Mom taught me that the church was just a vehicle to help us learn, but the gospel was perfect and worthy of our effort. She lived this way her whole life, always caring for those in need even when she might be in greater need herself, giving what she might "even to the last widow's mite" if it would ease someone's pain, calm a troubled heart or lighten the load of the weary.
I was 14 and had just gotten home from school. It was Fall because darkness had already started to set. When I started down the stairs to chang to do my chores, mom had ready a plate of food, a blanket and an old coat from the downstairs coal room sitting of the ledge of the kitchen stairs. I eyed the mysterious package. Mom said, "Go change and I will explain." When I came back up mom told me that a hobo had stopped at the farm and since dad was traveling and tonight was especially cold she said he could stay in the hay loft. He wasn't dressed well so I was to give him the coat and hat and see if I could find some of my old gloves, take the food and blanket to him and go do my chores. I met him in the hay loft and he told me his name was Stan Upjohn and he was from Chicago. He had been traveling around the country for several years and was headed to California because it was warmer there to sleep outside at night during the winter months. I told him he could have the clothes and where fresh water was. He watched as I milked the cow and I asked he wanted some. He gulped a big glass of warm milk straight from the pale that I had just finished filling. Yuck! I didn't like warm milk even on the coldest days except when it went down my rubber boots, now that felt heavenly! He thanked me for the food and disappeared behind the hay bales. The next morning when I went to milk the cow, I quietly searched for Stan. There neatly folded was the blanket. On top was the cleaned plate and in the center was a six inch braided twine rope and a large glass marble of the bluest color. I didn't think much of this at the time, but now the gesture was certainly gratitude personified.
Mom taught me that all people have faith, it just varies in what. The worst thing I could ever do is discount, demean or ridicule someone else for the faith they have. It saddens me to see family, friends, church and society in general be so closed minded and arrogant that they would take away the simple form of freedom given to all, to believe and have faith in what and whom they wish. I never understood how anyone who professes to believe in Christ could ever harm, or be critical of another's belief or choices. Like saying "I believe in gravity" and then doing the opposite by jumping off a building. The "do unto others" thing, but only when it's convenient or you agree with them, of course, otherwise it doesn't apply, just like gravity doesn't apply each time you leave the earth's surface right?
On one of our pilgrimages to the Geological Library building in Downtown Salt Lake City, Utah, was myself (8 and newly baptized) mom and yep, you know it, Ruby Brown.
Ruby had on her over-powering flowery perfume. I don't remember my mother's perfume which is curious to me because I have so many wonderful and strong olfactory sense memories. The smell of bacon grease as my dad was cooking the only thing he would cook, fried eggs you didn't have to flip, hash browns out of day old baked potatoes and thick cut bacon. The smell of fresh cut alfalfa in July. I would go lay between the rows and let the smell wash over me as the white puffy clouds would drift over head and I would dream of thing that would make me smile. The unmistaken smell of cherry wood as you sat lofted in a tree picking cherries. The musk of the wood's sap combined with the cherry juice would leave a district smell on your hands for days. The acrid and suffocating smell of the chicken coop (a mixture of feathers, dust, and powdered chicken feces would permeate every pore. Your eyes would water and coughing was assured). I remember the smell my mother had, her hair, her breath, her clothes, yet if she wore perfume, and I know she did, it doesn't come to mind.
We would park at the ZCMI center during the summer months so mom and Ruby could walk though the gardens of Temple Square and I think give me time to get a bit of energy out before entering the Library. As we walked we came across three Muslim women dressed in Hijab. I had never seen this and said so in not so quite a voice (which to this day is still an issue). The women raised their heads, but made no direct eye contact. Mom knew they heard this, so, in typical Gertrude fashion she walked over and politely asked of one of these women that her son was wondering what the significance of her dress was and that she didn't know, and would she mind telling him? Two of the women moved back and hid their faces more, but one drew me closer and explained that it was a symbol of modesty, purity and represented the veil between men and God and it represented their faith. My mother thanked her as did I. I have thought of her smile from time to time, it was radiant and bright. It is a shame that we let the prejudice and the pride of religion get in the way of living the gospel and that it causes us not to act simply as human beings that care for each other.
If mom had prejudice, I never witnessed it or saw it. I know I never heard her speak about another person's faith poorly, even when someone of our own faith was struggling, including myself. She offered nothing but compassion, love and support. It is what my children know, that my arms are always open. They are always welcome at home and they will always be loved. That comes straight from what mom taught, engrained and practiced.
Mom loved this and believed it:
Gertrudism #9 " Charity Never Faileth "
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| Mom and I painted this on 144 thimbles for a Relief Society dinner |
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