Marley & Me

I grew up watching the George C. Scott version of A Christmas Carol, henceforth, this image of Marley was branded on my young brain (and still kinda scares me to this day). If this is too much, please focus on Goofy as Marley.

Marley with his ironclad padlocks; his cumbersome ball and chains.

I also grew up listening to a select handful of vinyl records. We had the Rocky soundtrack, Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, The Carpenters, Sesame Street Fever, Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet, and a few Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas albums. “O Holy Night” has long been my favorite Christmas song. At varying stages of my life, different lines have jumped out and meant more to me, but this is the line of late:

Chains shall he break

for the slave is our brother,

and in His name all oppression shall cease.

Though it is a Christmas song, this is an Easter line.

I just finished reading the Book of Mormon again. How I love that book; it’s like a weighted blanket for my nerves. Something that stuck out to me this time was all the ways people are in bondage, no doubt from the year on a short leash we’ve all endured. Beyond the usual shackles—bad habits or addiction, consequences from sin or poor choices, false ideals, and tyranny—so many of us are in bondage to sorrow. 

If there was ever a couple that could have been wrapped “Marley-style” in chains of sorrow, it was my parents.

Just over 49 years ago, early in the morning on December 14, 1971, my parents lost their first pregnancy: identical twin boys stillborn at 6 months. Times were different then—and I can’t even fathom this—but my mom never saw her babies. My dad walked to the lab and asked if he could see them. He was met with resistance for doing so (he wasn’t even allowed in the delivery room) but was eventually granted his wish. In the words of my dad, “They were perfectly formed, small, and had hair.” The hospital sent my parents home that evening “so mom wouldn’t hear the cries of new babies all night”. To add insult to injury, my dad was in the midst of finals. Immutable, ridiculous college finals.

It seems nonsensical, if not impossible, that Dad had to leave Mom to fill in the blanks with what must have been a very tired head and even more worn-out heart. Why is it the demands of life are occasionally ludicrous with their timing? I asked him how he did it. Typical of my dad, who has never been one to rue the past, he simply shrugged and said life has a way of plowing on, and you don’t really have a choice about it.

My mom’s aunt came to the rescue while dad wrapped up his semester. She bound mom’s chest and put her in warm showers when her milk came in. Mom curled up on the sofa with the white mutt, Snickers, and together they stared at the Charlie Brown Christmas tree the rest of December.

The reason I love this story is not because my parents were overwrought with sorrow; it is because they escaped the bondage of it.

Before being discharged from the hospital—baby-less and bleeding—they prayed together in their tiny room. Hugging each other, they cried their eyes and hearts out to God, and He sent the swift dove of peace. Later that night, back in their apartment, they prayed again and through a fleeting, sacred glimpse of the future, felt a repeat of peaceful assurance. It was all they needed. Sad, but not undone, they escaped grief’s suffocation and moved forward.

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. (Phillipians 4:7) I have a note that “keep” means “guard”.

It’s natural to want understanding—to why bad things happen, to long-asked questions, to tangles and speed bumps and instructions that don’t make sense—and God does give answers, but when He doesn’t, His peace surpasses having the answers understanding. Peace in Christ trumps everything else. I will always choose peace over understanding. I can't function without peace. I can function just fine without understanding.

I have never experienced a trial like what my parents went through. Still, there is equality in the testing*, and you don't know me—you don't wear my chains**. I know what it feels like to sit, stunned, as life unfolds in real time, sparks flying as heaviness is welded to my limbs. Is this really happening? What am I to do?

I do what I’ve always done. I turn to God.

Choosing to have faith in Christ hasn’t made me magically oblivious to the hardships of life; it has given me a perspective that can bear them. Relying on Christ has never blinded me from reality; it has helped me see through every tunnel to all the lighted ends. Befriending my Savior hasn’t made my life chain-free; but because of Him I can testify that chains He does break.

Images of Frank Finlay and Goofy from the internet. Chain image purchased from istockphoto.com.

My mom bled for three more months, ended up having a D&C after a new lobe was discovered, and didn’t conceive again for over two years. This is a classic photo of my mom finally pregnant with Suzette. Why I inherited my dad's bad knees but not his hamstrings or calves will forever irk me. Happily, my parents ended up with five healthy babies, and continued to own little dogs perfect for cuddling next to Christmas trees with for the next 46 years. RIP Snickers, Jingles, Dustmop, and Scampers! 

