Tabernacle Hill

Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him. -1 Corinthians 2:9

a b s t r a c t

I smashed a penny and enjoyed a show at Chicago’s famed Adler Planetarium a few years ago. Bonus: there was a kids’ cafeteria selling chocolate pudding and Cool Whip parfaits next to the gift shop. It was a perfectly pleasant two hours.

Under the dome I slid down wormholes, warped through black holes, and learned something so random I had to pull a map out of my purse and scribble chicken scratches in the darkness just so I wouldn’t forget it. The term was STAR WOBBLE.

[kid definition] STAR WOBBLE is what happens when a planet orbits a star. The orbit causes the star to wobble back and forth ever so slightly.

[big shot adult definition] STAR WOBBLE is a spectrum of movement captured by telescopes that indirectly identifies extrasolar planets. A wobbly star means something is there; the star is not alone. Planets pull on the star and move it back and forth as little as one meter per second creating a “wobble.”

Scientists can look at the glitter in the heavens millions of miles away and separate lone stars from magnetic suns by a miniscule meter’s worth of movement. It would be like standing in California and looking at a strand of human hair in New York and being able to tell if it moved 1/16th of a millimeter. Technology is insane. Scientists are lucky.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?”

“Stellar. I discovered some star wobble and therefore got to name a few planets, one of which is after you! (kiss/love spank) And I found a great pho place on 8th Street.”

c h r o n i c l e

For so long our life, meaning mine and Greg’s, was like watching paint dry. Nothing changed despite our best efforts. We were faithful and patient but also took everything we could into our own hands. And nada. There was never a change except RE grew taller. We would have moved just to mix things up but we were tied to a promise we’d received numerous times...a promise we would bring children (emphasis on the "ren") into our home. The semantics mattered; we knew it was the home on 680 West. We were not moving until we had two kids.

It took 12 years to become pregnant with Archer. Mere weeks after his scientific conception the lot of our dreams appeared. We purchased it two months before his due date knowing he would still be carried over the threshold of 680 West in swaddling clothes. The timing was right; we had kept our end of the bargain.

Lot loans are good for three years so we would have to move by 2017. It seemed an eternity away but just knowing our dream would be reality made the present reality dreamy. I was happy at home and excited for a (someday) new home all while holding my long-awaited babe. RE was at her own maximum teenaged happiness because she was old enough to bike to The Meadows. She spent most of her summer on bike adventures with her hated helmet (“the accessory to freedom”) and holey pockets, happy to lose every cent she owned for the cause of freedom. Many nights she would bike to Walmart, to buy me an onion or whatever I was missing for dinner, and return home with a bonus triple fudge SmartCookie. Life was fruitful and gaining momentum.

The momentum got scary once we paid for the architect, engineers, soil testers, space planner, and bond. This was really happening, which meant my bulging cornucopia of 680 West fruit was going to be a distant memory before I knew it. That’s when I got weepy and clingy for my current good life and began to wonder if I was trading pure happiness for a dining room and basement. I didn't want to be a driveway, a corner, or a Sunday away from anyone I loved. I didn’t want to move anymore.

Luck was on my side because we couldn’t find a builder. Everyone was building and no builders had time to talk to us. Wonderful. Worked for me. When we finally met with a builder I almost threw up on the drive home. He was not the right one.

I painted my bookcases (projects = coping mechanism) and tried to throw away anything from Greg’s tower of papers. At the bottom of his 4” pile I found a scrap of paper with a name and a phone number written in shaky handwriting. Odd. My sister-in-law from Colorado Springs had just texted me the same name the night before because her friend said he was an awesome builder. I asked Greg where he got the paper. He said our chiropractor recommended him several months back.

We met with the doubly-recommended builder and it didn’t hurt he had hair and cufflinks like my dad. Before we even talked about our house we were discussing the best part of the temple: the sealing of adopted children to their families. To lower the budget we opted to only finish half of the basement: two bedrooms and a bath. How many children do you have? Two, 14 and 1. Oh, wow. Would there be a need for more bedrooms? We doubt it. It's a long story but this is it unless there is divine intervention. Handshakes, warm fuzzies, rolled up and rubber banded plans. We left that meeting and I did NOT throw up. I felt good. Really good. Uncharacteristically good for being the least risk-taking human alive with roots poking as deep as Earth’s inner core.

