First Days in the Temple

Escort: accompanying another for protection, guidance, or courtesy.

When Funke called me yesterday, I first cried in surprise and joy, and then I cried in longing. Originally from Nigeria, Funke now lives in Hounslow, a suburb of London, near Heathrow airport, and I have been in her flat a number of times, as she was often in mine during our thirteen months there.

The home that holds the most cherished memories for both of us though, is the House that belongs to the Lord. It was in the London England Temple, just a few weeks ago, that we held hands while Funke received her endowments. As her escort, it was my privilege to prepare her and then stay beside her throughout the experience, explaining as necessary, bolstering her confidence with smiles and squeezes. Pure joy.

This sacred honor came to me again just this week. I received another invitation to escort a new temple patron: my very own daughter, the only birth-daughter I will ever share the holy temple with. After a lifetime of loving the gospel, she took to it like a fish to water: completely at home amid scripture and symbolism, requiring a minimum of hand-holding.

As an eighteen-year-old raised in a less-active family, I needed far more support during my first visit to the temple. The sister who acted as my escort knew this and tenderly draped my arm through hers.

She exuded loving confidence throughout, both in me and in the proceedings, so that I relaxed into her testimony, resting my head on her faithful shoulder at every opportunity.

Two hours later, I was sealed for time and all eternity to her son.

When Funke and I went to the temple, she sweetly mimicked everything I said or did, like a younger sibling with an admired elder. Hannah was a little more independent, but still asked lots of questions. The Child-Bride-Me did a ton of both.

My poor mother-in-law was watched like a hawk and peppered with "why" and "what does that mean" and "how do I...'s"' until she almost ran out of answers. It was at that moment when she gave me the instruction which I swore (to myself) to never forget:

"Safety pin your locker key to the inside of your stocking."

Say what?

"That way it won't jingle in your pocket when you walk."

She watched me while I followed through. Satisfied I had mastered this important little rite, she took my hand and led me to the chapel.

Hundreds of temple visits later, she and I found ourselves together in the locker room of the Orlando, Florida Temple, where she was now serving with my Temple President father-in-law as the Temple Matron.

We cheerfully chatted in whispers while I changed and hung my clothes. With everything in the locker, I twisted the tiny key and raised my dress to expose the top of my knee-high stocking. Then -- as I popped open the safety pin attached to the key -- and while bending over to carefully complete the procedure I had followed for twenty-plus years --

she said the most astounding thing:

"What are you doing THAT for?"

Say what?

"Why are you pinning the key inside your stocking?"

Ahhhh...you told me to?

(Shaking of the head.) "That's the silliest thing I ever heard of."

****************************

I must admit, it was awfully fun being Sage-for-a-Day; so fun, that as an escort, I couldn't resist passing on my own personal profundities:

Don't forget the Kleenex.
Only wash whites with whites.
Clip the hem of your dress to a skirt hanger when you store it in a hanging bag.
(and last but not least)
A pocket is THE best place to stash your locker key.

Of course since the temple is all about relationships, information, and forever, it seems perfectly appropriate for Hannah and Funke to cherish my advice like doctrine for the rest of their lives.
At least until they figure out a better way.
Or until I forget it.

Whichever comes first.

Muse with me: What advice do you remember from your first visit to the temple?

More musing on my relationship with my beloved mother-in-law:
Imitating Mother
Cherry-ty (Over-Chocolate) Never Faileth
Whose Body is it Anyway?

Romance the Hearts of the Children

I was momentarily dumbfounded.

“The LAST row?” I gasped to the usher.

“Nooo,” he smiled reassuringly. “The TOP row.”

Even from this vantage point at base camp, I could see that our seats butted against a cement wall at the summit far, far away. It made me woozy just thinking of getting there. However, my honey and I are good sports (after all, we’d come for a sporting event) and since our “group” was already ensconced at the zenith of Section 316, we began the assent.

We fell naturally into a form of “lead climbing” where Dale tugged me along by the hand in lieu of a rope around the waist. I needed it. I had a hard time focusing on the steep steps I was so distracted by the carnival environment. The Rose Garden Arena on game night is like any other professional sporting venue I’m sure, but I’ve not been to many, and not for a long time. The faces spray-painted red and black, the helium Ford floating overhead, the pounding rock music, and exposed mid-riffs of the “stunt team” had me on sensory overload.