*  "Some are tested by poor health, some by a body that is deformed or homely. Others are tested by handsome and healthy bodies; some by the passion of youth; others by the erosions of age. Some suffer disappointment in marriage, family problems; others live in poverty and obscurity. Some (perhaps this is the hardest test) find ease and luxury. All are part of the test, and there is more equality in this testing than sometimes we suspect." -Elder Boyd K. Packer, "The Choice", 1980.

** lyric from "Boston" by Augustana

Oh My Goodness

Oz has reached the end of the journey and saved the day. Glinda the Good Witch says to him,

“For the record, I knew you had it in you all along.”

Oz replies, “Greatness?”

Glinda: “No. Better than that. Goodness.”

I have so many thoughts about goodness versus greatness. Many of them stem from a quote I read over five years ago. I’m pretty sure it stuck out to me since I had just started Motherhood 2.0 with newborn Archer while I was paying for teenaged piano lessons that reaped more friction than education:

“What if we took all the money and time we put into tutors and coaches and private lessons, and invested instead in making our children holy? Not well-known and praised and celebrated for what they do, but humble and meek and truly holy in who they are?”

My sole ambition as a mother is to raise good kids. Greatness has a slight aftertaste of pride, but goodness, aw shucks, goodness is organic and fills them up right. I will die happy if my kids amount to average nobodies who are the somebodies that do generous and decent things for their fellow man on the down low. Because I'm focused on character over accolades, I notice goodness in others quickly and easily.

My daughter has a knack for looking cashiers in the eye and thanking them with their first name every time they hand her a receipt. She wrote a note to every person she mailed a graduation announcement to, thanking them for their influence in her life. She wants an old, white brick bungalow for her first home someday; a fixer upper. I love that she is sweet, rather than grand.* She craves natural light over glitz and prominence.

Greg makes our bed every morning while he’s on his 9:30 conference call. He also folds my clothes I’ve tossed on the floor and stacks them neatly on my nightstand. Recently, he prayed to be able to help someone in need as he left for work. He had $60 in his wallet from recycling the cords of dead vacuums. In between errands, he passed a homeless person who needed $60 to get a hotel for the night. He gave them his cord money (which we usually splurge on Taqueria27 with) without reservation. He also makes me an egg sandwich or nachos at 11 pm if I ask him to—you know, second wind fuel. 

But wait, there’s more!

I bought a wooden rocking horse at goodwill when Archer was a baby. As I painted it white, I got to a spot underneath revealing a metallic label complete with name and phone number. With a bit of hesitance, I called and had a conversation with a very nice man—in another state—who made the horse decades ago. He and his wife never had children, but spent many years making rocking horses for kids they considered godchildren. So good! How one of his horses rocked to Utah no one knows, but he was pleased as punch as I gushed about the great lines of his design and his superior joining skills. I sent him a picture of 15 month-old Archer striding his steed for *good* measure. 

Melanie is an early riser—we’re talking dressed in non-leggings WITH eye make-up by 7:30—and therefore carves enough time out of her day to deliver bath bombs when I need to “soak away the yuck” or a parchment-wrapped loaf “because some days you just need warm bread”. She also has openings for my 45 minute rants. I don’t know how she does it, but her goodness is always timely.

A local legend, George Durrant, once admitted he kept presents in his car trunk in case someone he bumped into throughout his day needed a boost. This is one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard and something I’m going to copy. Distant, preoccupied waitress? Present! Frazzled mom nursing at the park while her toddler disappears? Present! Steaming car with the hood popped in the parking lot? Present!

Allow me a final demonstration.

My brother-in-law, David, has spent his professional life as an engineer for HP. Henceforth, he is a problem-solving genius. He can troubleshoot a printer via text, tune a piano with his perfect pitch, and complete crossword puzzles with equal ease. He’s also wicked good at jump roping and bargain shopping. (Knees and budget of steel, I tell you!) The only other dark chocolate lover in the family, I bring him mousse every Fourth of July and he hooks this sister up with exotic 70-90% bars from his overseas travels. David also has a knack for searching out things that are hard to find. His patience has led to two of the most meaningful interactions in my lifetime. In 1997, he obtained the used book Greg would later give me for my bride’s gift on Amazon (then a fledgling bookseller). There is no book I checked out more times from the Shepard Elementary library, and while Greg got the credit for the best gift ever (complete with color dust jacket), David did the behind-the-scenes work. David also found my long-lost childhood mentor, Cindy Long, after she slipped through the cracks in 1999. I hunted her unsuccessfully for twenty years, but David worked his magic after an inspired prompt and found her last May. Would you believe she lives four minutes from my home? I can’t describe how good it felt to finally hug her, thank her in person, and then add her as a contact in my phone. Who takes impossible items from another's to-do list and accomplishes them on his own time? A good man.

