Knitting Mormons' Christmas

The Mormons visit yesterday. It has been weeks, months even, our last meeting less than satisfactory for them. There is a new girl with the girl who talks, impressed that I know that Carson City is the capital of Nevada. The girl who talks talks and talks and I miss the other girl, quiet and pleasantly unassuming. I learn that the quiet girl has moved to Vermont and the girl who talks will be going home at the end of this month. This is what makes visiting my house again and again easy for them.

When they knock at the back door I am on my computer paying bills and listening to "The Rebel Jesus" (this is the truth), part of a Mostly Denominational Mix of Christmas tunes that I made at Cole's request. This seems appropriate backdrop to conversation about religious conversions. "Six baptisms," the answer to my question of how many since she's been out. "It's wonderful to be a part of," she gushes. "To see how people change when they discover the love of Christ."

After a few minutes, talk turns to knitting. "We had to return the knitting to Amanda," she says. "We feel bad, but we just don't have time to sit and knit." I think a lot of mean things about the ways they spend their time, but mostly I think, "If I'd had knitting, I might still be Mormon. I'd have had something to do during all that talking."

Knitting didn't save me then, but it's saving me now. And I'm not Mormon and that's a good thing, though it's complicated at this time of year. And difficult. I try to read things like "Burning the Christmas Greens," William Carlos Williams and other poems. I put together collections of Christmas music for my kids because they love this holiday and there's hardly a reason they shouldn't. I try to revel in their joy and their anticipation.

I try to do it all and in doing so I am reduced to a shell of a person. I'm a faker and I'm not fooling anyone, especially myself.