“M” is for Mormons and Miracles

I remember when I was serving as a missionary for the Church that when we told people that we were missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they would look at us blankly and say “Who?” When we explained to them that we were also known as the “Mormons” they would look at us, their faces lighting up as they nodded sagely at us and asked why we hadn’t said so in the first place.

We didn’t say so in the first place because that’s really not who we are. “Mormons” was given to the members of the Church as a derogatory nickname, because of our belief in the Book of Mormon. The Book of Mormon received its name from the prophet who compiled and abridged the sets of metal plates; his name was Mormon. My name is Mary, not Mormon, and I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I accept – hopefully with some semblance of grace – the nickname, as do most of the members, but we really prefer being called by our own names or by the appellation of LDS.

That being said, one of the things that distinguish us from many, if not most churches is that we believe in the continuing existence of miracles. We believe that they didn’t cease with the death of Jesus Christ and his Apostles, but that they continue to be performed even today. I sincerely believe in miracles, because I have seen them over and over again.

The first miracle took place about 39 years ago, when I had my first knee surgery. I suffered from bilateral chondromalacia patella, which is a softening and deterioration of the kneecap; it scrapes against the soft tissues in the knee and causes inflammation and great pain: in my case, it had also stretched the ligaments that held the kneecap in place; you can just imagine how much fun I was having. It should be remembered that this was before arthroscopic surgery came into existence, let alone replacements; so when the doctor told me that if I had both knees done at the same time – with open knee surgery – I would have less than 25% possibility of walking anymore. I had no choice at the time; I had a healing blessing¹ and a week after surgery, I was walking, albeit highly resembling Frankenstein with my full-length casts; six months later, I was running. The Doctor said I might go from 1-15 years before I would need more surgery—I went twenty. A miracle? I think so.

My daughter is a a second miracle. The doctor told us nine months before my daughter was born that we would never be able to have children, under any circumstances. We were given a blessing and the rest is history; that was almost 32 years ago. We had no more children, but we’re thankful for the one beautiful daughter we have. And yes, I believe in miracles.    

¹See James 5:14-15

© Mary Purpari, April 16, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

“P” is for Purpari

As I was trying to come up with a subject for this particular letter, I was having a little difficulty. I had settled on Polymath minds, but since it sounded a little too high falutin’, I really was a bit reluctant to use it. And then it hit me. Duh! How about Purpari? Purpari is a very nice Italian name, not very common outside of Italy, although there was one branch that moved to the United States in the very early 1900s; the name has since died out due to a lack of male heirs to carry on the name.

The Purparis are, on the whole, wonderful people, and I am glad to count them as family and family, despite a certain falling out. There is one Purpari that I hold particularly close to my heart—my daughter Sonia.

Anyway, the name Purpari has its roots, as far as I could find, in a small mountain town in the province of Palermo called San Mauro Castelverde. The youngest son moved to Mistretta in 1710,  and this branch has been there ever since. During the passage of time, the name has undergone several variations, but as far as can be discovered it derives from one or both of two roots: The first would be the Sicilian word for octopus PURPO. Someone who fishes for octopus is a PURPARE. This would be highly plausible, since San Mauro, although being a mountain village, it is also not that far from the Tyrrhenian Sea, where there are lots of PURPI.

The other possibility would also be plausible, since it comes from the word PORPORA which stands for the scarlet worn by Cardinals in the Catholic church. There were a number of family members who took the cloth. Whichever of the two it may be, it doesn’t change that I heard my daughter being called PURPA several times by her Sicilian classmates…

When I came to New York, I ran into a little bit of difficulties with peoples’ pronunciation of the name. They ran the gamut, and in the end they just asked if they could call me Sister P. . I was a bit disheartened until my friend, Mrs. James, a teacher, told me her students asked if they could call her Mrs. J. What? 

The best (or worst) one, though, was my very own sister. I still shake my head on this one. My three-year old daughter and I were visiting my family in California. My sister taught the three-year olds in Church and so, while I was in Relief Society, my sister was busy teaching Sonia and the other kids. I think that even if I ever get senile, one thing I will never forget is what happened next. My dear, sweet, beautiful little girl ran up to me and yelled “Ciao Mamma Poopaloopa!” Her aunt, that conniving sister of mine, taught her to say that. Of course, she’s the one who named her oldest son Bowen Erro. sigh…

Why couldn’t I have married someone with an easy name like Rossi or… James?

 

©Copyright Mary Purpari April 18, 2014, “P” is for Purpari