Goodness gracious, my life is great because of others!

I watched Return to Oz a lot growing up—we recorded it off the Disney Channel onto a Betamax tape. That movie hit my scary threshold (meaning Watcher in the Woods nearly killed me). The photo I took of the emerald and diamonds reminded me of the scene at the end of that movie, when Dorothy is in the Nome King’s mountain and has to guess which green ornament will turn into Scarecrow. And, as a May birthday, every bit of jewelry I ever bought from Claire’s was my emerald birthstone. Long live the emerald!

Opening dialogue from the movie Oz the Great and Powerful

*Line from Joanne Ramos' essay "Putting Down Roots": "But the house resonated with me. I liked that it was sweet, rather than grand." The moment I read this line, I thought of my RE.

Quote about holy children seen on memoriesoncloverlane.com on Thursday, November 5, 2015.

Jar of Hearts

Things Shaylene Sorensen Carter taught me:

1. How to make homemade marshmallows
2. To listen for the first bird of spring
3. The adage "NEVER RETURN AN EMPTY JAR"

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who understand #3, and those who don’t own a pressure cooker. I was clueless until I became a home canner.

Melissa pre-2002: Oh, thanks for this jar of peaches. (Puts on shelf in pantry.) Canned peaches are kind of slimy compared to fresh peaches. Meh. Maybe I’ll remember to use these sometime for a random smoothie in winter. (Uses peaches years later without a care, washes jar, puts in crawl space, it becomes a crypt for spiders.)

Melissa today: A jar of peaches? (Revived with smelling salts.) What the what? How did you get these? I stood in line an hour before Burgess Orchard opened the Friday before Labor Day to buy the “Limit 1 box per person” Elbertas that yielded 12 precious quarts. (Utah had a late freeze in June and therefore a 15% peach crop. Thieves even snuck on to orchards and stole peaches all season!) A jar of peaches? A JAR OF PEACHES! What can I give you in return? My 401K? My firstborn?

What’s the big deal about getting a jar of homemade something from someone? Let me illuminate for all the young Melissas out there:

1. THE JAR IS PART OF THE GIFT. Jars are not free and every jar requires a sealing lid and ring. Sealing lids are scarcer than unicorns this year and if I had not stockpiled them before Covid-19 hit I would be crying tears into my empty jars while my piles of fresh fruit rotted. (The scarcity of 2020 caused canners to create their own monetary system; I traded a box of pectin for a scoop of pickling salt and head of dried dill this fall. Garlic pickles > another batch of jam.)
2. THE FRUIT IS PART OF THE GIFT, both from the purchaser and the grower. Fruit is not free, in fact, the fresh, local stuff costs more because it’s picked at its peak. Just like this year’s peaches, fruit can be hard to come by. Tagge Farms, the CSA that delivered the sweetest, juiciest blackberries I’ve ever had, said Farmer Thayne slept at the end of the irrigation rows to make sure the berries were getting the water they needed. Thayne is a grandpa; I can’t look at my clamshell of blackberries without imagining a very tired farmer bedding down in the dirt on his bony hips to ensure a bumper crop.
3. THE LABOR IS PART OF THE GIFT. Labor is free, but it shouldn’t be. Do you know what you can’t see inside of a jar of applesauce? The blood, sweat, tears, arthritis (YOU crank two bushels of apples through the food mill!), tower of giant bowls teetering in the sink, burnt puddles on the stovetop, and the sticky, splattery, pulpy radius extending six feet from the kitchen control center. A simple jar of applesauce equals at least two hours of dishes, mopping, range scrubbing, and dog bathing (if your dog, like mine, likes to curl up under the food mill to lick the sticky leaks from the handle).
4. THE TIME IS PART OF THE GIFT. Time is free, but it is worth more than everything else combined! You don’t want to know how long it takes to make a jar of simmered-all-day spaghetti sauce from a bucket of fat Romas, or how long it takes to pit, blend, and strain plums for Frenchie’s “Glum” (grape-plum jam—completely divine). Whatever is in that jar warranted sharing, and was prepared and transformed by a busy someone in a dirty apron with plenty of other things to do.

