Jordan River Fridays

Before it closed for earthquake-proof renovation and remodeling, Greg went to the Jordan River Utah Temple every Friday on his way home from work. Afterwards he would stop at Schmidt’s Bakery. For so long Friday nights meant Greg coming in the back door with a white shirt, a white smile, and a white box full of 89-cent lemon bars and s’mores squares.

One-hundred and eight long Schmidt's-free weeks have passed but no more. The temple was rededicated five days ago. Greg and I attended the noon dedicatory session; I couldn't write notes fast enough.

Sister Joy D. Jones said the temple is where we find "milk and honey without money and price".

A man told a story about the day his youngest daughter was sealed in the temple while he was in Palermo chained to his assignment of Mission President. He went to a beautiful overlook of the town and bay expecting to feel great sadness at missing such an occasion. Instead, he was filled with joy and peace because he knew what blessings she was receiving.

Bishop Dean Davies said each temple is a symbol of God's love for us. He added, "Temples are not inexpensive but they are essential to God's plan." I thought how obedience isn't cheap either but it's just as necessary. The original Jordan River Temple was built with member donations. Members actually donated 110% of the cost, so the temple was able to be maintained for a bit with the surplus. He told the story of an old woman who had such bad cataracts she couldn't see eight inches in front of her face. She took her life savings, which had been slowly growing in order to pay for cataract surgery, and donated it to the cause. The Bishop who received her offering said, "What was I supposed to do? Reject her sacrifice? No, no. I accepted it and silently wept inside."

I love the temple. I have three favorite temple quotes:

The Church is prose. The temple is poetry. -Bruce C. Hafen

We need the temple more than anything else. -Joseph Smith

The earth temple is in the middle of everything around which all heavenly motions revolve, the knot that ties the earth together. -Hugh Nibley

We all need reminders to avoid deception. Attend the temple more often to avoid deception. -President Jeff Rich

Today is Friday and Greg left for work wearing a white shirt. He's headed to his haven. He considers it "his temple" and likes to tease me by saying "the truly humble go to Jordan River". I tease him back about the GENERAL AUTHORITY ONLY sign drilled above a close parking spot. The truly humble can walk a few extra feet. Ha! A diehard Colorado native, Greg loves himself some blue spruces–especially if it's just rained and they are extra scented–so he always exits via the walkway hedged by old and tall spruce patriarchs.

It is Friday and I am craving square bars that leave buttery shadows on their box.

He [Christ] doeth not anything save it be for the benefit of the world; for he loveth the world, even that he layeth down his own life that he may draw all men unto him. Wherefore, he commandeth none that they shall not partake of his salvation.

Behold, doth he cry unto any, saying: Depart from me? Behold, I say unto you, Nay; but he saith: Come unto me all ye ends of the earth, buy milk and honey, without money and without price.

2 Nephi 26:24–25

Here are the references for my favorite quotes. Could my shorter quotes have longer references? Bibliographies are ugly. Fine print in general is ugly. Still, I don't want to be one of those people with fake quotes, so:

"To Enliven the Soul" by Bruce C. Hafen, Provost, Brigham Young University, Church Music Workshop Keynote, July 31, 1990.

Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith, 416.

No reference for President Rich. I was sitting on the pew when he said it.

Water-resistant

I was amazed that what I needed to survive

could be carried on my back.

And, most surprising of all,

that I could carry it.

-Cheryl Strayed

It always bothered me that my Swatch was not really waterproof. It said it was waterproof but the fine print only promised water-resistant to so many meters blah blah fine print. I wanted security; I got legal jargon.

Life is not waterproof. It rains a lot in life. Rain is messy and I forgot socks and have blisters. But I continually remind myself that life is a test. It is supposed to be hard and I am supposed to succeed. It is a wet test but I am water-resistant. And isn't the gospel a beautiful umbrella?

Painting by Brian Kershisnik. Gratefully used with permission.

