More than a College Reunion

I attended my forty-year class reunion at Stanford University somewhat reluctantly. Although the insecure girl who had graduated forty years earlier had almost nothing in common with the woman I had become, the very atmosphere of the place still stirred up some of those long-forgotten anxieties.

In those far-off days, I had left my tiny town in Washington state to attend an awe-inspiring university in northern California, a move that had required a great deal of courage. I was as “green” as any freshman could be. Being assigned two California roommates only increased my insecurities. I wasn’t confident about my appearance. I wasn’t fashionable. And I wasn’t particularly brilliant.

My only armor against all this newness was a strong belief in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I had been a member of the Church for just four years, and my beliefs gave me courage to be different. But the years that followed weren’t easy. I ultimately earned my degree, but I never considered myself a “Stanford Woman”—someone who would make a difference and do great things.

These feelings of inadequacy, strangely unchanged by a lifetime of growth, still haunted me when I stepped into the reception hall for the reunion. Almost immediately, a former classmate who had lived across the hall from me in my freshman dormitory identified herself. I honestly didn’t remember her and was consequently surprised when she began asking me rather personal questions.

“Are you still a devout Mormon?” she queried, to which I said yes.

I continued saying yes as she asked me whether my husband and children were active in the Church, whether my son had served a mission, whether I held a calling in my ward, and whether my children had married in the temple and had families.

After enduring this catechism through a haze of bewilderment, I was finally enlightened. “Do you remember when we were freshmen and you used to go to church alone all the time?” she asked. “Well, you were the only one I knew who ever went to church every Sunday. I was really intrigued by that, so I asked you all kinds of questions about your church when I wrote a paper on comparative religions.”

She went on to remind me that I had given her pamphlets about the Church and that the best thing I had done for her was to write down my feelings about my religion. “Your thoughts held the central theme of my paper,” she continued, “and that paper stayed buried in my garage until just a few years ago. My son said he’d help me sort through my storage boxes and, believe it or not, he found that paper and asked for my permission to read it.”

She relayed the rest of the story with misty eyes: “That paper changed the course of his life. He decided to call the LDS church and ask for someone to answer his questions. He studied and finally asked to be baptized. He went to BYU, served a mission, and is now doing research for the Church in Provo!”

I was so overwhelmed by her words I was visibly shaken. Then a great mantle of peace settled on me, and the eternal wisdom of the Spirit whispered that it had all been worth it—the initial loneliness, the agony of being different, the years of anxiety.

While we were talking so intensely, an audience of interested listeners had gathered around us almost unnoticed by either of us. Everyone hastened to comment to me on the favorable experiences they had had with the Church, no matter how remote. My life-style, which had seemed so ridiculous to them in those days, now seemed to be an object of admiration and fascination.

As my husband and I drove home after that surprising and rewarding weekend, I began to see my life and blessings from a new perspective. My feelings of inadequacy vanished. I, a lonely, frightened, and insecure girl, had planted a seed that had borne fruit. And although Stanford had prepared my mind, the Church had prepared my heart—for the greater blessings of a wonderful family, for the life-style of my faith, and for the peace of mind that came with knowing I had made a difference.