is there a place for heavenly mother in mormon theology?

S U N S T O N E
2004 Eugene England Memorial Personal Essay Contest, Third Place Winner
CRESTS
By Lisa Torcasso Downing
AS ELENA’S DILAPIDATED COUPE RATTLED UP ANother
incline in the Texas hill country, she leaned forward
to “help” the car along. She began to feel annoyed
at the beat of maracas across the radio. She was
late—again. The daycare center began assessing fines in five
minutes, fines she couldn’t possibly pay with her husband laid
off. With the window down and the steamy summer air
rushing past, Elena prayed to the Virgin to help her make it on
time.
A first-generation Mexican immigrant, Elena was living the
American dream with all its ups and downs. She and her husband,
Vicente, were proud to have a mortgage with an
American bank, to own two old automobiles, and to diaper
little Edmund with disposables purchased at the H.E.B. Every
night, she picked little Edmund up from day care, buckled
him into a safety-seat, and drove him home where she gave
him a cup of whole milk and rice and beans and had him listen
to American T.V. shows so his English would come right. On
Sundays, she and Vicente sat with him in the Quiet Room
watching Mass, then strolled him to the park where he would
squeal on the slide. Elena could not complain. And she tried
not to worry. She trusted God with her life.
And today, such trust was necessary, for on the other side of
that incline rose both a heavily burdened semi-truck and an
impatient sixteen-year-old in his “new” used hot rod. The
teenager’s decision to pass the truck moving uphill was likely
made at the same time Elena turned off the radio. She saw the
cab of the semi-truck rising over the crest then heard the
blaring of its horn. Suddenly, the teenager’s car appeared, and,
in the split second before it struck her head-on, she registered
the revulsion and terror on the boy’s face.
LISA TORCASSO DOWNING is a homemaker and
writer. She lives in Heath, Texas, with her husband Bret
and their three children. Her daughter Rachel is now
twelve years old and perfectly happy. She swims, plays
soccer, tennis, and golf, and can’t figure out what all the fuss is
about. Lisa welcomes comments at: downinglis@wmconnect.com
I OFTEN THOUGHT OF Elena during those months I lay
in bed with my yet unborn daughter. I remembered the way
Elena had loved to hold her boy, how she had never let the belief
that he was God’s gift wander far from her mind. As a firstgeneration
Mormon, I, like her, was living a dream, with all its
highs and lows. I fostered the same love in my soul for my
children as she did for hers, so it didn’t surprise me that
thoughts of Elena frequently pierced my mind as I lay there
day after day, protecting my unborn child from my own body.
Like Elena, I couldn’t see it coming.
ELENA DID NOT die. Though her steering wheel rammed
against her chest; though steel from the front of her car sliced
backwards, crushing her legs, Elena miraculously remained
conscious. The truck driver appeared quickly. “I’ll get you
out,” he said, his hands yanking fruitlessly at the mangled
steel. She watched as the teenage driver wobbled toward her;
saw the horror on his face as he looked through the debris at
her; and heard him cry out, “Oh, God, no!”
She wanted to reassure the boy, tell him she was all right,
not to worry, it doesn’t hurt. Instead she groaned and fretted
over who would pick up Edmund, wondered at the unnatural
twist of her left arm. She rolled her head left and noticed a thin
flap of skin was all that connected her arm to her shoulder.
There’s little blood, she thought. That’s a good sign. They would
be mad at the daycare center.
Suddenly, people, everywhere, such an embarrassing fuss.
She thought of the traffic she was stopping. Sirens, lights, paramedics.
. . .
“Elena?” shouted the medic. She gazed at him. She knew
him from Our Lady. She had to tell him to get Vicente to pick
up Edmund.
“Don’t move,” he said, “We’ll take care of you.” He dropped
his blood pressure cuff, realizing he could only reach her severed
arm. “How old is Edmund now?” His eyes scanned her
body and the wreck, intermingled. “I bet he’s talking up a
storm.” He wiped her forehead and continued speaking to her
as though they were in the foyer after Mass. “Stay with me,
Elena. So, you seen that new movie . . .?” Her gaze blurred.
“Maybe you and Vicente and me and Andrea can go together.”
Tell Vicente and Edmund I love them.
IT WAS OUR bedtime ritual. Though it was far from romantic,
it was loving the way my husband would slip the cuff
on my arm. I’d wait, feel the thump, thump, thump of my
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