Cat's Cradle

Archer loves going to the library and is allowed ten books per trip. There is absolutely no rhyme or reason to how he picks them. He just randomly pulls books from the shelf and when the quota is hit we self-checkout before Everett can throw a hissy fit or Archer stops whispering. We get the heck out and exhaust our wiggles at the library’s park aka death by vertical log steps and slippery inverted log canoe ramp. I am certain a mother did not design that equipment.

Imagine my surprise when I recently read him Cat’s Colors for a bedtime story. It is the greatest randomly-selected bedtime story I have ever read. As a graphic designer I’m a little peeved I didn’t come up with it first.

Cat’s Colors, by Airlie Anderson, is a simple, almost wordless mic drop of a book. Basically this cat walks around a grayscale world and notices something beautiful on every page, something with color. As she pays attention to the beauty around her a small corresponding spot shows up on her coat. (Fur? What do cats have? Can you tell I hate cats and will only ever own a dog?) She notices the reflection in the turquoise pond and gets a turquoise spot. She notices the green leaves on the trees and gets a green spot, etc. At the end of the book this optimistic, glass-half-full cat with rainbow spots walks into her cat home (lair? seriously, I know nothing about cats…) and you realize she’s a mama cat because there are a bunch of gray kittens waiting to nurse. They curl up like a little kitten halo around her. Then it is night and the page is black. In the morning, mama cat leads all her kittens out into the gray world that is waiting for them…and they are rainbow colored!

I cannot get over this book and how perfectly it paints the essence of motherhood.* What moms see, kids become. Anyone can argue the world is gray and dreary but good moms extract opaque, gem-colored pigments from the pall and paint their kids with it.

My mom painted me with nature appreciation, holiday celebration, and love of stationery and stickers. She focused on the good in everyone, was always down for a Sunday drive, and scrubbed tile grout with a toothbrush like no other. She demonstrated through singing that there were multiple ways to harmonize with others; you didn’t have to be two steps down just to get along with someone.

I have colored RE to talk to anyone, to carve out quiet time away from technology, to see the invisible person, to be vulnerable, to hoard office supplies and blank journals, and to eat peanut butter chocolate chip sandwiches when she’s feeling hormonal. Sadly, I tried to pass on world’s-most-anxious-driver but she wouldn’t accept it.

Being a mama cat is the best! Unless it’s a gray day and you can’t see any colors because, say, your 1-year old screamed for so long on Mother’s Day that you couldn’t hold FHE because no one could hear anyone else talk and he only screamed louder if you took the conducting stick that he was bashing on the keyboard out of his pudgy fist. Some days mama cats just say, “Get your kitten booty to bed before I erase your rainbow and make you wish you were a puppy!”

Cheers to all the color-seeking cats who hunt for joy so they can pounce on it, pass it on, and be chased by it.

*motherhood/parenting/teaching/leadership/friendship/insert-your-own-interpretation-here

Photo quote from Alma 56:48, photo illustration by Airlie Anderson taken from this book:

Mapmaker

I finished gluing maps to the ceiling of my library. Thanks to ebay and Nook and Cranny I purchased a mixed lot of used maps for under $25. All the places that mean something to me are now permanent gazing fodder from the window seat. I pasted a 1980s Europe outlining Yugoslavia, where my paternal grandfather's line is tied. The sprawling U.S.S.R. claims missionary Greg's Novosibirsk. Vietnam to honor my dad's service, Wyoming for our cabin and Mother Bear's birth, New Mexico for my parents. Missouri for my deciduous childhood. France for my favorite family trip. Israel for Jesus. Manhattan, Colorado, Utah. The topographic world with its long Andes spine and Sahara bald spot. A giant sailing ship, too. I find maps mesmerizing. The artistry involved, the color coding, the tiny fonts and hairline strokes. Correctly refolding an unfolded map is easy thanks to the notes I folded in junior high.

Gloria Scovil gave me two poems last year. One in an envelope sealed with a red foil heart sticker tucked in the front door on Valentine's Day, and one just before I moved. They are both by Alexander McCall Smith.

