by Ann Romney
I sometimes called Baron “Professor,” because of the way he patiently took me to the next level. Had he been human, he would have worn horn-rimmed glasses, a tweed jacket, and a bow tie. Buddy had been my training wheels. Baron was a full-fledged two-wheeler.
As Margo, Jan, and I huddled beneath the bleachers, listening to the crowd roaring and waiting to go on, it did occur to me how wonderful and unpredictable life can be. Only a few years earlier I had been in the midst of a deep depression, wishing I would be struck by a disease that would kill me quickly rather than slowly losing control of my body. I had been grasping for any hope. Now here I was crammed uncomfortably into a small area with two friends and two nervous horses waiting to perform basic dressage in front of a large and loud crowd.
I wasn’t cured—I knew there was not yet a cure for MS—but I was well along the road to recovery, and knew that my disease was manageable. I had learned so much, and I was so incredibly grateful.
“That’s ten minutes,” the rodeo director warned us. “Got it?” It seemed clear from his tone of voice that he resented our intruding on his rodeo. I suspected he had been told that “Mitt Romney’s wife” was going to ride an exhibition during a break in competition and resented having to accommodate me. He was pulling rank a little, reminding us that we had ten minutes and only ten minutes to perform.
“Got it. Thanks!” I yelled back.
This exhibition was far from a normal dressage competition. Normally the arena is quiet, to allow the horse and rider to communicate without distraction. Any loud noise or unexpected movement can shatter the concentration, so much so that the normal dressage audience doesn’t respond until the horse has left the arena. Rodeos are entirely different. It’s cowboy time, and everyone is cheering loudly for their roper or rider. The exhibition center was packed with Americans and Canadians rooting for their home team. Jan was very concerned about our horses; they’d been transported from the barn to the arena on a freezing cold and very dark February night, after getting caught in a traffic jam of countless cars. Four helicopters had been hovering above the van, only adding to the confusion. At the arena the horses were led into a strange environment and exposed to sudden and great bursts of noise.
While Jan was confident he could handle his own horse, I knew he was concerned about me. Horses are big and very strong animals, and if my horse bolted, I could really be hurt. I’d been fine rehearsing in the tranquility of Margo’s barn, but this was a raucous situation.
When the rodeo manager told us we were on, Jan looked at me and asked, “You ready for this, yah?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. But Baron was restless, moving nervously. I was sure he’d settle down when I got on him, but it was that “getting on” that presented the problem. It took three people to hold him still enough for me to mount. That had never been necessary before. I patted him on the neck and said a few words, hoping my familiar voice would calm him.
With a last glance at Jan, Margo and I rode into the arena. Unlike the cowboys in competition, we were dressed in the formal regalia of dressage, from white breeches to white gloves, including the traditional long black Shadbelly riding coat. Fortunately, Mitt was going to provide the explanation for our exhibition—and after what Mitt had done to turn the Olympics into a rousing success, he was considered a hero. So when he spoke, people paid full attention.
“What you’re seeing Ann do here is a piaffe,” he explained, “which is simply a calm, elevated trot in place.” Had I not been quite so nervous I would have enjoyed his commentary. It wasn’t very long ago that Mitt wouldn’t have known the difference between a piaffe and a pianissimo. But when he accepted the fact that riding had become my passion, he started joining me at Margo’s barn on occasion. While I was training, he’d be helping out in the barn, washing down horses, driving horse trailers, even mucking the stalls. Mitt may have thought he knew what he was getting into when we made the decision to leave Boston to come to Salt Lake, but he couldn’t possibly have anticipated what he was stepping into, literally, as he mucked Margo’s stalls!
My part in the exhibition ended without incident. Nobody in that audience recognized the little mistakes I made. And when I rode back beneath the bleachers and handed off the horse to Jan, who with Margo would demonstrate several of the most complex maneuvers, he looked at me with a smile on his face and paid me the greatest compliment I could have received: “Very good job.”
Very good job. Those three words perfectly summed up the magical three years Mitt and I had spent in Salt Lake City.
Five
THERE WAS ONE OTHER ELEMENT that contributed greatly to my recovery. And I was reminded of it while riding Baron through a very early morning mist. In dressage, the rider communicates his or her commands by applying subtle pressure with the inside leg and the outside rein. In a true partnership between horse and rider, the horse will respond to those commands, completely trusting the rider.
That morning, a mountain wind was blowing the mist, creating a very spooky atmosphere. Baron was clearly uncomfortable. He was slightly disoriented. Baron was a wonderful horse, but on occasion a switch flipped and he became difficult to control. This was one of those times. He was being very impulsive, paying little attention to my commands. He was concerned about his safety, he wanted to bolt. This was a large, powerful animal, so I was wary and careful—and very frustrated. I was sitting tall and I could see everything that was going on around us for quite a distance. I could see all the dangers that might lie in our path. I thought, Oh Baron, if you could only see the bigger picture you would be quiet and listen to the outside rein. Then everything would be fine.
