I spent much of Saturday walking on holy ground.  First in the East Bay hills, next in another faith’s church, and finally, in a basketball gym. Sacred spaces all.

I was up in the hills for a memorial service was held on a private ranch overlooking Contra Costa county.  A dozen of us gathered to spread the ashes of a difficult woman we’d all had the opportunity to serve.  Barbara joined our church congregation 16 years ago and spent most of that time battling enormous physical and mental challenges.  Essentially alone in the world, she turned to her new church family for help. Though she was legitimately needy, Barbara was also belligerent and rarely grateful.  She tested us all.   In helping her I often felt I came up short, wishing I showed more genuine charity under duress.

But on a beautiful morning looking out over golden California hills broken up by a sparkling blue reservoir and a lush green golf course, I felt a surprising tenderness for Barbara.  We sang “We Are All Enlisted Till the Conflict is Over” and “God Be With You Till We Meet Again” as well as told stories of what serving Barbara had taught us.  As we released six balloons into the cloudless sky to commemorate her six plus decades on earth I was grateful that she was freed at last from the bondage of her mind and body.  And I was honored to be in the company of the truly good people who had served her over the years.

Then we drove into the city to see Laney, our family friends’  daughter all grown up now, lead an alumni chorus of San Francisco Girls Choir girls women as they sang Brahms and Randall and Gershwin in the grand setting of St. Mark’s Lutheran Church on O’Farrell.  With roots in the San Francisco Gold Rush, the gorgeous interior mixes Romanesque and Gothic details in an inspired mix of softened primary colors that was as elevating as the music.  Particularly lovely was the sight of Laney’s sister Rachel on stage singing “‘S Wonderful,” her belly swelling with a new baby after losing her first child to a rare genetic disorder.  Glory Hallelujah!

On the drive back to the East Bay we took our cue from the blissed-out doberman in the back of an olive green Oldsmobile convertible just ahead of us and opened the sunroof to enjoy a rare warm day in the city. Back over the bridge we headed up to our own church congregation’s spring potluck.  We gathered in a small gymnasium in the meeting house next to the Oakland LDS temple, sampling Doug & Pam’s kale salad,  Ernie’s Peruvian potatoes and Marion’s banana cake under the basketball hoops.  I brought along some tasty apricot tea cakes made from a recipe that had shown up in my mailbox (Bon Appetit) that day.  There was no musical program that night, but a sweet chorus of fellowship accompanied us to the parking lot as we headed home.

Some pilgrims journey many miles to find their God and each other.  I’m grateful my mecca is so close at hand.

Like a tipsy party guest, oxalis—with its day-glo yellow blossoms and exuberant growth patterns—can be a pain to those attempting a manicured springtime garden display. Here in the woodland hills of Oakland, however, outrageously cheery swaths of oxalis are as welcome as a sunny patch of daffodils in a proper English garden. Also, did you know that another name for oxalis is false shamrocks? So just in time for Saint Patrick’s Day, I’m counting my good fortune that my backyard is lit up with oxalis like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Here are a few other things I felt lucky to come across this week:

1. Peggy Noonan’s advice for a new pope could apply to all of us.

2. While we’re on the topic of religion, I loved what Anne Lamott had to say about being a Christian.

3. Ever wonder why you seem to encounter the same issues over and over in your life? Martha Beck’s musings on labyrinths resonated with me.

4. Speaking of mystical practices, I’m enjoying tracking the stages of the moon with Deluxe Moon.

5. And though I don’t have a smidge of Irish blood, it’s still fun to celebrate St. Paddy’s day—perhaps with some Irish soda bread or these fun rainbow jello parfaits.

Luck o’ the Irish to you all this weekend!

Brooks is a wonderful writer but she occasionally suffers from the problem I think many of us Mormon-raised writers suffer from—it’s hard not to be incredibly EARNEST when we write.

Get around a group of Mormons letting their hair down and you won’t find a more jovial group of people. We’re surprisingly funny and comfortable poking fun at ourselves (think Napoleon Dynamite.) But when we write about our Mormonness for strangers we often have a hard time escaping the arms-folded, quiet seriousness of our Primary lessons on reverence—even if we are writing in ways that would seem irreverent to more orthodox church members.

I’ve read that part of Mitt Romney’s problem connecting with voters is that he doesn’t seem like a guy you’d want to sit down and have a beer, root or otherwise, with. I get that. We’re sober around strangers, but send us to a family reunion at a Salt Lake City park and pass the A&W. We’ll be square dancing on the tables before you know it.