Off the Cuff

My mother-in-law, who used to sew her seven kids' clothes from scratch, has the stitched phrase A DAY HEMMED IN PRAYER SELDOM UNRAVELS hanging beside her sewing machine. Her sewing nook is a wonderland in the mouse hole beneath the stairs. When I sew on her machine I pop in one of her cds: George Strait, Rod Stewart, oldies. If she's beside me she whistles. Her whistle has a soothing, easy vibrato. It's the audible equivalent of slow rocking on a Southern front porch. My sewing memories with her are few but happy.

RE was blessed in the dress my youngest sister Natalie wore; cascading tiers of intricate lace somehow sewn over five months of foggy postpartum by my mother.

I asked my mother-in-law to sew Archer and Everett's blessing outfits so both grandmothers would be represented in our christening histories. I requested rompers of "pioneer simplicity." She pieced the heirlooms in secret and unveiled her handiwork on the eve of each event. They didn't disappoint: Archer's pintucks and Everett's miniature Peter Pan collar are doll-sized cotton masterpieces.

The jewel of each romper is hidden in plain sight. A small ALL IS WELL adorns Archer's cuff and Everett's SECRET PRAYER wraps around his chunky thigh. My boys' middle names were born of hymns; these words symbolize their unique journeys to me. My sister-in-law Stephanie did the honors with her embroidery machine, the beast with a user manual I'd like to steer clear of. Mothers, sisters, babies. Stitches, love, seams.

ARCHER WEST is my Zion seen in visions and promises galore. I trekked more than a territory's length to reach him. I dug to the center of the earth and back out again before his freedom and sanctuary were staked.

There seems to be no shortage of snippets, articles, and facts relating to Archer's name. Bows and arrows, aim, bulls-eyes. Arches, keystones, what makes structures strong. I'm on high alert for these tidbits, cutting and pasting them into a collection for him. Someday he'll be thirsty and I'll have the reservoir of his heritage copied, bound, and waiting.

The latest addition to THE BOOK OF ARCHER:

My mother used to tell her children that we were of “pioneer stock.” I wasn’t sure if I really knew what that meant when I was younger, but I did know the stories about crossing the plains. They were usually filled with unbearable chal­lenges, setbacks, and seemingly impossible odds. And at the end of the day the pioneers circled their wagons, built a fire, sang, and danced—or at least that is the way I remembered the stories. And what was their theme song? “Come, Come, Ye Saints.”

I always thought this was a strange song for those who were hungry, fatigued, and at the brink of devastation. One verse, for example, reads, “And should we die before our journey’s through, Happy day! All is well!”

All is well? Anybody could see that all was not well. And just who were these overly optimistic people anyway? Apparently they were my people. And now, years later, they help me to remember just who I am and what it means to be of pioneer stock.

Years ago I was sitting on the stand in a cha­pel in Europe singing “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” A leader leaned over and whispered, “You know, the Polish translation of this song is quite different from the English version.”

“Really?” I countered.

“It doesn’t really read, ‘All is well! All is well!’”

I looked at him somewhat surprised.

“The real translation,” he said, “is ‘Not so bad, not so bad.’”

I couldn’t help but quietly chuckle. Then I thought of the pioneers who might not have always described their own circumstances as being “all is well.” But I could see how with their expanded vision and tremendous dedication they could say, “This is not so bad, not so bad,” and then with a deep breath take yet another step and continue to forge on.

Crazy, but my brother speaks fluent Polish. I called him to verify the grammar. It panned out. It was cool to hear my brother speak with his mission tongue. My brother is permanently 10 years old in my head, wearing a yellow Izod shirt and popping wheelies into the garage sheetrock on his Huffy bike. I forget he is a multilingual grown man with a job, a family, and whiskers like dad.

EVERETT (BOON)E answered my secret prayer. On Everett's blessing day the congregation sang "In Humility, Our Savior" prior to the Sacrament. Let our prayers find access to thee. Oh, they do. They do. I preselected "Secret Prayer" for the closing hymn because I wielded such power as the chorister. As luck would have it the talks went long and my hymn was skipped in favor of the choir performing. No "Secret Prayer" for my secret prayer.  

Four hours later, a knock at the door produced the entire Thornton family (including Bishop, who had just left church and hadn't even eaten his waffles yet) singing "Secret Prayer" a cappella for us. Don't think I didn't bawl the entire song. I did. At least I was dressed. The last tune they sang on my porch was a freezing "O Holy Night" in December wind to me and my robe despite the lunch hour. (To be fair, I was very morning sick with Everett and the pregnancy was still hush-hush.)

I don't know how to describe my life right now. It's probably just like everyone else's. Most things are ALL IS WELL. Thimbled thumbs up. Serger strength. Some things are NOT SO BAD. Tissue paper pattern corrections—refolding on a new dotted line. Being mortal, however, I have a few loose threads. When I focus on one, when I obsess about it and wind it through my fidgety fingers, I start unraveling. In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can't see. My heart no longer pines for children but I assure you new secret prayers are ascending to heaven. These communions twist, twirl, and tug my pleading soul to the mercy seat.

Whether I'm dancing in the wagon circle or fighting just to hold myself together, the daily tailoring of prayer is what shapes and secures the life I am fashioning.

Photo of old Singer sewing machines taken somewhere on the Mag Mile. My aunt and I were on a night stroll in Chicago, full of day-one-of-vacation energy and Ghiradelli squares. 

"A Visionary House", Matthew O. Richardson, BYU advancement vice president, delivered this devotional address on 25 October 2016. His footnote, for all the Polish gurus:

See “Chodź ,chodź mój bracie,” Hymny, oraz pieśni dla dzieci (Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1982), 6. “All is well” is translated as “nie jest źle” (“it is not bad”). In 2016 a new edition of hymns was published, and the “all is well” translation was changed to “dobrze jest” (“it is well”) (“Naprzód marsz, święci,” Hymny kościóła Jezusa Chrystusa świętych w dniach ostatnich [Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 2016], no. 19).

And, last but not least, so she doesn't feel left out, here is a picture of RE on her blessing day. Pictures have come a long way since 2001. I mean, I did a monthly photo shoot of Archer in natural light with props and costumes for the first 18 months of his life, and for RE's blessing day...I threw her on the carpet and took a pic of her from a weird angle. Oh well, at least I have some record of her amazing day, amazing dress, and amazing hair!