While most people I know enjoy Conference weekend for the opportunity to curl up on the couch in pajamas, making cinnamon rolls, or just for taking a church vacation, Saturday morning finds me dressing in my Sunday best and heading off to my ward building.
I suppose my increasingly unique habit springs from the same old-fashioned quirkiness that makes me prefer telephones with dials, or composing essays on yellow legal pads. It may not be the most efficient approach, but the tactile, physical sense of dialing, writing and gathering infuses me with a sense of connection to the past.
Yesterday morning as I sat in the darkened chapel – 1 of 37- I contemplated my odd preference and wondered how long this gathering would last. As the demands of work, family, simplicity, modernity and death claim those who I gather with, I may be forced to change my connection to General Conference of old. For now though, I sit among familiar faces, some of whom I have joined with every October and April for twenty years and imagine the welding link that promises to seal us all. As we re-enact one of Mormonism’s many literal gatherings, I feel gratefully aware of the turn of the Mormon year and pleased to return to my spiritual home once more.