The jar is, indeed, part of the gift—and there is no Vanderbilt etiquette stating jars should be given back—but it happens to be the only part of the original gesture one can give back. So while returning the empty jar is considerate, returning the jar with a little love inside—as a receipt of gratitude—is eminent.

Obviously, “jars” aren't all jars. For example, when Michelle gives me a circular, orange Tupperware full of cheese ball every January, I return it with a pack of gum or bag of chocolates inside to acknowledge the effort she put into making Greg happy. (And to thank her for saving me since I will never whip up cheese ball in mortality. Jar cheese weirds me out, but it’s a New Year’s necessity for Greg.)  

One year ago, God gave us a full jar labeled “2020”, and many are tossing that nearly empty jar from a high window watching it shatter with delight. Far be it for me to tell anyone else how to feel, but I just can’t summarize 2020 as a dumpster fire or the worst year ever. I also don’t want to return my empty jar to Him with an eyerolled prayer of lip service worded something like, “I’m thankful this year is finally over.” Certainly, there have been bummers, heartaches, deaths, tragedies, and losses, but what year doesn’t? Opposition has always been part of the plan, yet didn’t the Savior pre-pay for all of the suffering it causes in advance?

I want to give Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ their jar back full of hearts. I’ve tried to notice the fruit, labor, and time They put into my 2020, because “every good and perfect gift comes from above” (James 1:17).* I can't overlook how They slept at the end of my blackberry rows.

Personally, I enjoyed being forced to slow down enough to notice—and use—all that I have been given. Nature, friends, simplicity, and technology did not disappoint in 2020.

Elder Dale Renlund said, “Every time we use, benefit from, or even think of these gifts, we ought to consider the sacrifice, generosity and compassion of the givers. Reverence for the givers does more than just make us grateful. Reflecting on Their gifts can and should transform us. I invite you to remember each day the greatness of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and what They have done for you. Let your consideration of Their goodness more firmly bind your wandering heart to Them.”

Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ don’t want empty jars returned for Their benefit—They want them returned for ours. So tonight, after Greg deep-fries hot wings for himself (I’m more afraid of those than cheese ball) and fresh chips for my guacamole, and the boys eat frosted cupcakes we baked in jars, we'll bang pans and clink a toast of sparkling cider. Then I will tuck in my blondies, step on confetti as I shut down the house, and let my final act of 2020 be a quiet prayer of thanks.

These jars are from a postcard given out by a chalk paint company advertising their full spectrum of colors. I love the names. I'm gaga for French blue and absinthe, although further research taught "absinthe" is synonomous with "wormwood" and also poisonous. The Screwtape Letters suddenly makes sense...

Elder Renlund's full address here

*Some of my hearts:

• The biggie: Greg is alive and well and suffered no lasting damage from his stroke
• The other biggie: my back healed on its own after surgery being cancelled 8 hours prior
• Everett potty-trained the weekend of the stroke, making one very thick silver lining to the most-insane weekend we’ve ever lived (stroke on Friday the 13th, BYU shut down Saturday, back surgery cancelled Sunday, RE moved back home Monday night) 
• Archer learned to read, and his whole world opened up
• RE left for her mission and is growing into an even more beautiful person, if that’s possible
• No one in either of our immediate families—and that’s 52 parents, siblings, spouses, and nieces/nephews—caught the virus or lost their job this year
• NOT going places has eliminated a lot of stress (I haven't been late to anything!)
• We have slept in soooooooo much
• We swam in our neighborhood pool four times, and boy did we treasure every slot we won
• The boys can legit play and score Yahtzee
• The Mandalorian
• Bike trails
• Our library is still checking books out
• I haven’t gone without the sacrament
• There is plenty of food to buy, and if not, I can make nearly anything from scratch
• I cleaned the temple for two hours in December—after a nine-month absence—and soaked in every minute of serenity
• I purchased new sofas, a chair, and a bed this year; so what if they took an extra 12 weeks 
• Utah had its prettiest fall in years, and I did not waste one day of it
• Our sweet neighbors let my boys trespass to their swing set and trampoline daily; the boys don’t think anything is missing from life
• My stash of hotel soaps has left the building (this has been a multi-year effort for me and I cannot emphasize the elation)
• I got a haircut
• Prime is still averaging 2-day delivery, which is incredible outside of a pandemic and doubly-incredible within one
• I could entertain myself for many more pandemics in my home; inside it I have the means to grow, freelance, exercise, write, sew, school, paint rocks with my boys, make cards, cook, play piano, read, be entertained, worship, soak in the tub, and wander on walks indefinitely
• I've learned time is not my issue for several chores I never accomplish as I've had 9 months to clear my office desk. It's just always going to be heaps of scraps. 

