Blueprint

Brace yourself. I'm going straight to C.S. Lewis.

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace."

My life until I was 25: Everything I had ever wanted happened on time as planned. Perfect grades, valedictorian, scholarship to BYU, married my junior year, graduated from the program I loved, bought a house, went off the pill, had a baby a year later. I literally checked everything off my Life Checklist in order and without consequence. I refer to that phase of my life as COTTAGE.

My life since I turned 25: Not what I had planned. In fact, I haven't checked anything off my Life Checklist since I turned 25. What I was hoping for was more children, our next home that would have a library and a dining room table as big as the one Belle and Beast eat on, a trip to Europe and those crazy "soccer mom" years. Instead I got a decline in my once-perfect, previously-unappreciated health, a decade of infertility, owning specialty retail stores during a recession, legal woes and an ongoing internal struggle to find the joy in these journeys. I refer to this phase of life as PALACE.

It can be tempting to sink into despondency. To cry to the heavens, "What did I do to deserve this?" Or worse, to question if God even loves me.

I once heard that every stone in the Salt Lake Temple was numbered. Not a fan of faith-promoting rumors, I read up until I unearthed the documentation to prove that statement. Every stone was indeed numbered, the majority counted by Truman O. Angell, Sr., architect of the now-famous monument that took the Mormon pioneers forty years to build. Each slab was quarried in Little Cottonwood Canyon, pulled by oxen/railroad 18 miles to Temple Square and then shaped by men with imperfect, yet patient, hands. Too much labor to be done incorrectly, hence the need for detailed instructions.

I realized after my study that the architect took great pains to ensure the minimum labor necessary to build such a glorious temple. He only asked the saints to find and cut and place stones essential to the structure. No one was asked to haul heavy bonus rocks and cut them to the wrong dimensions for fun. Every task aimed at glory, not waste. The effort resulted in a perfect fit.

God loves us perfectly and would not require us to experience a moment more of difficulty than is absolutely needed for our personal benefit or for that of those we love.

I take great comfort in the metaphors of remodeling cottages and numbered stones as well as the words of a modern-day apostle. If the God of the universe knows when a sparrow falls, He also knows exactly what his children stand in need of. I love that quote, that we are not given even one extra moment of difficulty that isn't imperative to our progression. No extra stones. (Of course, we also suffer the consequences of our own bad judgement and poor choices, but we bring those upon ourselves.)

I have the utmost faith that life's PALACE PHASES are not meted out by an austere, schoolmaster God that hovers in the wings waiting to punish us, but that they are tests tailored for us as individuals by a loving Father in Heaven that, like any father, spares his children every pain possible while still allowing us to mature as needed. Life's hardships are not senseless, random acts. They are calculated refiner's fires, or numbered stones, bestowed with love. The architect of my spirit, that same Heavenly Father, has rendered a life for me that will surpass the tiny cottage and checklist I designed for myself.

It does not matter that I can't see the blueprint. I trust the architect.

*Quote by Elder Richard G. Scott. Illustration of Salt Lake Temple tower with numbered stones by Truman O. Angell, Jr., November 1887, taken from Salt Lake Temple: A Monument To the People, p. 77.

Lagniappe

  

Sometimes I can't sleep at night.

Months ago I found myself face to face with my monitor at 3 a.m. as I perused seejanework.com. Office supplies have cheered me up since 3rd grade, when I convinced my mother that circular reinforcement stickers were indeed on the supply list. At 3:18 a.m. my finger nearly pushed the mouse to select CHECKOUT and at 3:19 a.m. I had to step back and assess my mental capacity at such an hour. In my cart was a mustard yellow leather dictionary on clearance for only $120. You can see right here that the normal fashion dictionaries are $180. Oh, and they sell patent leather dictionaries, too. Could you die? I emptied my cart and went back to bed, where I probably dreamt about a cheap paperback thesaurus.

I've wanted the Oxford English Dictionary ever since I read The Professor and the Madman, a book that tells how the dictionary was written. The only hiccup is that it's 20 volumes and $1200. (You can see why the mustard yellow clearance version was so tempting.) I love books, especially beautiful hardbound books. Greg does not love books. He thinks they're a waste of trees and space and time. It's okay. We've managed to stay happily married these 15 years despite opposite tastes in everything from music to desserts.

To overcome our differences we date in the middle of the week while the Alpine School District is our free babysitter. On a recent date I had to drop a bag of stuff off at D.I. and inquired if we might pop in to look for pieces of board games for our wall. While I was silently cursing the lowlifes that donate incomplete games to charity Greg found How to Win Friends and Influence People for $1 and decided to buy it. Most likely the exact book I donated a year ago because I didn't realize Greg read books. We were en route to check out when I spotted my mammoth-sized navy blue dream come true. Webster's Unabridged Second Edition 1979 dictionary. Four and a half inches tall, heavier than our dog, no smell of mold or smoke.

