Sunday Brunch Dutch Babies

I do believe that I'm being, as we Mormons say, "fellow-shipped." This means that someone who is actively and regularly involved in the church offers a sincere hand of friendship to inactive members (a.k.a. Jack Mormons, of which I am one) and warmly invites them to get their lazy butts out of bed on Sunday mornings and go to church. With heels AND pantyhose, which is just one area of many with which I struggle.

Yesterday I walked out of my house to find the monthly Visiting Teaching Message flyer from the Relief Society lying at my door. (The Relief Society is the women’s organization within the church, and the Visiting Teaching program is part of that.) I hadn’t heard anyone knock, so I’m not sure if I’m going deaf or if my visitor door-bell ditched me--perhaps she's shy? Either way, I first suspected my already-assigned Visiting Teacher. Cheryl's been a good friend for years, she makes me laugh and I love her to pieces. And I know that while she never pressures me, she wants me to go to church every week. I want her to go out for Sunday Brunch Dutch Babies every week, but I won't pressure her, either.

Dutch Baby

But then I decided that no, it couldn't be her because she would never simply leave a flyer--she hasn't once come to see me without a big ol' present from whatever major holiday hits on a given month, and besides, she already brought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and alcoholic Nyquil not two weeks ago. And as we've already had Flag day, all that's really left is Summer Solstice or Gay Pride month, and neither of those are up her alley. Nope. Not her.

Anyway, I was all feeling warm and fuzzy that someone cared enough to drive all the way out to my house (we live in the country and the majority of the church folks live in town) just to drop off the Visiting Teaching Message flyer. How sweet that someone thought of me. Since zealously, smotheringly religious Little Richard moved back to Utah, Michael and I have been talking about attending church again every now and then, as we're no longer under Dad's critical eye. So I read on with some interest about who's having a birthday this month, scripture of the month, and "Oh, yeah! They have a book club now--that could be interesting." But then I caught this bit, reproduced here exactly, except for the big square surrounding it to better catch your eye:

Are you contributing to our REACTIVATION & MISSIONARY GOAL?
Don't know what that is?
Well... we each have been asked to invite as least one guest to a Relief
Society meeting or activity each month.
How are you doing on our goal? ...I have some work to do.

Sigh. I hate this part. It rouses the rebel within me; I start to get a facial tic and suddenly want to drop the F-bomb. In regard to my church attendance, my very good friend Jeralee wisely said once that I'm an adult and I'll go when I'm ready, which is one of the many reasons that's she is my very good friend. And yes, I do believe that I know how the writer meant for that little reminder to come off--as though she had just typed "How are you doing on our goal?" then paused, asked herself that very question and answered with something meaning "Because, by gum, I know that I sure have some work to do! I better get going!" My gut reaction, however, was disappointment at the realization that I'm most likely someone's assignment; if she invites me to a church activity, she can feel good about having done what was asked of her and move on to her next problem. But I'd very much like to feel able to worship solely because I choose to be there, and not to fulfill someone's obligations or expectations. Am I being difficult here?

I've given it some thought--I could take offense, but I'm not going to. I think it was simply a well-intentioned but poorly phrased reminder for active members to try to make everyone feel welcome at church. My mystery visitor was trying to do the right thing, and who knows, maybe she actually does want to make friends. I know that I'm looking forward to meeting her so I can invite her out for Sunday Brunch Dutch Babies.