I meant no disrespect. It was my first General Conference, my first Solemn Assembly, and to top it off I was "participating" via AM radio.

In a compromise with my antagonistic family, I secured permission to listen at home to the164th Semiannual General Conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Each party had two conditions in the agreement:

1. On Saturday, I would clean the house. On Saturday, they would leave the house.
2. I would not discuss the conference with them. They would not make critical remarks to me.

So shortly after 10 a.m., I'm dumping scouring powder on the stove top while the opening hymn does its best to sound majestic coming from the tiny clock radio speakers. A voice I would come to know and love (and will miss tomorrow) began the process of sustaining Howard W. Hunter as the prophet, seer, revelator and president of the Church.

I've seen sustainings before, you know. It wasn't as though I'd never attended Sacrament meetings or stake conferences. I'd even been tipped off to raise my arm to welcome myself into the ward the day after my baptism.  I had a sincere desire to sustain our new prophet, my 'first' prophet. My physical manifestation of being in favor was made with enthusiastic faith.

I put down my sponge, proudly raised my arm when asked and went back to cleaning.

And then I was asked to sustain him again. Another quick sponge drop, raised arm, lowered arm, sponge grab and I resumed scrubbing. And then I was asked to manifest it again. And again.

"How many times are they going to ask me??" I thought. I gave up trying to clean with my dominant hand, settling for a weaker but uninterrupted wiping motion while continuing to signal with my right arm as asked.  I wondered if every General Conference would be like this--everyone raising their arms over and over and over again.

I was glad my folks weren't there--they would have certainly mocked the repeated motions as cult-devotions. I snickered a bit as I imagined my counter argument that lifting my arm was much easier than kowtowing and required less space.

I stopped counting at 15 requests. I didn't roll my eyes all that much. I swept and mopped and polished and conference rolled on.

The very next General Conference brought a Solemn Assembly for President Gordon B. Hinckley. With the blessings of undivided attention and a television broadcast, the differences in what happens and what I thought had transpired were glaringly obvious. On that Saturday, April 1, 1995, I most certainly felt like a fool.