I remember being a little girl--seven years old. A cold gray afternoon--I don't remember any leaves on the trees--I was walking past St. Mary's church. A little, blue, iron mailbox on a cement post stood across the street. My mother had probably sent me to mail a letter. I looked up at the church, the steeple with its star-bursting cross, its stained glass , its white plaster statue of Mary whose sweet face and outstretched arms were poised to embrace all who came near. The mystic aura of the church drew me. As I walked I stared at Mary and started to talk to her.
I remember my prayer went something like, "Mary I'm going to pray to you now because you're a girl and Heavenly Father is a boy and I don't trust boys." I was quite passionate. In those days, my impression was that God was a grumpy old man like my recently deceased grandfather. So Mary's kind young face was infinitely more inviting.
Now my family were the only Mormons within a twenty mile radius. Mormons don't pray to Mary (we like her all right, we just don't pray to her--how was I to know?) so I won't mind if people are incredulous when I say she answered me. And it was the perfect answer. She looked down at this little Mormon girl in her navy blue parka and mittens on a string and she said, "Oh isn't that sweet?"
Now to my way of thinking the only thing worse than a boy was a saccharin hand reaching down from heaven to pinch my cheek.
God and I talked it over that very night. He understood.