Love With a Focus

"For love is not a river, confined between two banks.
Its essence is to overflow.”

Mike Mason
The Mystery of Marriage

If you follow Mona’s Musings on Facebook, you know the daily ‘Hint of Romance’ often comes from the amazing little book quoted above. It is full of pure inspiration, by which I mean the author clearly wrote the book by the Spirit. Instead of approaching his subject from a “how-to” perspective, this treatise explores the “why”s of marriage -- making the most remarkable case for its Christian purposes.

The chapter I am currently digesting—for it so rich you have to eat it a few bites at a time, like a heavy piece of cheesecake – is called “Love With a Focus”. An illustration of Jesus looking solely into the eyes of ONE child on our Sunday ward bulletin today, perfectly illustrated this theme.

Here is the concept, as beautifully articulated in “The Mystery of Marriage”:

“Why was it, in the great history of salvation, that the Lord Himself chose to concentrate His efforts on the special covenanted love of one chosen people, declaring to them that “you of all nations shall be my very own” (Exodus 19:5)? Was it because God had only enough love to spare for one small group of people? Far from it!

"Rather, it was because love is only love when it is particular, and when the person receiving it is the object of special extremities of attention.

"Even Jesus hesitated to help a Canaanite woman, saying: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel” (Matthew 15:24). But it was precisely because of His ministry was to a select group that it became capable of spilling over into the whole world. There was nothing vague or hazily defined about Jesus’ love. It was not the sort of mushy, universalist sentiment that claims in theory to love everyone but in practice loves no one. No, Jesus’ love had a practical focus, and for that very reason it was able to overflow to all those outside that immediate focus.

"It was a focus trained not only on the people of Israel but more especially on one small ragged band of those people, and indeed even on one particular person within that small group, “the disciple whom Jesus loved.”

Mason goes on to call this the Lord’s “strategy of concentrated love” which provides a pattern for married couples, who make vows to focus on one special person. This, he claims, “is intended to fill us up to the brim with love, to train us in the very depths of love and so to free us to have more love for others then ever before.”

This idea really makes sense with his next point: “For it is not really the love in a home that eats up time and energy but rather the lack of love. That is what really wreaks havoc in the in our married life, ensnaring us in never-ending self-analysis and robbing us of the energy to love others.”

Several months ago, at my ‘Romance’ Musings, I penned a variation of this idea after exploring Jerusalem in all its diversity: “The security one feels from a solid marriage gives the heart space to love others — lots of others.”

It just so happens that I needed to be reminded of this principle -- the expansive power that comes from “love with a focus” -- this weekend, as I took, what was for me, a major plunge: diving headfirst into the world called “Facebook”. For a very long time, and at the frustration of friends and family, I avoided creating a “personal” page, fearing burial in an avalanche of relationships. Knowing well my mortality and therefore, limitations, I knew I could not personally take care of everyone who called me “friend”.

Of course, came the dawn (and the decision to move forward) when I comprehended that the real function of social networking is to connect: that is, to draw lines, not thick ropes, between individuals; to serve as a touchstone, not a foundation; for it is not possible to forge in mass the same kind of relationships we are called on to cultivate with the people closest (literally) to us. Nor should we try. Our husbands, our wives, our children and grandchildren, by virtue of vows, covenants, and blood deserve unquestionable priority over all other ties.

As Mason puts it: “It is the one person who wins over the many, the humble cause of the home that prevails over every other worthy cause in the world.”

I must admit though, it is comforting to the piece of me that wants to “save the world” on some grand scale, that, in fact, giving preeminence to my honey and my kiddos, indulging them with all my love, time and attention -- especially my honey -- will bring me closer to the ideal of loving and inspiring the rest of mankind than any other pursuit: hence, my tardiness in getting this Musing scratched out today and neglecting the sweet people who are waiting to be Facebook friends...

I’ve been making a special Sunday dinner for my special everyday family.

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?