Greg: You don't need that. Dictionaries are dumb.

Me: If you read them you'd have a better word than "dumb" to throw at me. I'm getting it.

Greg: Such a waste. Everyone uses the internet.

Me: The internet is not a dictionary.

Greg: Yes it is, even RE looks her words up on it.

Me: I am getting this. I find it ironic that you are purchasing a book about winning friends. Maybe you will win my friendship if you stop ripping on this marvel of mankind.

I love my dictionary. It is the coolest dictionary I've ever seen. The endpapers depict a giant Indo-European tree trunk that organizes languages within its branches. You've got your portrait of Noah Webster, the regular A-Z dictionary, and then....drumroll....THE SUPPLEMENTS! Dictionaries of geography, noted names in fiction, mythology, legends, foreign words and phrases, scripture proper names, common abbreviations, practical business mathematics, weights and measures, signs and symbols, U.S. Presidents, the Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, the Charter of the United Nations (okay, I'll never read that), air distance between world cities and an outdated atlas. (Remember the U.S.S.R. and Yugoslavia?)

The previous owner pressed leaves in my dictionary. They are still there. I love the giant oak leaf that is nearly 7" tall and still preserved. Thank you, previous owner, for encouraging my romantic sensibilities. My mind will make up many stories about who put the leaf there and why. Maybe I will think about that the next time I can't sleep instead of surfing the net.

Don't forget the 24 full pages of color illustrations showcasing everything from anatomy and state flags to coelenterates and ruminants. (Look them up, I'm not telling you what they mean.) I have learned so much just from the picture pages. Robin egg blue? Forget about it! You want Great Blue Heron egg blue! There are mute swans? St. Basil's is 16th century? A chinchilla is a white, domestic cat? Microciona, you made a HUGE comeback in the 2010s. Everyone wants to decorate with you.

The irony of the whole situation is that Greg just taught me a new word. Yes, Greg taught me a word. A really good one. Lagniappe. [lan yáp] Noun. It's a sales word, which explains how he found it. Greg is the greatest salesman in the world. Lagniappe: a small gift or present added to a purchase by a tradesman as a favor to customers. I like the secondary definition: an unexpected bonus.

Just when I've resolved to read my unappreciated dictionary in solitude and walk the regal road of literacy alone, Greg drops a lagniappe in my path and reminds me why I need him.

Patchwork

 

What do Lawson Sisters do on a Lawson Sisters' Weekend? I'll tell you.

We squish sisters, babies, suitcases, diaper bags, a cooler of healthy snacks, eight cellphones and two ipods in a Honda Odyssey from Montana and drive to Colorado Springs to Mother Bear's den. We sing to Bon Jovi, Rascal Flatts, Michael Jackson and "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge. We find gluten-free and dairy-free meals at fast food chains and swap drivers to allow for nursing and diapering and napping. We talk while enjoying the beautiful scenery of Glenwood Canyon. We learn that our phones even work in Eisenhower Tunnel, the longest tunnel I've ever driven through.

Once the eight of us are safely under one roof we eat homemade meals that satisfy our dainty cravings and do not hear our husbands complain of chick food. We go through 14 avocados and a flat of strawberries in two days. We eat like queens at the dining table that is set with different dishes for each meal. Mother Bear collects dishes.

We try to not go deaf from Andy's ringtone. We answer our own phones to hear spouses ask about laundry and scheduling and where the lemon juice is at the grocery store. We listen to our children say they miss us and our husbands inform us the stomach flu has hit home. We tell them we love them, hang up, and continue to have fun without guilt.

We nest in the basement, two to a buffet table or one per card table. There are two sewing machines, a serger, a Cricut, no less than 3,000 sheets of scrapbook paper, and enough stickers/embellishments to open our own store. We are outnumbered by punches ten to one. We drink water from our Teeno cups and snack on Herb Salsa and grapes and Moose Munch. We take turns picking cds. We sing along while Mother Bear whistles and the babies coo like doves. We eat nutella and wear pajamas and only shower if we want to.

We swap sister gifts and babies and stories. We laugh a lot. Steph teaches us how to do glitter toes and then Leesh, who is too burned out from her 3 trips to Walmart to actually scrap anything, gives us all pedicures on her hands and knees. We get to rummage through the pile of Tracey Imports and wear new earrings home. There are no curfews. There are no deadlines. We get dolled up to enjoy a lunch out on the town.