The next day I found out I was pregnant. My studio-off-the-master instantly got repurposed as a nursery. It was an awesome swap since I put a sink in the studio. Now I will be able to mix bottles and wash my hands after diaper changes with baby in sight. There will be a later season for cutting and gluing in solitude.

c a l c u l a t i o n

Timing is a funny thing. My life’s manner of unfolding has been twofold: stifling or screaming. This summer’s forecast prediction is SHOWDOWN. A lot of moving pieces, moving boxes, and moving bodies. So much movement. Greg and I look at our new sky in disbelief as we realize every star is wobbling. We’ve got planets we didn’t know about, orbits we didn’t plan on taking, and tugs and pulls we’re hoping to withstand while remaining centered. Our sky that was black and blue and bleak for years is shaking, spinning, sparkling. I’m not sure how it all happened.

Greg taught me something neat about the way life’s cookie crumbles from a book* he just read. (Greg reading is a relatively new thing. Well, reading non-business books I care to hear about. He actually read more books than I did last year. Go, Gregger!) The author points out two different apostles were imprisoned in Acts 12. James was beheaded but Peter shook off his shackles and walked out of prison’s front door with an angel leading the way. Both had to have been equally loved, appreciated, prayed for, and looked upon. Both were in identical situations. But one got the sword and the other got the angel. The point of the book is to accept we don’t always know why we get the sword versus the angel but to accept they happen to the best of us. Angels don’t signify you are more beloved; swords don't manifest holy punishment. The author’s opinion is James may have even been the blessed one as he quickly returned to his Lord; Peter still had massive leadership responsibilities and an ultimate martyrdom awaiting his angelic escape. This scriptural illustration triggered a memory of a quote I copied so many years ago:

SUFFERING IS NOT ALWAYS SADNESS, FORTUNE IS NOT ALWAYS JOY

I feel like our married life came in reverse order. We got a huge chunk of free years with plenty of money, travel, sleep, leisure, and wiggle room. Here come the kids, Now and Later, and we're battening down the hatches hoping to survive years of patience, schedules, sippy cups, sacrifice, and rigor. And no less than four additional science projects. Curse those infernal posters of doom! I had my fair share of pouty spurts in the free years but wholeheartedly feel we didn’t waste our dark decade being dark. I’m glad we lived it up when we could. Although I feel like we’re living it up now. Just always live it up. Or, at the very minimum, live and look up.

I don’t know why my sky was swords for a decade and why it’s swarming with angels now. I do know I learned who the Savior was from the sword and it changed my eyes and gave them the capacity to behold wobbles and latecomer angels. Swords and angels have given me experience; they have worked together for my good.

*What the Scriptures Teach Us about Adversity, S. Michael Wilcox, 2010.

“Tabernacle Hill”, Cristall Harper. Gifted to me in 2001 and used with permission. Tabernacle Hill is a spot down south (near Meadow, Utah) advertising craters and lava tubes but is clearly one of the drabbest places I’ve seen by day. Is it ironic this ugly place looks amazing in the dark? Oh, life metaphors, just keep on coming.

[definition] TABERNACLE: a place of worship, a portable sanctuary, a temporary shelter, the human body (for housing the soul)

"I do not know why some people learn the lessons of eternity through trial and suffering-while others learn similar lessons through rescue and healing. I do not know all of the reasons, all of the purposes, and I do not know everything about the Lord's timing. With Nephi, you and I can say that we 'do not know the meaning of all things' (1 Nephi 11:17)." -Elder David A. Bednar, "That We Might 'Not Shrink'", CES devotional delivered at the University of Texas at Arlington on March 3, 2013.

Concrete

My neighbor Matt collects trailers. (#addict) Once he got going with his hobby the need arose for more parking. He ripped out his lush side yard and replaced it with a fresh slab of gray. Shortly after the landscape change his daughter said, “I’m already used to our new cement.” Matt wisely replied, “When something is right you don’t have to get used to it.”

This is how I felt the day after I learned I was pregnant. No, not with Archer. With a new baby. There is a new baby coming.

Seeing the two stripes was like being hit in the face with a 2x4. I have never been more surprised in my life. I was unsure my body would even keep the fetus since I needed imported crates of injectable drugs to make my insides a prime baby cave for Archer. Greg drove me to our IVF doctor’s office minutes after the stripes appeared to do bloodwork. Dr. A didn’t have anything to do with this baby but I trusted him and knew his lab was fast.