Last, but certainly not least, my favorite kitchen towel. Designed by Primitives by Kathy. Gifted by Michelle, who knows what makes me tick.

Eyewitness

Last Christmas, I created a miniature, mixed-media piece of Gdańsk, Poland, for a former resident who missed the swans that swam in the Baltic Sea. (Coincidentally, my brother also lived in Poland and said that Gdańsk was the prettiest city in the country—and he remembered the swans, too.) The night I finished it I was not only enamored with Old Town's jovial, waterfront skyline but found myself thanking the Lord for color in my bedtime prayer.

I'm serious about loving color. As a designer, I probably think about color more than most people do, and can therefore be offended about color in ways most people can't. For instance, if you google "What is the ugliest color?" this comes up:

Pantone 448 C, also referred to as "the ugliest color in the world", is a color in the Pantone color system. Described as a "drab dark brown", it was selected in 2012 as the color for plain tobacco and cigarette packaging in Australia, after market researchers determined that it was the least attractive color.

Pantone 448 C is one of my favorite colors to wear (it's so rich, and the green tones really enhance my hazel eyes), so I prematurely crossed VISIT AUSTRALIA off my bucket list for obvious reasons.

Anyhoo, not one week after delivering the Gdańsk piece, my friend Keith and I were conversing about wildflowers and he mentioned color was one of the reasons he believed in God. I knew exactly what he meant.

Start with the million variations of light in the sky, from world-on-fire sunrises to cotton candy sunsets. The heavens are majestic—no two ways about it. (Let's be honest, I mostly see sunrises the few mornings after DST when my body is tricked into being a morning person, or if I forget to lower the shades and henceforth wake from a morning beam lasering through my eyelid.) I never take pictures of skies because my eyes beat an iPhone 6. When I compare what I'm seeing in the living, breathing moment to the capture on the screen, I am doubly thankful for the gift of vision.

 

What are the odds that every blade, leaf, and petal on the mountain have their vibrance sucked dry by autumn’s dementors and all that remains is a wheat tortilla landscape the exact color of deer fur? Leopards in savannah grass, mountain hares in snow, moths on tree bark, copperhead snakes in piles of leaves—there’s just no way a big bang generated that kind of intentional design. I’m certain the Creator arranged camouflage.

I love the Ansel Adams aftermath of winter storms, when my eyes truly can’t tell if they are seeing in black and white or color. (The only giveaway is the slightest hint of blue in the air.) A monochromatic world is especially still; I tiptoe through its divine freeze-frame.

How about that Chagall quote? Truth is truth, and there is truth spinning through the color wheel, aka The Non-Accidental Guide to Human Relationships.

Pretend you are the color Red. (I'm capitalizing colors now since they represent people. Okay?)

Red’s complement, or opposite on the wheel, is Green. They have nothing in common, yet Red and Green boldly highlight each other’s virtues and make each other complete. Think Christmas amaryllis, ripe tomatoes on the vine, and long-stemmed roses—but also think of that person you snap judged with strong dislike that became one of your BFFs. Every yin needs a yang, and every Red needs a Green.

Red’s analogous tribe includes next-door residents Red-orange and Red-violet. Analogous color schemes include three consecutive colors on the wheel and occur most often in nature—they are harmonious, serene, and comforting. The world is scary enough; build a padded cocoon of serenity around yourself with neighbors you can share your keypad code, yummy leftovers, and summer nights with. 

Red’s triadic buddies are Yellow and Blue. Equidistant from each other on the wheel, this troupe is a noisy bunch who proves balance can be struck within competitive diversity—even when someone is dominating the group. Does anyone have a family that feels…triadic? Take heart—there really is room for everyone in social decorating.

You don’t have to take a semester of color theory to see that God is trying to teach us something about human harmony through color harmonies. If Red can absolutely, positively pair with anybody on the color wheel (and look smashing while doing it), every other color can, too!

We were all made for each other.