Colleen's Gift

And again, verily thus saith the Lord: Let the work of my temple, and all the works which I have appointed unto you, be continued on and not cease; and let your diligence, and your perseverance, and patience, and your works be redoubled, and you shall in nowise lose your reward, saith the Lord of Hosts. (D&C 127:4. See also D&C 97:8-9)

She had raised her family in exotic places all over the world; wherever Conoco Phillips sent her engineer husband. As long as she could remember, they had worshiped and served in the “emerging church”; filling in the gaps where called; using their background as Americans to help the Kingdom grow and stabilize in corners of the vineyard light years away from Salt Lake City.

When she walked to the pulpit on Fast Sundays, her straight back, long neck, and slightly tilted chin gave her a grace that only those trained at the ballet bar can have. (Though Ballroom Dancers were a long time ago for Colleen, she’d kept the lithe body and enthusiastic heart of her youth; all the more beautiful in maturity.)

And when she reached the pulpit and opened her mouth to testify, it was with such sincere creativity and charming conviction, no one could resist giving her rapt attention. The Bishop called her to teach Seminary and to preside over the Young Women organization (concurrently!) and I asked her to visit teach Maureen, Belinda, Sarah, and Erin. (Would you be surprised if I told you that she was the dearest, most vigilant, most caring visiting teacher I have ever known?)

Twice at my request, Colleen allowed me to tag along on her route (or “root” as they pronounce it here) and each time I marveled at the tenderness of her ministrations and the thoughtfulness of her preparation. The privileged sisters she had watched over loved her fiercely, making it extremely difficult when it came time for Colleen to follow her husband to their next assignment in Spain.

I was with her when she said good-bye, one-by-sniffly-one, leaving in their hands a token of her love – some little gift, usually an item destined for a charity shop, but which suddenly had great meaning because of the personal story Colleen would attach to it: a book, some beads, a toy. I was mesmerized by this talent for gift-giving (one I have never really mastered) and considered it my gift to have witnessed Colleen in action. As we pulled into to the train station though, my dear friend had one more surprise: the last good-bye and final delivery of the day.

“When you came to England from the states, Mona -” she said - “I know you were expecting a very different experience. Things have not turned out the way you and your loved ones back home thought they would. You have done some traveling with Dale for his work, but not near as much as you might have...

"I know too, that you believed the day had finally come when you could indulge in study and writing and theater-going, but instead your days are taken up meeting the needs of dozens of people who were strangers to you until recently. You cry yourself to sleep for them and your prayers have never been so full of so many. Most days end with the feeling that you couldn’t possibly give any more, but the next morning, you wake up and give again.”

Disarmed, but swallowed up in her love, all I could do was cry. Colleen was a warm blast of sun, illuminating and healing at the same time.

“In Seminary last week,” she continued, “we learned all about the Kirtland Temple. I told the kids about the sacrifices the Saints made to build it: how in their poverty, they raised the most magnificent building ever seen in those parts. We talked about how the women spun cloth and sewed for the men who labored in the construction and how those women also gave their treasured, beautiful china to be smashed to smithereens so that the stucco on the temple exterior would literally glisten.”

I nodded thoughtfully, having told the same story myself in Seminary and Gospel Doctrine classes.

“The kids were interested,” she smiled, “when I produced a cup of my own bone china.” (I could easily believe Colleen had bone china: her collection of internationally-acquired valuables was exquisite.) “But boy were they surprised when I also brought out a hammer!” Colleen laughed at the memory. “I coaxed each one of them, but they all refused to break the cup. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll have to do it myself.’ And when I did--when I smashed the cup to pieces--they just sat there in shock.”

I was incredulous too: I have longed for a bone-china tea set since childhood. “You broke it?!”

“Oh yes,” she affirmed, “and I saved the pieces in the cup’s original box. Now, I wondered, what shall I do with this broken china?”

She pulled out a small blue box and rattled the contents.

“That’s when I thought of you, Mona; of your dreams in pieces for the sake of something bigger; the dust of your dreams sparkling in the lives of your brothers and sisters in England.”

That blue box has sat on my bed stand ever since. The shippers came on Friday and tried to pack it up, but I rescued it just in time, from what – I couldn’t say. I just knew the broken cup couldn’t leave. It’s taken two days of musing and prayer for the reason to catch up with the decision, but I’ve finally got it.

I’m going to give Colleen's gift to the new Relief Society President.