Our tiny planet, viewed from afar, is a place of swirling clouds

And dimmish blue, Scotland though lodged in all our hearts

Is invisible at that distance, not much perhaps,

But to us it is our all, our place, the opposite of nowhere;

Nowhere can be seen by looking up

And realizing with shot, that we really are very small;

You would say, yes we are, but never overcompensate,

Be content with small places, the local, the short story

Rather than the saga; take pleasure in private jokes,

In expressions that cannot be translated,

In references that can be understood by only two or three,

But which speak with such eloquence for small places

And the fellowship of those whom you know so well

And whose sayings and moods are as familiar

As the weather; these mean everything,

They mean the world, they mean the world.

This first poem is not about Scotland, it’s about American Fork and Pacific Drive 1st; they were my world. That small place was my all. I drove from American Fork to my new house countless times as we were building. Waiting for the Smith's light to turn green, with the mountain in front of me, I'd often feel a form of melancholy that I didn't know one person ahead of me but I knew almost everyone behind me. I realized how important knowing people is to knowing a place. I realized I hate being a foreigner.

Nine months have passed. Nine months of forging trails and dropping bread crumbs in the name of cartography. Nine months of sharpening my colored pencils and demarcating comfort zones. Now I stall at the red light and smile. Layered in the upland's strata of neighborhoods I spy the rooftops of friends. For all my Lewis and Clarking I've found nuggets in every hollow. This mountain is a gold mine—and I've only scouted the south side. 

Although they are useful sources

Of information we cannot do without,

Regular maps have few surprises: their contour lines

Reveal where the Andes are, and are reasonably clear

On the location of Australia, and the Outer Hebrides;

Such maps abound; more precious, though

Are the unpublished maps we make ourselves,

Of our city, our place, our daily world, our life;

Those maps of our private world

We use every day; here I was happy, in that place

I left my coat behind after a party,

That is where I met my love; I cried there once,

I was heartsore; but felt better round the corner

Once I saw the hills of Fife across the Forth,

Things of that sort, our personal memories,

That make the private tapestry of our lives.

Old maps had personified winds,

Gusty figures from whose bulging cheeks

Trade winds would blow; now we know

That wind is simply a matter of isobars;

Science has made such things mundane,

But love – that at least, remains a mystery,

Why it is, and how it comes about

That love’s transforming breath, that gentle wind,

Should blow its healing way across our lives.

This second poem is here, now, on the edge of a bluff where the wind blows in every direction. Despite knowing good people and even making a few dear friends it still feels very unpublished up here. Have you ever tried to weave a tapestry in the wind? It’s hard. Every day I want to quit exploring and go back to Scotland and every day I want to trailblaze and personalize this mountain. It's a windy tug of war that cuts like a knife and then softly soothes.

I don’t know why I still ache when I leave Costco and pass my old turn to come home. I wasn’t expecting to miss the aromatic punch of lilac and Russian olive that wafted through every screen of my old house. I miss the sound of basketballs bouncing on the street. These peripheral memories are time stamps marking a period of my life the same way sunroofs, thunderstorms, and drumsticks remind me of being a kid. My dad carved a whole fryer every other Sunday for chicken and rice; I always got the drumstick but Dad dubbed it the “drumbone.” I can still see him standing in front of the kitchen sink carving methodically while I ate my cereal at the breakfast table.

I’m not entirely sure who I can trust, who I can walk through spider webs with to the cemetery at night when I need to vent, but there is no shortage of candidates. I’m starting to honk and wave at recognized cars, bump into people at Smith’s, and chat at the community mailbox aka the water cooler. It feels like a major victory to have inside jokes and no filter with my 5:30 a.m. walking partner. I won the neighbor lottery; I sleep soundly knowing what goodness resides across our shared mulch bed. I have high hopes someone will walk into my house without knocking in the years ahead.

I am trying to have faith in what can be even though it’s so easy to love what was. Leigh Hunt said, "There are two worlds; the world that we measure with line and rule, and the world that we feel with our hearts and imagination." I suspect I will always live in both worlds no matter where I live.