Just to show how dizzy I’d gotten, when the announcer boomed that everyone would get a free chalupa from Taco Bell if the Trailblazers racked up a hundred-plus points that night, I was stupefied. My mind conjured up the image of a crazed kitchen staff churning out 20,000 chalupas while a frenzied chef kept tabs on the action: They just hit 99!”

Dale told me we’d get coupons.

The Blazers did score well over 100 points that night, but we didn’t get our coupons because we left before the guys in baggy shorts had swooshed their fifteenth basket. You see, we weren’t there for Greg Oden or Brandon Roy. We were there for Matt Erickson.

When Matt strode to the center of the court, microphone in hand, everyone stood up. The raucous rank-and-file shushed and stood still – thousands of eyes and ears zeroed in on Matt. I couldn’t get over how his face glowed with confidence (as seen on the Jumbotron from Section 316) even as he began singing a cappella in a key I was SURE was too high for his range: “Ohhhh, say can you see?....” Lucky for Matt, there was magic in the air – the man could do no wrong: he was in his element. Every note billowed with bravado:

“The laaand of the –- “ (here it comes) “--FRRREEEE-“

He nailed it! THE- CROWD- WENT- WILD!

When I was a teen and young adult, everyone assumed I was Broadway bound. As it turned out, my audiences have averaged around two, three, or four loyal fans. On a big night I might pack the house with six or eight. They are the same ones also (well actually, the only ones) who go “wild” over my performances. Interestingly, they all have the same last name as I do and have all been shorter than me for most of my off-Broadway run. No sir-ee, I cannot ask for a more illustrious career or a more ardent fan club ‘cuz when Mommy sings, she can do NO wrong.

Feeling good about that began many years ago when I attended a keynote presentation at a Florida homeschool convention I’ve never forgotten. The speaker, a beautiful young father with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a pony-tail dangling down his back, appeared unconventional to be sure, but I was intrigued with the message. He and his wife, in-between their folksy musical numbers, were telling ten thousand parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents that we needed to “romance the hearts” of our children. The phrase was lovely: “romance the heart” - but what did it mean?

This dad explained that there is joy and family unity in “dazzling” children with our gifts and talents. Win their love and loyalty, he said, by sharing with them your genuine passions.

It’s true, I thought. Little children are arrested, if not beguiled, by unadulterated, authentic enthusiasm. They can resist or dismiss counterfeit zeal, forced fervor, or rules-without-reason, but they are easily caught up in anything presented with true delight and excitement. Suddenly, I saw child-like wonder as a precious window of opportunity. The Spirit whispered; Thrill your children with your real, best self. Who needs the world?! Memories of singing and drawing and cooking and gardening and throwing and catching and dancing and reading and racing and praying with my children flooded my imagination. How many times had their eyes glistened with gratitude and admiration: "I love you, mommy” or "Good job mommy!"

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!
Book of Beginnings, Story without End;
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, as quoted by Pres. Thomas S. Monson in “A Lighthouse of the Lord”, Ensign, Feb. 2001)

As I thought on my gifts, I knew my greatest passion was my love of the gospel, my happiness in Christ. It was suddenly clear that if I relished my callings and praised my leaders with sincerity; if I “delighteth in the scriptures” so that Restoration doctrine spilled out all over, “speaking of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up”; if I “gloried” in "my Jesus", my soul “delighting” in the “things of the Lord”, who could deny that it would be to the “learning and profit of my children”? (2nd Nephi 4:15-16, Deuteronomy 11:18-19, 2 Nephi 31:6) THIS, I realized, was the most precious opportunity of all to “romance the hearts” of my children.

As we drove home from the Rose Garden Monday night. Dale made the observation that singing the National Anthem at a sporting event is just a tad different than strutting your stuff on American Idol. In the latter case, he said, you’re being scrutinized and shredded by millions of couch critics, while at a ball game, every spectator in the arena is cheering you on, humming along -- your voice belongs to them. So it is with our kiddos, I thought -- times a hundred.

