Silver Plated

Every good and perfect gift is from above,

      and cometh down from the Father of lights -James 1:17

Oh, Girls’ Camp. The stars were aligned this year. Perfect weather, no drama, five-star food, a zip line over the lake, a slightly deflated air mattress (it can’t be super full or it hurts), and a very chill schedule. Breakfast at 7? How about 9:30 after we all sleep in? And can we skip the hike since we don’t have certification anymore and just make more rock rings and Jedi braids? Yes. Yes we can. The leaders outlasted the girls and giggled in the big tent well past 2. The eight weeks leading up to Camp prematurely aged me a decade, but three days at Camp erased it all.

Everyone knows the best part of camp (besides the showers you need flip-flops for) is the testimony meeting around the campfire. It has to be dark, too. Ain’t no testimonies being borne without the cover of night as a security blanket.

I heard so many sweet and sincere things that night, but I can’t stop thinking about the two “silver testimonies”.

A pint-sized 11-year old said, “I guess what I’ve learned this year is even if you keep all the commandments and are super good, life doesn’t get served to you on a silver platter.” Such a reality didn’t seem age-appropriate but it was heartfelt; perhaps the recent divorce taught her as much.

Then our camp chef stood and said she believed in silver linings; that silver linings were Heavenly Father’s way of reminding us He knows what’s really going on.

I think they are both right. I also think they go together. I believe Heavenly Father serves us silver linings on a silver platter as often as we need but especially on the neediest of days. I think the silver lining is a godly love note to an individual and the silver platter is the custom translation. The scriptures confirm that God speaks to men according to their language and understanding.* I’ve often felt this explained why I could see God’s hand or feel truths in ways that other people might not. We all speak our own spiritual language; mine is easily communicated at a printing press, on the periodic table, or when I see daffodils.

I’ve always loved daffodils. I wait for them all winter and pop! suddenly there’s hope smiling brightly before me. Daffodils beam at the bottom of Harry Anderson’s resurrection painting. Kristin Bradburn/Crystal Lund’s front bed housed the first openers of 680 West. Spring’s highlighter, daffodils naturally trumpet BE OF GOOD CHEER from their middle megaphone. I’ve said thankful prayers for daffodils. Honestly, daffodils are a sign between me and Heavenly Father. 

Earlier this “spring” (aka the lame duck term of Worst Winter in 15 Years) there was nada as far as color went on the mountain, just seven-foot heaps of snow around every driveway. I'll admit that moving caused an irregular sadness in me—it ebbs and flows—but on a particularly emotional day I backed out of my personal fort of isolation and slid down the mountain to go shopping. The snowless valley was a pastel vision of warming. As I pulled out of Costco, autopilot took over and before I knew it I'd turned right on 700 North and was driving through my old neighborhood. It was a frenzy of energy: birds were chirping, runners were running, dogs were being walked, bikes were in motion, Fishy Park was teeming with tots. My old house had a movie effect sunbeam shining down on it and as I looped back on 900 West I didn’t even make it past the equestrian park before I broke in half. If I’m being honest, it was a metaphor for how I was feeling: Blooming in American Fork was effortless. Blooming in Suncrest seems impossible.

I pulled over and called Michelle. Blessed day, she was driving home from a Kevy haircut and had 20 uninterrupted minutes to talk. She’d heard it all before from her calls to me after she moved. No explanation necessary. She understood nothing was wrong and no one was mean but occasionally it hurt so bad. I sniffled about the golden days, when all the mommies postponed dinner prep to talk on a single front lawn. She assured me that no one from the Lawn Club was doing that anymore, that life’s pace had changed from KILLING TIME to WOULD KILL FOR TIME. She bandaged me up, hung up, and I drove from Sunnyvale back to Siberia.

Days passed and brought me to the eve of Spring Break's flight. I can vouch there are two days a year I’m guaranteed to be a total witch: the day before vacation and the day of family pictures. (Truly, our smiley gallery wall could be renamed "The Wall of Hypocrisy".) Greg came home to chaos and urged me to attend the Relief Society activity at church. I told him I was not feeling social and pointed to the house to prove I had no time to party. And then, due to Pre-Vacation Witch Mode, I warned his life would be in danger if he threw in a personal load of laundry. (History proves the night before we fly anywhere—after I’ve washed, folded, and packed clothes for 14 straight hours and the suitcases are zipped—he starts washing the two items he’s wearing because he wants them for the trip.) I ended up going to church, mostly because my negative blood sugar needed homemade Café Rio but also so I wouldn’t hear Greg starting the washer, which he did after I left.

The ironic theme of the evening was “Bloom Where You’re Planted” and Linda Christensen, resident gardener, confessed how hard it was for her to live here since Suncrest doesn’t have a spring, and we all know that spring is the most beautiful season. Amen, sister. This place stinks. Good thing one can still force bulbs indoors, right? Hold up. Isn’t is a blessing that we can grow no matter what season it is outside? I can force blooming? I can force blooming! Of course! Happiness is always up to me! The very realization induced thawing and I felt a significant reduction in my witchiness.

After dinner there were three breakout sessions. I went with my group to the homemade sushi class, quickly remembered I’d never had sushi, politely escaped, and snuck in late to the landscaping class. I was given a numbered ticket to hold on to for a raffle. I’m not sure what I heard in the class—something about metal edging and that I should have fire and water in my yard because they are primal—but I do remember having a little heart to heart with the Lord inside my head, telling Him I would try harder to be optimistic if He could please just make it hurt less when I drove through American Fork.

Suddenly it was raffle time and ladies were winning sun hats, shovels, deer-proof filler for rock walls, and outdoor thermometers. There was one prize left and it was a forced, potted daffodil. During the brief pause before the ticket number was read I knew

because of the aching,

and the faking,

and the trying,

and the crying,

and my previous gratitude for the world's most glorious flower,

it would be mine. Yes, I won, and the ticket is stuck to my desk so I won't forget it. I won a lithe but sturdy answer to a prayer. I won an exhibit of remembrance; an unlikely "widow of Nain" mountaintop delivery. Do you need a reminder that I'm here and that I love you? I won a yellow silver lining that cued the end of a very long winter.

That night my silver platter was heaped high with Michelle's empathy, Linda's perfect message, an actual daffodil, and a husband who still loved his good witch. 

2 Nephi 31:3 For my soul delighteth in plainness; for after this manner doth the Lord God work among the children of men. For the Lord God giveth light unto the understanding; for he speaketh unto men according to their language, unto their understanding.

Daffodils vs. Jonquils vs. Narcissus