Then I had this sudden realization: Oh my gosh, this must be how God looks down on us. He does see the bigger picture. He knows what’s right for us. We just need to be quiet and listen to His outside rein.
Of course I knew it was a parable, but it was cool. Jesus taught the shepherds with their sheep and lambs, and I was being taught through my horse how important it is to listen and maintain my faith in God. How important it was to listen to the outside rein and be confident that He does see the bigger picture.
There was a time during this period when I almost forgot that.
Faith is such an interesting concept, and it may have very different but equally important meanings to different people. There have been people who have suggested that there was a greater reason I was diagnosed with MS, and that it put me on a long trail that has had many positive ramifications. I’ve never believed that. I think life is almost indiscriminate. I’ve never believed that there was a master plan. I don’t think I was given this disease because I would do something good because of it. I think life hits us all, and then we have to make choices. And hopefully all of us will find a place where we can make a positive difference.
It took me a long time to understand that. My father’s religion was the amazing uniformity of nature. He believed that there had to be some master engineer who fit all the pieces together, but then confidently left his invention to run on its own. Growing up, I needed more of an explanation than that. There was a part of me that believed there had to be more than that. I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t know where to find an answer, and I most certainly did not want to disappoint my father. But there was a void in me that needed to be filled.
To be honest, when Mitt and I were dating, religion was not the first thing on his mind. It probably wasn’t second or third, either. While he answered my endless questions, he never tried, in any way, to convince me that his religion, the Mormon Church, was better than or different from any other religion.
While admittedly I was curious about it, I was sixteen years old, and in the spring and summer of 1965, I had many other interests. Within months of meeting Mitt, I was deeply in love with him. We’d go out at night and Mitt would always make sure to get me home at a reasonable hour. My parents liked him right away. And when I got home, I’d kiss my parents good night, shut my bedroom door, turn out the lights�
�and crawl out my first-floor window to meet Mitt, who was waiting around the block. We’d spend several more hours together and then I’d sneak back into my house. My parents never knew that part about Mitt.
At his senior prom, Mitt led me outside and asked me to marry him. We professed our eternal teenage love for each other, and I said yes, but we were young and knew that marriage was far off. As I’ve mentioned, it is a tradition in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints that young men and, more recently, women volunteer for a two-year mission to do good deeds and spread the faith. While expected, it is not mandatory. Yet Mitt and I agreed that if we were going to spend our lives together, it would be without any regrets over things we hadn’t done. There would be no if-onlys in our life. Mitt went to France and, as it turned out, I went to church.
My father had great respect for Mitt’s father, Michigan governor George Romney. So he allowed me to go to church with the Romneys. That was my introduction to organized religion.
The Mormon Church has a long and fascinating history, and many Americans know little about it except that at one point it recognized polygamy, or allowing a man to have several wives. Basically, Mormonism is a Christian faith that follows the teachings of Christ. Mormons believe that Jesus Christ is our savior and will redeem us from sin. Like every other religion, it has certain rules, known as the Words of Wisdom. Among them are restrictions on drinking alcohol, coffee, and tea; smoking; and engaging in premarital sex. At least part of the reason for this is to maintain a healthy body. But there also is the reality that making a commitment to follow certain tenets allows you to get so much more in return. Giving up something or following dietary codes is pretty much a part of every major religion, and as I found, Mormonism is no different. As in every other religion, members of the church follow the rules that best support their personal beliefs.
Mitt has always found the humor in this. At a formal dinner one night while he was governor of Massachusetts, he looked around at the well-dressed people in attendance and admitted, “Usually when I get invited to gatherings like this one, it’s just to be the designated driver.”
Several years later, during the 2012 presidential campaign, he was asked how to prepare for a presidential debate. He considered the question, and then explained, “First, refrain from alcohol for sixty-five years before the debate.”
I think what appealed to me most about the Mormon Church is the emphasis it places on the importance of family. Nothing is more important than the family unit. We believe that we are on earth to learn how to temper our passions and that our experiences, both good and bad, teach us those things that we need to learn, and that one day we will live again as a family unit, that families are eternal. This makes it easier to deal with hardships, because we believe they are only temporary and will ultimately prove to be positive.
I found a certain level of contentment within the Church that seemed to fit me well. I made a personal decision that I wanted to become part of this religion. I don’t think my father liked it. He thought that organized religion was the cause of a lot of grief in the world. He wouldn’t stop me from making my own decision, but he certainly wasn’t supportive. The only thing he asked was that I not make any decision about religion until I was eighteen. With his permission, George Romney arranged for missionaries from the Church to come to our house and instruct me in the faith. Of course, what we didn’t know was that my younger brother, Jim, would go into the living room before each meeting, hide under the couch, and listen silently. It turned out that he was as interested in finding his faith as I was.