Imagining a little child in the lap of the Savior, I realized that His commandment to “let your light so shine” (Matt. 5:16) applies nowhere more than in our own homes, where EVERYone has a court-side seat.


Muse with me: what is your experience or take on sharing your talents, gifts, passions or testimony with the children in your life?

A Grandstand Living Room Performance
by mom

Cherry-ty (Over Chocolate) Never Faileth

Of course, if its a birthday we're celebrating, I should bake a cake. Or should I? Its been twelve years since my last attempt. And it wasn’t even for me, it was for the Relief Society--only Heaven and Sister T know why. “Providing refreshments” was at the time rock bottom on my ‘favorite-things-you’re-blessed-to-do-in-the- Church’ list. (Ask four years of Seminary students who still hold a grudge.)

I protested Sister C’s reminder about my Homemaking Food Committee assignment with a squeaky: “I don’t remember signing up...”

“Well, you did!” she said with a vehement flair. And I knew if Sister C said I did, well then, there it is.

“And since you like to bake, you can make something really chocolate… drippy…gooooooey…something wonderful!”

Hm. Well...I could follow a recipe as well as the next sister. I determined then to peruse the recipe books in-between my responsibilities as Stake YW President that week, which were many: “Honoring Our Teacher’s” fireside, Stake Scripture Mastery, Youth Dance, Stake Youth Council, two ward visits, Stake Auxiliary Training, Stake Council, and a Laurel luncheon...all before the end of the month!

And now. I hafta bake a cake.

Instead of the Ensign at lunchtime, I poured over dessert magazines, but they all seemed too conservative in the drippy and gooey categories. As D-Day drew near and my list of rejected recipes grew, my little dream of wowing the Relief Society began to wane. At this point there was only a couple choices left me: hope for a tragedy which would excuse me from the assignment (it would have to be a bad one to elicit Sister C’s sympathies) or.... fake it.

Since my imagination was so entertained elsewhere in the execution of my "real" church responsibilities, I decided to forgo orchestrating a sudden adversity, which meant I’d have to pretend to be the culinary-genius-of-all-time.

Betty Crocker cake mix. Heinz “Homemade Style” Whipped Icing. Canned Cherry Pie filling. Cool Whip. As I tossed each ingredient into the grocery cart I wondered if I really was being deceptive and if I’d need to confess it at my next temple recommend interview.

It was 4:15 p.m. when I returned to the kitchen. Homemaking Meeting was less than 3 hours away with 8 people and a cat to feed between now and then and three different kids to pick up from two different schools. Resentment filled my otherwise Christian heart. It was at this point in my vulnerable physic that my mother-in-law, still ignorant of my illustrious contribution to the food committee, breezed through the kitchen.

“We’ve got Homemaking tonight, Mona.”

The open cupboard hid my expression.

I'd heard about the agenda for Homemaking Meeting that night... there was some kind of book review, and then they were making either door-stoppers that look like milk cows or bath oil bottles with dried weeds inside. WHY in the world was I even going?

The cake. Remember?

I crated out the bowls and beaters. Oh boy, I sighed...I don’t even know what I’m making.

It must have been a loud sigh because suddenly my husband, Dale, was perched beside me. As I cracked the eggs he was watching closer than I was and noticed a “large chunk” of shell disappearing into the chocolate swamp. He pointed it out. My finger dove in.

“No! No!” he protested. “Let me! I saw exactly where it went.”

With the delicacy of an archeologist he dredged the murky mass of powder, egg white, and oil. After several unsuccessful attempts to raise the unwanted shell--and amidst visions of Sister C biting into it--we gave up.

“The sisters need calcium,” I assured my husband.

“And it was just a tiny piece,” he agreed.

I’ll admit, my negative feelings had blossomed to the point now where the presence of the hidden shell in my “exquisite” dessert gave me more a touch of glee than remorse.

Dale took over. While he whipped up the cake mix, I stirred together the Cool Whip and chocolate pudding.

“Oh oh,” I breathed, “this doesn’t look right.”

“Did you make up the pudding first?”

“Was I supposed to?”

The bowl of white topping was overwhelmed by the dry grains of chocolate. It took a lot of muscle, paper towels, and fancy spooning but I finally had a frothy looking cream.