Muse with me: What about your broken china?
(If you have a related post on your blog, please share.)

Watch "The Building of the Kirtland Temple"

Related Musings: Love Makes the World Go Round

What You Don't Have or Have Lost

Beautifully related musings by fellow musers:
Visiting Teaching at LDS Women of God

The Givers

Today was my turn. I admit it felt unnatural. I confess it took guts. I can tell you that I didn’t want to do it. But since I can’t perform arthroscopy on my own knee, I had to let them: I had to let others serve ME.

The doctors in the “operation theater” did perfectly; Nurses Ingrid, Fiona, and Sue Ellen pampered me sweet, and my husband is cooking dinner right now as part of his waiting-on-Mona-hand-and-foot-recovery- program. I’ll never forget his stroking my forehead while I regained consciousness and the whisper that came with a kiss. It’s an honor to serve you, he said.

Raising four children means I have played nurse and caregiver for a long time; my honey remembers the twelve times I have sat through his surgeries; extended family knows I have cared for them when they needed me; nearly forty years worth of callings has kept me busy in the church. But it was Ashley, my noble beauty and firstborn, the child who never grew up -- who has depended on me all her life to eat, to move, to be her voice -- that raised the question in my mind of who is serving who.

In her tiny days, Ashley’s therapy incorporated 275 volunteers over three years time. The program required my attention every waking minute and Dale had to work four jobs to pay for it, so members of the church and friends of other faiths assisted while they also did our laundry, cleaned our bathroom and, believe it or not, brought us dinner five nights a week for two years straight.

Old and young appeared on our doorstop every single day, flush with optimism, eager for their assignment, anticipating another 2 hours with Ashley. Witnessing the joy of this self-appointed army as they watched her crawl or walk for the first time -- the result of literally thousands of hours of incessant therapy -- I began to see things the way the volunteers saw them: Ashley was not “unfortunate”; nor did they regard her as an “opportunity” or a “project”. Rather, they revered her as their “Teacher”, even “Mentor” in the ways of patience, endurance, and unconditional love.

That is when I began to wonder: what is it about society that makes “HELP” a four-letter word? Why do we treasure our “independence” so much that many of us would rather die than “become a burden”? How is it that we assume the right to serve our fellowman, but mysteriously, never seem to need help from anyone else? Visiting Teacher wants to bring us dinner (no-no, we’re fiiiiiiine). Neighbor offers to mow the lawn (noooo really, we’ve got it). Ward Member asks if they can take the children for an hour or two so we can nap (oh pleeeease don’t worry about me). And yeeeet – WHO is the first to fill up the calendar and empty the pocketbook with “good works”?

The big news, that Ashley has spent her thirty-one years broadcasting (though she has never spoken a word), is that somebody has to be served in order for the rest of us to feel good about ourselves; somebody has to humble themselves so that the rest of us can grow; someone has to come to earth in challenging circumstances so that those around her can be proved.

Maybe it’s because my elevated leg is making all the blood to rush to my brain, or maybe it’s the pain-killers, but my musing tonight is in hyper-gear and I feel like carrying this train of thought all the way to The End and to The Beginning: to Alpaha and Omega. Think on THIS: Even God expects us to serve Him! The LORD of the Universe asks for our help, allows our help, even commands our help. WHY does HE want OUR help?!

Could it be because He knows all progress, the essence of the gospel, is based in Community and Reciprocity?

I love how Superman, while catching Lois Lane mid-tumble from a skyscraper, says: “Don’t worry miss. I’ve got you.” She’s dumfounded. “You’ve got me!” she cries. “Who’s got YOU?”

Indeed, who HAS got who? Would Superman be Superman without people to rescue? Supergirl Ashley has saved me and a multitude of other people, far more ordinary than she is, during her lifetime of “dependence”. In her frequent conversation with the angels, I’m sure those heavenly pals smile and exchange knowing glances every time she benevolently refers to all of us--her personal army--as “The Givers”.

Related Musings: Angel Talkin'
and Match Made in Heaven

Muse with me: Are you a giver or a receiver?