I was indifferent to Chagall until I saw the ceiling of the Opera Garnier. Those reds made me audibly gasp and the whole fresco sold me on choosing a triadic primary color scheme for The Chateau. I love me some red, yellow, and blue.

 

I'm also sad annually when Greg and my boys refuse to indulge my Halloween fantasy of letting us be CMYK for a family costume. I know only designers would get it, and as the designer I'd have to be K, but I'm not giving up. I gave up on being the Berenstain Bears, though. Another story.

One last color tidbit:

Crayola has been around since 1903. 1903!!! Now, I'm a coupon clipper and a budgeter but there are a few items I cannot go generic on and Crayola crayons is one of them (the others being Skippy peanut butter and Honey Maid graham crackers). Crayola crayons are the scent of my childhood happiness and I love them in any quantity, from pocket-sized 8-count to giant box of 120. Some people want to name a star, but the wish of my heart is to name a Crayola crayon. Crayola has the best names and I want to be in the Crayola League, if not the Hall of Fame. Some of my personal favorite crayon names are "Manatee", "Macaroni and Cheese", "Inchworm", and "Purple Mountain's Majesty" (for Greg, who never shirks from telling people "America the Beautiful" was written atop Pikes Peak, the mountain he grew up next to). Three years ago, Crayola retired their yellow "Dandelion" crayon and filled its vacancy with "Bluetiful", which won the "Name the New Blue Crayon" contest. I don't know when Crayola's next contest is but I'm chomping at the bit to contribute. This is how I can leave my mark in history. 

Quench

I miss the American Fork Fitness Center, or AFFC if you’re in the know. It was the office water cooler my little city’s locals all hung around. With its used equipment and wet boy scouts running shoeless around the track—especially the corner molehills on the outer lane—it was the antithesis of Gold’s Gym, but never were there friendlier patrons. I can still hear the echoed duet of slamming racquetballs + squeaky sneakers and smell the chlorine tear gas that hit once the revolving door opened into “The Bubble”.

I spent my prime years there sculling with the water aerobics clan (referred to by rude lifeguards as “The Manatees”), pumping iron with Michelle (aka lowering whatever she was lifting by 10 or 30 pounds), and cooling down in the heartbeat muraled stretching room (every ceiling should be an exposed turquoise ceiling). On perfect summer nights, I would stall my return home with a quick walk through the cemetery to the obelisk and back. I do chuckle that the fitness center was next to the cemetery. As in, “Take care of yourself or go next door.”  

During its last renovation, the AFFC’s entrance water fountain was upgraded to a water fountain slash sensor-activated bottle filler—you know, the kind they have in fancy airports. This really jazzed up the existing hallway and rivaled the healthy-recipe-of-the-month bulletin board as far as pure entertainment went.

Due to the novelty of the new attraction, I usually topped off my water bottle before each workout whether I was headed down to the musty weight room, around the bend to the cardio corral, or outside to float on a pool noodle. Still, there were times I passed the fountain without a thought—in a hurry to get to a class or distracted with the Velcro on my lifting gloves—and only remembered it when cotton mouth or dizziness hit. (Can I pause here and say how legit I felt when I got weight-lifting gloves? This was right after I started shaving all my arm hair so my triceps could really shine, which was a direct result of the Spin room's amped-up playlist. Honestly, the gym can be a hazard for weirdness.)

As I was saying...

One such evening, during my routine vertigo on the Jacob’s Ladder torture device—my eyes were closed so I could pretend I was summiting Everest—I had the thought, “Dehydration doesn’t prove water doesn’t exist; it only proves I didn’t drink enough.”

This got a ball rolling in my brain and I started to really think about belief, agency, and the excuses we make, and would you believe I found answers in that revolutionary fountain?

This image reminds me of Heavenly Father’s constant and unchanging love for all His children. It has been said God’s love is like an everlasting bonfire—it never changes and always gives off the same heat—but the variable that determines how warm you feel is your proximity to the fire. When you are close to God, you feel his love. When you are far from Him, you feel little. The same thing goes for the water fountain. God's love could also be compared to an endless and eternally filtered water supply. Cold, invigorating, and life-sustaining. Anyone may drink from it! Still, God will never force anyone to partake of His love, or his plan, or his truth. You can choose to skip it and work out your own way, but you won't feel as good as you could.