Dale was the first to taste it. “Kinda grainy,” he said carefully.

My taste buds confirmed his verdict. Oh well, I decided, I’d use it as a filling instead of a frosting...it’ll go with the egg shell. I continued to froth, brow furrowed, as I was now forced to reinvent my masterpiece.

Suddenly my peripheral vision caught the whoosh of a wooden spoon going from mix to mouth and back again. I squealed.

“Dale! What if the sisters knew?!”

Then I thought of Sister M, the member of the Primary presidency who was suffering strained relations with my Bishopric-counselor husband over a point of doctrine in the Primary handbook.

“I’ll wait till Sister M takes a bite and then tell her your “cooties” are in it!”

That little thought gave us both a good giggle and--for a moment--I felt optimistic. Perhaps this thing would work out after all.

Our joviality was interrupted however, as we both noticed the clock, and I hurried out the door to pick up the kids. Dale seemed to be enjoying frothing so much, I felt confident he could handle actually transferring the batter to cake pan to pre-heated oven by the time I got home.

And he did. Except there was one out of four cake pans left empty on the counter when I returned.

I plunked down my purse. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know -” (how do men look simultaneously guilty and innocent?) “the batter only filled three pans.”

“But I doubled the whole thing!”

“I know. It must be the mix?”

Aghhhhhhhhh!

“You overfilled the pans!” I accused.

“No! No! I didn’t!” he cried in defense.

“You must have!”

“No! No!” he continued to plead, but it was too late. As Chief Baker, I had opened the oven door. And there they sat in all their golden glory: three rounded cakes pushing over pan edges, huge bloated mound in the center of each. It was too much to bear.

“How?!” I whined full bore, “How will I make enough now to feed all the poor sisters? And how can I layer layers that are too round on the top? This -- is -- terrible! And I don’t even want to go!”

I dismissed myself to the bathroom for a long shower. By the time I was done, both I and the cakes had cooled, and my good mother-in-law was leaving for the stake center. I’d never get to the meeting on time now, so I sent Mom on her way with a promise to follow cake-in-hand. What kind of cake was anybody’s guess.

As I sat in a stupor, stumped by the sight of the cakes-turned-mole-hills, my tainted white knight offered to rescue me once more: "Why not slice each cake in half and fill it with the chocolate cream?” he said.

And then...

Methought I saw in my mind’s eye……..a three-layer cake...each layer filled with a somewhat grainy froth...finished on the outside with store-bought fudge icing...chocolate syrup swirled on the top, cascading down the sides, running into a mote of cherry pie filling at the base. Hmmm.

Personal revelation is a mysterious thing.

We began. No team of pastry chefs ever worked with such vision. Dale cut. I plopped and swirled. And something...some strange and wonderful something...began to rise from the yellow plastic plate.

It was -----

awful. Sagging on the sides, billowing with brown goo like a little volcano.

“The cherries on top are a nice touch.”

Dale’s fake compliment must have been an attempt to assuage his conscience, as this last stroke of culinary genius had been his.“Let me take it to the church,” he said.

I winced as he carefully maneuvered out the door, leaving a dribble of cherry juice in his path. There was nothing to do but don my jammies and sulk in bed. They were sure to revoke my D.U.P. membership. I was so UNworthy!

Dale wisely avoided me post-mission-accomplished, but my mother-in-law did not. She burst in with that “I’ve-just-been-to-a-historically-glorious meeting-and-you-missed it!” look. I endured her happy report, waiting gloomily for the punch line about Sister C choking on an egg shell.

“And honey!” her voice run up the scale with excitement. “The sisters LOOOVED Mona’s Chocolate Cherry Cake! EVERYONE wants your recipe!”

My mouth was agape. They’d given it a TITLE.

It may be true that our standards are higher than some others, but it is also true that no one judges more hopefully of our weaknesses, and no one is more patient while charity does its perfecting work, than the chocolate-loving women of the Relief Society.

(1 Cor. 12:26, D&C 25:9 )

Check this out! Stephanie, in addition to being a fabulous "Nephi's Wife" in With Mine Own Hand, makes fabulous cakes and all things sweet! AND! I just discovered we have the SAME BIRTHDAY!