My progesterone was 25, normal is 26-40. My lining was 15mm, more than adequate and better than my previous IVF linings. Dr. A told me to not be so shocked…my body was simply doing what it was made to do on its own. High five, body! I was chauffeured home holding a vial of progesterone and a bag of needles just to be safe and I don’t remember the next 24 hours except I didn’t sleep a wink and ate steel cut oats instead of Kneaders deluxe French toast because I was already feeling the weight of “healthier choices for baby.” (Which dramatically ended a week later when I started throwing up and the only appealing food was Nesquik, of which I have drunk six gallons. Steel cut that.)

The second day Greg could sense I was a titch zombified; he gave up his standard Friday afternoon at Jordan River so I could go to Mt. Timpanogos for a few hours. In the temple three things happened.

1. Peace washed over me and I knew everything - from moving houses and starting over and hoping I find a new friend in my new life despite postpartum and needing a van and turning 40 before baby - was going to be okay.
2. I read 1 Nephi Chapter 17 in the lobby because I didn’t want to go home yet and *seriously* that chapter is like magic for me. Multiple life hiccups have been resolved by SEVENTEEN. I owe that chapter its own essay.
3. I thought of the Lund’s extra driveway because in two days I was already used to it. Used to her (I think it's a her but I'm happy for either). A free antidote to my secret mother worries appeared out of thin air. I have cried many tears anticipating RE leaving for college when Archer is only 5. I have imagined him all alone in our future basement wondering where RE went when her bed is still there and her stuff is still in the bathroom drawer. It’s one thing to grow up an only child like RE did; it’s all she knew. But Archer is RE’s satellite (or barnacle). My favorite moment of each day is watching his reflection in the rear view mirror when RE gets in the car after school. He simply lights up and then everyone's happiness cranks up a few notches. He will still miss her when she flies the coop for adulthood but there will be a little buddy for him now. I will have my mature, bright beacon of an RE and I will have my littles. We will continue to grow, live, evolve, overlap. We will embrace our odd demographic with joy. We are Lawson, Party of Five!

Photo of the sparkly sidewalks in San Francisco, not my neighbor's driveway. It's one thing to mock your neighbor's trailer hoarding but it's quite another to trespass and photograph his slab.

Wake-up Call

So... I sobbed like a baby while conducting “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” last Sunday.

1. It was a long time coming.

2. They were happy tears.

3. I guess I won't complain about sweaty armpits anymore. Sobbing > Sweat.

My brain is a stove with lots of back burners. And front burners. It’s possible it could even be a six burner with the built-in griddle. I never know exactly but pots-a-plenty have been simmering for weeks.

Burner One is peanut butter. Archer has recently learned to open the pantry and bring me the jar of peanut butter. He won’t back down until I give him a spoonful. On the surface this doesn’t seem like anything to cry about.

My dad’s mother was killed in a car accident when he was two. It is an understatement to say he has missed a mother’s love the length of his life. Shortly after RE turned two my dad was in town. He was on the couch observing our interactions. He mentioned all I did for her and all the ways she reciprocated. With lamentation in his voice he then said he couldn’t believe he didn’t have one memory of his mother. It made me super sad for my dad. Less than ten photos of his mother exist; his stepmother burned the rest. This is one photo that survived and she's holding my curly-haired dad with a look of pure joy on her face:

This is another: 

I’ve been told there is some family resemblance. There are also a few letters she wrote. Not a lot of evidence but the proof is undeniable: she loved my dad (and her other three children, of course).

The story goes after she died my toddler dad would only eat peanut butter. It appears extreme love of peanut butter is genetic; it’s the one food I must eat every day. The seven days Greg and I spent in the Dominican Republic were the only sans-peanut butter days of my adulthood. It was no resort. It was rehab lockdown. I was twitching. Maybe this is how soda drinkers feel about their fizzy bubbles. Maybe I should have more compassion towards soda addicts.

Burner Two is the generally scary state of the world. A lot of people have sick heads and dead hearts. God’s children are doing mean things to each other. The phrase past feeling comes to mind. After the attacks in Paris I had a fresh jolt of HOW CAN I RAISE MY KIDS IN THIS WORLD? I’m certain parents in every decade since time began have asked this question. Who wanted to have kids during the plague? Who wanted to have kids in the Great Depression? Who wanted to have kids during WWII? (I’m glad my grandparents did!)