Mitt didn’t want me to convert because of him; he wanted to make sure I was doing it for myself. But in 1966, with Mitt away on his mission, I asked George Romney to baptize me. It is accurate to say that I became a Mormon, but on some level I was already a member of the faith. It just seemed to adhere so well to what I already believed deep inside. It actually was a pretty scary thing for me to do; it was so different from anything involving my high school friends, but I wasn’t going to let anyone deter me. I had taken all the lessons, so I understood completely what I was embracing. I don’t know how I knew this was the right path for me, but I knew it, and I had no doubts about it. My baptism took place in a church in Bloomfield Hills, and afterward I felt completely content, as if I had arrived at the place where I was supposed to be going.
While my father accepted my decision, he finally objected when my then-fourteen-year-old brother, Jim, said he also wanted to be baptized, and when, a surprise to all of us, my rebellious older brother, Rod, also independently took missionary lessons and was baptized while studying in England. My brother Jim joined the church as well, but not until he was eighteen. Many years later the biggest surprise was a phone call from my cancer-stricken mother. Since my father’s death several months earlier, she had been struggling. Like Mitt and me, she and my father had spent most of their lives together, and his loss had devastated her. “You’d better sit down,” she said. “I have two things to tell you. I’m dying, Ann. I can tell I don’t have much time left.” I didn’t breathe. Those are the worst possible words a child can hear. Then she continued: “And I need to be baptized before I die.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Having just heard the most awful thing possible, it was difficult to find anything to say, but this wonderful feeling came over me. “That’s wonderful,” I finally managed to blurt out. And it was, it was.
Her words were stunning. My mother had always been a spiritual woman, but this—this could not possibly have been more unexpected, or appreciated.
I flew down to Florida the following weekend. My mother wanted to be baptized by my brother, Jim. There are few things more meaningful than watching a parent being baptized by her child. I watched as my mother grabbed on to the railing and stepped down into the warm water where Jim was waiting. Jim had the biggest smile on his face. She waded slowly into the water and reached out to him for support. He took her hand.
He said really loudly, maybe making sure that they could hear him in heaven, “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Then he lowered her into the water, and we welcomed her into the faith.
My mother was so filled with joy. At one point she took hold of the bishop’s hand and promised him, “I’m going to be the most active member of your congregation.”
After the baptism, Jim and I remarked that we had felt our father’s presence at the ceremony. Religion had always been such a sensitive issue in our home, and this seemed a resolution to that conflict.
A few days later, I went back to Boston. I was still at Logan Airport when my brother Rod called and told me to get back to Florida as quickly as possible. “She’s barely hanging on,” he said. I made it back in time to say good-bye. I remember how completely serene she looked, how angelic as she walked to eternity. Her decision to be baptized had brought us all a great feeling of acceptance and peace. We knew she was going to be in good hands, and that we would be reunited in heaven.
It really is amazing what a central role my faith has played in my life. Mitt was still on his mission in France when his father was deciding whether to run for the 1968 Republican presidential nomination. He took me with him on a campaign trip to Utah, the first political campaign trip of my life. Among our stops was the campus of Brigham Young University, a sprawling, beautiful setting in the Utah Valley, surrounded by snowcapped mountains. While many of my friends applied to the great Michigan universities, I had enrolled at B-Y-Woo, as students called it because so many of them married people they met there. I suppose one reason I picked it was that it made me feel closer to Mitt. But more than that, it was my introduction to the Mormon religion and culture. It took some getting used to; religion had been an interest of mine, I was very curious about it, but it had never been a core part of my life. My first Sunday at BYU, I was surprised to learn that just about all the students attended church every single Sunday,
that those students built their lives around their religious values.
I spent part of my second semester in France, studying the language in the village of Les Auberge, just outside Grenoble. That was the closest Mitt and I had been to each other in a year, but mission rules prohibited us from even seeing each other for a date or dinner. Apparently, the Church wanted young people on a mission to focus on their responsibilities, not their social life. It is intended to be a time for growth, when you experience new challenges.
One of those challenges was to our relationship. It’s incredibly difficult for two young people to maintain a relationship when they don’t see each other for two and a half years. After I returned to BYU, Mitt and I wrote regularly, but a letter a week is no substitute for togetherness. New experiences were filling my life, and the old ones, which included my years with Mitt, were being displaced. I had a difficult time even remembering what he looked like. This isn’t unusual. High school romances rarely survive the separation of different colleges, much less different continents. I was completely honest with Mitt, telling him as gently as possible that I’d started dating other people, including the star of the basketball team. It wasn’t quite a “Dear Mitt” letter, but it certainly wasn’t a profession of my deep and eternal love, either.
We couldn’t even fight about breaking up! Mitt wrote back a calm, understanding letter telling me that he loved me and hoped desperately that I would wait for him. Maybe some young women would have been angry at him for not being angry, but I wasn’t. Mitt poured out his heart. I could feel his love in those pages. The maturity in his words reminded me that he was the most extraordinary young man I’d ever known—even if he wasn’t much of a basketball player. He had an unshakable core that allowed him to deal with the challenges of life. Maybe at that time I didn’t quite understand where it came from. While I made him no promises, I knew I would wait for him.