write something about the passing of the Prophet repeatedly. As you can tell by my prolific blogging and the constant maudlin blathering, I've gone overboard. (Sarcasm in writing doesn't always translate. DIdn't know til now.)

It's gotten to where I'm verbally constipated in other areas of my life as well. I think the problem stems from the inadequacy which any words of mine have in expressing my feelings about it. Particularly as there are so many other ones floating around in cyberspace, some so well written I want to plagiarize their words as representation of my own sentiments. Even now, determined as I am to say something, anything, my fingers wander away of their own accord in this unworthy side-note slash excuse for my absence.

Did I mention I attempted to go to the viewing? Again, I attempted, while Leroy succeeded. Why? At any rate, I made my northern pilgrimage in a vain attempt (here's that word again) at I-don't-know-what. All I know, is when we arrived, the conference center more resembled an army of ants at a leftover picnic than the sparse lines of solemn mourners I had imagined. Maybe hoped for.

When we were told (by Jamie, from our last ward) that it was a good 5 hour wait, hope, which I didn't realize I had, adjourned. I felt like a child who's favorite toy has been taken over by that alien, and no good, other child and I have no way of knowing that I'll get it back. Not that the prophet is my personal toy. At any rate, as we stood on the street corner waiting for the light to change, my biggest urge was to wail. Sound melodramatic? Since I didn't want to scare the kids, or my companion street crossers, I suppressed the urge. No strait jackets for me today.

Eventually, i managed to swallow the knob of sadness and even enjoyed the rest of the evening surrounded by the other thwarted mourners as well as the wax figures of past Prophets, afterwards eating banana pie with Miss and Bubs. Much like any other Friday night.

Here I sit, mostly happy, generally consumed with everyday living. But every now and then, I am momentarily sad again. That is, until I remember that he has had a happy reunion with a dearly missed eternal companion, lived a life of no regrets, and is free from a sick and tired 97 year old body. ANd, that Thomas S. Monson will not just attempt, but succeed in being a great Prophet.

I leave you with another's sentiments anyway. My words alone were not enough. Maybe his will be.