Regional Conference (revised)

It’s bright and sunny and not a cloud is in sight this Regional Conference morning. After several minutes of walking through the busy crowd I take my seat on a hard bench. I glance around the huge room and my eyes don’t know where to begin to focus. People are moving back and forth, up and down the aisles trying to find seats. Several yards away, cameramen are positioning their cameras getting ready to air. The choir takes their seat, holding their music sheets in hand. The girls in the choir are dressed in white shirts and black skirts and the boys in black suits. If you try really hard to listen, you can hear the prelude music in the background, but mostly you just hear the hundreds of voices inside Marriott Center. Then all of a sudden, as if someone turned down the volume, the room is dead silent as the Brethren take their seats. Now you can here the lovely organ music.

As conference progresses all I can concentrate is on how the stiff bench is and how it becomes more and more uncomfortable by the second. I sit there squished. No matter how many times I change my position, nothing works. I can’t concentrate on the speaker because of the distractions all around. There is too much going on to direct my attention at just one thing. I become a little frustrated that I cannot pay attention, mostly because I am not really trying and that’s what truly frustrates me. I know if I truly tried, everything else would fade out and the words would just flow into me.

Boyd K. Packer is speaking now. His kind voice is calming. I look at him and see his white hair and wrinkles and can’t help but think of my Grandpa. Both wise, men of honor, who also have a deep sense of love for others. I remember being by my Grandpa’s bedside before he left. He lay there so delicate and calm. I had a prompting to hug him, say good-bye and tell him that I love him, but I didn’t. I wonder where he is now and I wonder what he is doing. What does he think of me? Is he proud of me? Does he know that I love him or did I miss my opportunity?

Brother Packer tells a joke and the crowd breaks out in laughter. I wasn’t paying attention, obviously. I think to myself, I should be listening, taking in these words of wisdom. I look around and see others not paying attention too. Some are playing with their cell phones, some looking around the huge room, and some rubbing each others backs, yuck! I am astonished at their irreverence, especially those playing with their cell phone. I am no better though. I’m simply not as overt as they are. Nonetheless, we are in the same position.

Brother Packer is now saying something about Indians. I find it funny because sometimes I feel a sense of pride when the topic comes up, but most times I forget that I am Navajo. It’s not until I catch a reflection of myself that I see that I am different from those around me. My skin color is darker, so is my hair. My facial features are not the same as everyone else in the room, either. Its topics of Native Americans that remind me of who I am once more and depending on the context I feel big or small, proud or inadequate.

The closing hymn begins, and both crowd and organ sing triumphantly. It’s as if the room is shaking. After prayer I leave my seat (thank heaven!) and exit the Marriott Center. I leave Regional Conference feeling a little guilty. What did I gain from it? Sure, I heard words and here and there I listened carefully, but did I take them in? Not really. Will I remember them a week from now? Probably not. Shame comes over me with disappointment following it. I think to myself, “Next time, I’ll try harder.”