Sacrament meeting

On Sunday, presumably my last day at church in the Grass Valley ward, I had the opportunity to help with the passing of the sacrament.

I'm notoriously a late arrival to church. One of the things I despise the most is when I get there late enough that the sacrament is being passed and I can't enter, for fear of disrupting the service, or getting there entirely after sacrament has been concluded. I was determined on Sunday not to be late, and in fact, to be early.

I have been a member of my church now for about seven years, and in those years, only twice have I ever had the privilege of reading one of the two passages that are read before people are given the tiny bits of bread and thimble-fulls of water. The last time was probably about six years ago.

I was so nervous, just to read those six or so lines in front of a congregation that numbered probably about 60 individuals -- on Sundays, our congregation normally numbers about 100 people. But it really didn't matter. It's quite something to be in the pews, listening to the sacrament being recited, and being passed. It's completely another thing to be up on the dais, in front of about a half-dozen young men, all dressed in white shirts and solid-color ties, each young man no more than, say, 17, waiting reverently to pass the silver trays out.

It was almost a breathtaking experience. I say this primarily because I've only done it once before, and it was a long time ago. For members of the faith, this -- passing the sacrament -- may seem as common as eating green Jell-O at wedding receptions or gassing up the Suburban for a family home evening in the park -- but for me, it's different, just because I haven't done it much.

It was a wonderful, moving experience, and a perfect way, I think, for me to end my time in the ward that baptized me, blessed my two children and baptized my stepdaughter.

I so love the members of the Grass Valley ward, who have given me so much over the six years I lived there, and I will miss each of them very much.

I am forever grateful to the people I met in Grass Valley, for they have made a difficult time in my life that much more enjoyable. I would feel as "at home" in Grass Valley as I would visiting my parents and siblings in their towns. The chapel in Grass Valley is as close to home as it can be without it actually being a place I live.

I am reminded of a story someone once told me about the chapel: that a young boy, trying to escape from a difficult family situation, sought refuge in the chapel, on the condition he only stay there when it was dark out and no one else was using it. The bishop at the time said it was no problem, that he would graciously allow this. The church was the young man's refuge from the storm, literally and figuratively. He stayed there for weeks, until he could find a safe place to go home.

That's exactly how I feel about the chapel in Grass Valley. It was my first chapel, and it will always, always have a special place in my heart, and for my family, for as long as it and I am around.

And so, with a week or so to go before I leave to be with my family, I would like to thank everyone for their kindness, love and support that I received while in Grass Valley at two very different times in my life. I will never, ever forget what you all did for me and for my family.

May God bless you all.