Beautifully related posts by fellow Musers this week:
Special mail to Aileen from her friend.a touching post at The Alan and Lois Brown Family;.
Scarily Delicious, for a childlike view on "helping" at Crumb Crunchers;
Good Better Best, another fun one at A Splash of Life;
and Lisa reminds me why I braved surgery with
Running? at Nick and Lisa and Kids.

Whose Body Is It Anyway?

I have lost weight my whole life. I have also gained weight my whole life. Yes. I am a professional. As a Weight Watcher Leader for several years, I nailed down the calories, verses fiber, verses fat. I probably know way more than you want to know including why you’re eating while you read this even though your tummy is plenty full of supper. If Weight Watchers printed membership cards like Costco, mine would say “since 1976”. I am one of the Enlightened Ones (no pun intended) who have attained the status called “Lifetime”, which has, periodically, felt less like an achievement and more like a prison sentence; chained forever -- not to Weight Watchers -- but to my BODY. I used to start classes with: “I’m Mona and I have lost 150 pounds!” After the collective gasp I added, “Thirty pounds five times.” If “Lifetime” is a sentence, then it’s because I’m a repeat offender. Ah January: time again to back up, gird up my loins (that means ‘let out your belt’) and make a run for the summit again. Sigh. It’s so much work and discipline – who am I doing this for? Whose body is it anyway?

Many years ago, I was alone with my beloved mother-in-law for several hours, her last hours. I took the chair beside her hospital bed and held her hand. The minutes passed to the hum and rhythm of the respirator and heart monitor. I analyzed her left hand in a way that you would never do with a person were they aware. I tried to memorize every wrinkle, every fingernail, every blood vessel. I couldn’t help wondering about all the things those hands had held, all the people they had touched, all the work they had done in mortality. Most of all, I thought on how those fingers, now a little aged, had caressed my husband, as an infant, as a little boy, as a man, and how they had been nearly the first to wrap around my babies the moment they entered their second estate. In those timeless hours, feeling her history through her hand, I developed a spiritual comprehension about the wonder and glory of our mortal tabernacle.

It was a sacred experience two days later to dress her body. My sisters and I were filled with reverence, as if in a holy act. Though her spirit animated that physical tabernacle, we knew it was the body which actually did all the important things: rocking a baby, wiping a tear, stroking a forehead, tying a shoe, feeding a family, kissing a cheek, supporting an elbow, packing a bag, waving good-bye. Mother was known as the consummate “lady” – always pretty, fit, well-groomed, strong, and ready to serve, so we painted her nails, styled her hair and brushed pink on her very still cheeks. We did it because we revered her soul: the spirit we loved AND the body who loved us. (D&C 88:15)

From the personal revelation that poured out on me after that experience, I learned that I had put too much emphasis on “mastering” my body, instead of figuring out how to work in harmony with it. I found “harmony” comes from becoming aware of, and then frequently reminding myself, of the authentic reasons for having a body: primarily to build the Kingdom of God on earth by freely sharing what my body can do for family and others. (Think of it! Stretch marks, grandma jelly-bellies, dishpan hands, and dark circles under the eyes have a glorious aspect!) In this paradigm, caring for and respecting the body is not only an advantage in this life, but will be “so much the advantage in the world to come” (D&C 130:19-20). Who, I reasoned, will have the greatest satisfaction on resurrection morning – she who revered, honored, and shared that part of her soul called “body”, or she who misused, ill-fed, hoarded, complained about, or degraded it? My beautiful mother-in-law will certainly be resplendent when celestial-ized, having glorified God in spirit and body (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

I was thinking about all these heady things in the dead of night, when, and at the chilly crack of dawn, I found myself shivering, even under the electric blanket. My honey, who self-generates heat like a grizzly in hibernation, was two feet away. I closed the gap. He moaned, just conscious enough of the freeloader on his back to protest. I suddenly felt defiant: “Whose body is it anyway?” I whispered, “If I give you my body, you have to give me yours!” I knew it was unfair to hurdle this school-yard sort of logic at him in his state of mushy-brain, but he must have got the point, because he actually rolled over, put his arm around me, and drew me in tight before promptly falling back to sleep. At that blissful moment, sharing my body was alright with me.