A Window

I decided to go to the temple early this morning. Just to sit there and walk around there and be there, by myself, for a while. I took my little brother to football practice while I was at it, and at approximately 6:20 a.m., I stepped onto the temple grounds.

Being August 16th in Mesa, it was a warm 6:20 a.m., and humidity hummed in the air. The insects hummed too. Lots of 'em, all loving on the colorful temple flowers. And I'm sure the two couples taking wedding pictures there were humming, too--love songs, in their heads.

So I sat and walked and be'd at the temple, just like I wanted to. It was nice. Very nice.

The highlight, though, was when I decided to walk in front of the visitor's center and take a peek inside. I'd been a little disappointed earlier when I saw on the door that it didn't open until 9:00, but I thought I'd go over and check it out anyway. And indeed--the curtains were open, and I could see the Christus standing in all of its splendor against the backdrop of endless creation.

It kind of felt like me standing before the Savior Himself. Here I am. Is this what it would feel like to be before Him in real life? I took my outfit into account and decided I would feel comfortable wearing it if the Lord were there. Of course, it wasn't the nicest of things, but it looked alright.

Conveniently, I'd decided to read in 3 Nephi 11 as I was sitting in front of the temple. To feel the prints in the Christus' hands, to imagine they were really His…

I was stepping about, looking out at the Easter Pageant lawn, back at the visitor's center, back toward the lawn. And that's when I discovered it: in this spot, this spot…HERE, I could see the reflection of the lawn in the visitor's center windows, and the Christus standing majestically behind them, but not myself. Me in my flowery skirt and worn sandals had disappeared behind the window casing. And it looked like this.

Apart from being an amazing image of the Savior against the backdrop of His world, the picture in the window (sans myself) reminded me of this song:

Window to His Love

Good song, huh?

It was a very personal, spiritual moment for me, and a powerful reminder of what I need to do so I can better be a window to His love.

Surrounded

A little white exclamation point surrounded by a little white triangle.

Dust Storm Warning, my phone tells me.

Looks like it's gonna be a fun night.

The lightning is a spotlight through the hazy sky. Everything is wind, dust, and the smell of rain. Spotlight, spotlight, spotlight, from all around us.

In front of a gas station an American flag, majestic and grand, ripples in its own spotlight. The standard in a sea of darkness, the reminder of our recent holiday.

We are surrounded. The storm is fearsome, awe-striking, beautiful. Dangerous but wonderful. Bringer of flood and life.

In the car, we are safe. Surrounded by metal sloping sides and rolled-up windows; surrounded by the gentle and pulsing voices of Echosmith; surrounded by the truth of our fears but the comfort of our sanctuary.

I step out of the car into the dark, surrounded by the love for a friend.

I lay in bed. Spotlight, spotlight. It scares me so badly I jump and open my eyes. It is so bright, surrounding me with light as if it were shining from inches outside my window.

The clouds linger this morning from the night's adventures. All around thick, moist air that is hard to breathe, hard to stand in.

And today, and every day, we look to the horizon to see clouds--tall, arcing, trudging--surrounding us.

Summer

The clouds are gray, but the sky visible behind them is still wearing today's blue, lighter near the sunset and darker across the way. Peering briefly over its fluffy friends is the moon with its white, cratered, solemn face. The sun's goodbye rays brush the clouds' underbellies with a soft coral orange. A light wind trails the smell of rain--of wet dirt--the rain smell only Arizona's dusty air produces. And the air. It's cooler. It's carrying the moisture, whispering the tales of tiny drops far away. Darkness envelops the evening from the east. The distant lightning is brighter against the black in its white-bright zigzags.

This is Arizona. This is monsoon. This is summer.

Keane

I like music. Especially Keane's kind.

Missing

People have said this before: You never know what you have until it's gone. People have said it way too many times before. So let me suggest this one instead:

I love my sister.

I've never had anyone in my family leave my house before, not for an extended period of time, at least. A week. Maybe two weeks. But this was always with the confidence that, after a week, or maybe two weeks, they'd be back and lo and behold ALL IS WELL IN THE WELL.

In fact, more often than not for the past, what, eight years? There's been an extra person living with us--a cousin working here or schooling here or marrying here. For our family out of town, we were the perfect hotel (as long as they didn't mind some messes and lack of room service). So eight of us were always sitting at dinner or kneeling for prayer, and when somebody was gone, they were missed. And when our working-schooling-marrying-cousin left for good, the trite phrase at family prayer became: "It feels like someone's missing..." Because all of a sudden our eight was seven, which was the normal number of family members, but not for us.

Our family is young. A lot of my friends are the second youngest or youngest in their families, but we were always young. We've watched each other as we've grown. And we've occasionally forgotten that he was in fifth grade or she was in eighth grade, but it didn't matter, because Betty's sister was getting married and Maggie's brother was going on a mission. They were the old families. We were young.

When Lynzi graduated, it wasn't that weird. Remember? We'd watched her grow up. She was the oldest so it wasn't that weird to see her donned in blue and throwing her cap in the air. It wasn't that weird when she started going to ASU because she came home every night, even if it was after F.H.E. with her ward or something.

"It won't even be that different if Lynzi leaves for BYU," I said, "because she's gone all the time anyway."