We eat half-price Sonic shakes lovingly purchased by Dad, who secretly loves Sisters' Week even though he is banished from the basement. What rooster doesn't love all his chicks back in the coop?

We enjoy four days of zero drama. We all needed this break.

It sounds utopian, no? It has been a long time coming.

I married a man with six sisters that were thick as thieves. Their mother lived to serve them. I had convinced myself that I was just a runt in-law piglet that had no chance of squeezing my way in for tasty milk. I tortured myself on and off over the years making up excuses why I'll "never be one of them." I don't listen to country music. I do my eyeliner differently. I hate American cheese. I don't talk on the phone enough. I refuse to shop the day after Thanksgiving. Well, they don't care. It doesn't matter that I'm different. Renee's letter sealed the deal. This weekend I finally realized that I can be a Lawson even though I am cut from Durkovich cloth. My cloth is a beloved square in the Lawson Patchwork Quilt. My differences are not only tolerated, they are embraced.

I never noticed how much stitching has taken place in Our Quilt over the last fifteen years. Careful, thoughtful, steady stitching. Lots of stitching that was no doubt a labor of love. Age and experience have taught me that we are unified although we are not the same. One yearns for a baby. One yearns for a house. One yearns for a husband. Different yearning, but yearning nonetheless. One will have her oldest leave home next year. One hasn't begun having children. Different stages, but similarly facing their personal unknowns. Our quilt of sisterhood will continue to bind us together through life's many care cycles. We will enjoy delicate handwashing, we will wince at rough machine washing, and we will grit our teeth and endure tumbling dry on high heat. Whatever life throws at us, we will take it together.

And we will snicker about goats. (Sorry, you had to be there.)

Smash

I grow tomatoes for two reasons: bruschetta and home-canned spaghetti sauce.

While Greg and I were picking our latest crop of Romas we discovered a petite tomato smashed between the fence slats. Smashed, but still growing on the vine. After picking him we were both astonished

1. He was shaped like a heart.
2. He was still a success (as far as tomatoes go).

If I were that tomato I could be ticked that splintery cedar planks were poking my smooth red skin from both sides.

Or I could be happy I got to see what was on the other side of the fence. No other tomato from this yard has ever had that view. I'm actually pretty special.

If I were that tomato I might curse my claustrophobia because I was never intended for this life. I was supposed to suspend like a jewel in open air.

Or I could feel safe knowing no grasshopper or pet could gnaw on me thanks to my wooden security.

If I were that tomato I might be lonely. I could convince myself I was intentionally neglected and think really hateful things about the clusters of free-hanging tomatoes chatting it up on other vines.

Or I could make friends with the zucchini leaves because we are currently living at the same exact altitude.

If I were that tomato I might feel ugly. I'm only a centimeter wide. I'm flat. I'm different. I'm a late bloomer. I'm anything but "heirloom."

Or I could look inward and be sure I, too, am full of Vitamin A and seeds. I can still feel the day's rays and hear birds and feel the sprinkler hit parts of me. I ripened like everyone else. In fact, I marvel I am growing too tight for my enclosure.

If I were that tomato I'd have a choice between despair and hope. Heart-shaped tomatoes and humans with smashed hearts have a lot in common.

Choose hope.

It's okay if life is fencing you in. You can still be a smashing success.

 

*My favorite lesson on Hope in the world. I think I've read it 100 times. I always think about the smashed pansy overcoming the brick, which is probably why I thought of hope the second I saw our smashed tomato. My hope is centered in Jesus Christ. Everything He touches lives.

Amateur

I love Van Gogh.

I have his Cafe Terrace at Night print above my desk. Someday I'll get to Europe and see if that's what eating on cobblestones before bedtime is really like. I also love his painting of the great peacock moth. One of his lesser-known works. Sometimes a beautiful moth gets outshined by a starry, starry night.

Vincent wasn't always The Van Gogh We All Know. He started out painting like everyone else and slowly left bits of paint behind on the canvas. The bits grew to globs. The globs attached themselves to swirls. The swirls and globs that so easily identify him now weren't so easy for him then. The way I heard an art historian describe Van Gogh's metamorphosis of leaving the paint behind:

He was only learning to be himself.

I am still learning to be myself. Erasing traits I don't want to be associated with. Figuring out what I want to be known for. Hoping it's not too late to register for a swirling class or to hire a technique tutor. Budgeting a little more time to throw some paint around.

Far from what I once was but not yet who I am going to be.

*Photo by Sydney Durkovich, my cousin who paints early on Sunday mornings.