This image reminds me the Lord is aware of my needs. Sometimes I need a little. Sometimes I need a lot. Regardless, he will provide. The fountain will fill any container in any condition as long as there is an opening. Open bottles succeed. Similarly, open hearts can be filled, but hard hearts have lids—so if you claim to be thirsty, make sure you are serious about receiving.

I was taught to harness the power of morning prayer. In my morning prayers, I tell the Lord my plans for the day, the things I hope to accomplish, and what I need to get done. Then I ask for His help—if it is His will those things should happen—and leave a little spot vacant for a change of plans. I ask to know who I should help and how. It is amazing how the Lord helps me conquer my lists. It is also amazing how He helps me forget my lists when a greater need arises. I’ve probably asked for him to strengthen my back or body or mind ten thousand times. I ask for very specific help, like knowing how to support my individual children, selling RE's car on KSL, coming up with a creative Christmas card, or finding a plumber. To me, praying is like positioning my bottle right under the spout and knowing someway, somehow, the exact amount of help I need will come.

As a child, I loved the adage, "If you're too busy to pray, and too busy to listen, you're too busy." My revision: "If you're too busy to fill up, and too busy to drink, you're too busy." Prayer is like proper bottle placement, but scripture study is where I get most of my water. (And the temples are like super-strength vitamin water charged with electrolytes! Please reopen soon!) 

This image is Omniscient Overflow. 

In 2005, Greg and I were promised “through our faithfulness and our generous tithes and offerings” we would be blessed. Aware of the famous and oft-quoted scripture in Malachi, I began to await the downpour and overflow of blessings through heaven’s windows—first and foremost in the form of babies. We know how that turned out. Still, life was beyond good. We had a house of order, good health, fat harvests, and a unique and fulfilling relationship with our only daughter. In 2013, scarcely weeks pregnant with Archer, Elder David A. Bednar spoke in General Conference and mentioned gratitude and contentment were some of the “subtle but significant” blessings of paying tithing.

In that moment, I knew being satisfied all those years—despite no second baby—was a blessing bestowed on us because of our consistency and love of paying tithing. Eight years later a promise made sense; we’d been watching the sky for flying babies as the remarkable gift of “good enough for now” unknowingly fell upon us. (I’m not saying I was Perky Penny for nine years—of course I had a good cry or a low spell now and again—but overall we had a very happy decade.)

Elder Bednar also expounded on what else windows can do. I had always looked at heaven’s windows as a trap door of sorts, the opening He could drop all my temporal deliveries through. Yet Elder Bednar taught, “Windows allow natural light to enter into a building. In like manner, spiritual illumination and perspective are poured out through the windows of heaven and into our lives as we honor the law of tithing.” I instantly understood this as well. When the going got tough and our fertility procedures failed, I patiently stood still in faith and learned more spiritually in the two years that followed than I did in the preceding entirety of my life. The famine taught me how to feast, and it was an all-you-can-eat buffet of gleams, beams, and streams of blazing light—the kind of light you can live on.

One correction: I know I just said the water fountain's sensor was accurate to my every need, but then I remembered all of the times the water kept gushing and wouldn't stop, spilling over the top of my bottle. It reminds me that despite the Lord knowing my needs and wants He often (always?) gives me more than I deserve. Maybe the sensor is for proximity, not capacity, because isn’t this how a merciful God often operates? Heavenly Father hasn’t ever seemed to care if I was mostly full or bone dry; all I know is as I’ve remained close to Him I’ve been drenched with succor to the very definition of “no room to receive it”.

Photo #1 scripture: Doctrine & Covenants 88:63

Photo #2 quote from the hymn "How Firm a Foundation", text attributed to Robert Keen circa 1787

Photo #3 scripture: Malachi 3:10

Direct quote: “A subtle but significant blessing we receive is the spiritual gift of gratitude that enables our appreciation for what we have to constrain desires for what we want. A grateful person is rich in contentment.” Original address here.

My all-time, hands-down, favorite recipe from the AFFC bulletin board. I made it today since we got fresh cider in our produce subscription box. It's basically autumn in a bowl. Please enjoy and use cherries instead of craisins!

General Conference quote heard years later that made me think of the water fountain: "I do not think God is insulted when we forget Him. Rather, I think He is deeply disappointed. He knows that we have deprived ourselves of the opportunity to draw closer to Him by remembering Him and His goodness." (Elder Dale Renlund, "Consider the Goodness and Greatness of God," April 2020 General Conference)