But we didn't know that Lynzi was going to BYU until later this summer. What did I say then?

"It won't even be that different when Lynzi leaves for BYU because she's gone all the time anyway."

But I forgot what happened when our eight became seven! And when seven becomes six? I'd never felt that before.

It's not like when someone's gone for a week or two. I have my own bathroom. I only share the upstairs with my parents. Looking around at Lynzi's scant and disarranged room made me very, very sad.

Those people who use that cliche aren't really so bad. They only say it because it's true.You never know when you have an awesome, fun, righteous, kind, loving, good-exampling, stick-up-for-you kind of good older sister until she goes to BYU. You never know the extent of her awesomeness and goodness until she leaves, for reals.

Our only comfort is that she's in the hands of good ol' BYU, and Rachel Schlappi.

Thanks goodness it's only Utah.

Memories

In the days before school starts, dreams of--whaddya know--SCHOOL haunt me.
So let's forget about THAT THING and remember THIS THING.

 Ah, the beautiful mountains. Pine trees, open blue skies, huge clouds, pleasant breezes, cool rains...

 And cows. Don't forget them. They loved plodding through our camp--day or night.

 Aaaaand this guy. He wanted to get in our garbage. Maybe I shouldn't have led him on with that piece of pancake...aw well. He was cute.

 I miss these beauties--tiny, but bright and happy all the same.

 I don't miss these fingernails. But hey, it's all part of the camping spirit, isn't it? (As is Pokemon Yahtzee)

 White. Perfect.

 I miss little things like this, too, laying all around camp. Cute. I also miss the little guys who sat in them. Not to say that those little guys won't be at my grandma's house next Sunday. They live close by. Nevertheless, something about toddlers in the mountains...*sniff* It just gets me.

 And these dudes, bien sur. Love 'em love 'em love 'em.

 Ah.

 Nothing like Rook in the mountains!

 I LOVE TREES SO MUCH REAL ONES TALL ONES GREEN ONES THAT HAVE PRETTY GRAY SKIES IN THE BACKGROUND I LLLLOVE THEM!

 I'm gonna miss wearing these pants. You can't really see them, but...they are soo comfortable. Fuzzies, see? Comfortable.

 The scriptures are always nearby so I won't miss them. But scriptures are infinitely enhanced in the clear mountain air, where there's nothing to distract you but the brisk breeze that seems to bring the very Spirit with it as it wooshes through camp...

 I guess I won't miss these guys that much. But he is cool looking, non?

 I will most definitely miss this stuff. IT'S RAIN, if you can't tell. Loverly loverly rain.

Rain that simply sparkles on the tips of pine needles...Loverly.

 Oh, and this too...Just loverly...

It's Fresh. It's New. It's Real.

As part of the Willie Handcart Company, Levi Savage (Jasen Wade) feared that leaving late in the season would lead to despair and death. What he came to find out is that for every tragedy, there is a multitude of miracles.

Levi Savage kept meticulous records as he made his journey west toward the Salt Lake Valley. Many of the unbelievable miracles showcased in 17 Miracles come directly from Levi's first hand journal entries.

Based on unbelievable actual events, and brought to you by filmmaker T.C. Christensen (Praise to the Man, The Work and the Glory), 17 Miracles will open your eyes to the stories of the Mormon Pioneers as you have never seen them before. Something extraordinary is about to happen.


I've never been in such a quiet theater before.

You know the usual chaos after a movie--the general clumping of feet, rustle of empty popcorn bags, and chatter of opinions about the film. Not at this one. None of that. As the credits rolled, the entire of the theater sat still--a couple people got up and left, maybe--but still in the silence that follows something profound. Something profound, and sad; but something peaceful, and so great in the end.

I shuffled my body in my seat, waiting. What's...supposed to happen here?  I looked around nervously. Nope, nobody was leaving.

At the end of the short credits, I stood nervously. Yeah, ok, now everyone was leaving. A girl in the row above me said something to her mother, her voice ever a whisper, even as the lights came back on and the people began to file out the door. The only one who said something above a murmur was a lady at the top--"You people are so quiet!" I couldn't have agreed more with that lady.

Things seemed so different. Suddenly, the movie theater wasn't a mess. Things seemed orderly, and soft, and shadowed instead of bright. The posters on the walls seemed a bit more gaudy, but they didn't matter as much in their gaudiness. Things in the world were set straight. Even my neck didn't hurt as much.

The drive home was just as quiet.

Never has a cinematic feature had such an effect on me--nor anyone, I dare say. When, where, HOW else do you see a mass of people so collectively quiet? Not at the Super Bowl, I can tell you that.

You've heard stories about the pioneers. You've heard them all your life, and maybe you've even gotten tired of them. Well, let me tell you, it's time to get UN-TIRED. It was definitely my time. It's one thing to read about the pioneers, and another to watch their lives played before your eyes (no matter how pretended). Especially when you know that every wit of what is being played before you is true.

It's great to step back. To see that movie...It's to remember why we are here, why we do what we do. Why I do what I do. It's because, and for, THEM. For those pioneers. And it's because I know that the Lord's hand did not--and has not--ceased at 17 miracles.