Burner Three is a recent text from Heater, my old BYU roommate. Yes, her real name is Heather but I call her Heater. Heater finally sent me a picture of her new baby and a textversation ensued. When you love a person dearly and they aren’t in your day-to-day circle of life you can unload all of your pent up emotions on them. I told her about my friends who are battling ovarian cancer, leukemia, a bad car accident, and financial woes. These women are already muscled from carrying their burdens. It’s hard for me to see them in awkward poses attempting to carry more weight. I question their pain even though I know the Lord is aware of every pound and ounce. Heater texted back:

I have decided that for me, not understanding why I have seven healthy children when you were blessed with two or why my baby was born perfect when my brother’s died just a year ago is a lack of faith. I just read Elder Wirthlin’s talk again, “Come What May and Love It.” He talks about the law of compensation. I believe so strongly in that. It may not be on earth that we will see that fulfilled, but nobody is being short changed.

I learned about the principle of compensation from a letter my FNDN (Forever Next Door Neighbor) JP sent me after our failed IVF. I counted on its authenticity and crossed my fingers the hundredfold portion would come in this lifetime. It did. The hundredfold was Archer and he’s as busy as 100 babies, so I hereby vouch I have been compensated a thousandfold!

Burner Four is a box of Life cereal. When I was a kid you got a toy in your cereal. The best toy was a sticky octopus made for throwing at the window or wall. The toy could be on the top or between the sealed bag and the cardboard box but 99% of the time the toy was at the very bottom. I think it is an appropriate metaphor that in the box of Life you have to dig down, down, down through the darkness to find the prize, the prize being a personal relationship with the Savior. In my own box of Life I have discovered Corrie ten Boom’s wisdom to be true: “You may never know that Jesus is all you need until Jesus is all you have.”

Burner Five is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I purposely chose his poem for the last hymn of Christmas because it is MY favorite, and if you can’t pick your own favorite song now and again what is the point of being the chorister? A little self-interest never hurt anybody.

I had reread the circumstances surrounding the poem December 7 after The Lower Lights’ concert. He wrote those fabled stanzas on Christmas Day two years after his wife Fannie died from severe burns (her dress caught fire, he tried to save her and burned his own face and hands, hence the beard) and while his eldest son perched on the survival fence full of Civil War wounds. It was an ugly time in the world, much like our day, yet he embraced the one great hope that never disappears: God is not dead, therefore peace is possible. When the pit is deep and dark as night it paves the way for lofty steeps and blinding brights.

Burner Six is the 39 times I've watched "A Savior is Born" this season.

The last important detail is this: when I discussed the possibility of playing chimes on the organ for verses 4 and 5 one of my organists said he’d “never chimed” and the other said “chimes don’t work for whole verses because they make a song sound…drunk.” I didn’t want drunk bells. I figured we had unanimously killed the bells.

Fast forward to the last few minutes of Sacrament Meeting. As verses 1, 2, and 3 were sung with gusto I suspected I was not the only one who loved Longfellow’s hymn. Verse 4 started and Steve, that sneaky Christmas angel, let the chimes loose. And all my pots boiled over. And then I boiled over.

Frankly, I was overcome with hope. I love, love, love verse 4 and those bells were a wake-up call to have more faith in the Savior. I realized the line the wrong will fail, the right prevail is also a principle of compensation.

God is not asleep and He was wide awake when He gave us His son. I believe in them. I can’t see the whole, uncropped life pictures of my friends but I know burdens come with a 2-for-1 offer: for every burden you get a Savior. Life will give us lack, loss, and lows but they are leased with mortal limits. For now, All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.* In a coming day good will literally triumph over evil and Christ, with his justice, mercy, and grace, will reign. Through His merits there will be endless fixing, eternal healing, and empty halves made whole.

What's not to cry about? 

The principle of compensation (as stated by Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin): "The Lord compensates the faithful for every loss. That which is taken away from those who love the Lord will be added unto them in His own way. While it may not come at the time we desire, the faithful will know that every tear today will eventually be returned a hundredfold with tears of rejoicing and gratitude."

*Linda K. Burton, “Is Faith in the Atonement of Jesus Christ Written in Our Hearts?” October 2012 General Conference

I was also newly pregnant but not revealing I was pregnant this day. Althought I'm not sure pregnancy is an excuse for crying moreso than my living and breathing.

Molt

I suppose no one is as handsome or as beautiful as he or she wishes,

or as brilliant in school or as witty in speech

or as wealthy as we would like,

but in a world of varied talents and fortunes that we can't always command,

I think that makes even more attractive the qualities we can command-

Such qualities as thoughtfulness,

patience,

a kind word,

and true delight in the accomplishment of another.

These cost us nothing,

and they can mean everything to the one who receives them.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, "How Do I Love Thee?", BYU Speeches, Feb 15, 2000.

I received a kind word in the form of a school essay. Rebekah Pitt, who stood tall in her crib and could barely peek over its railing the day I met her, wrote about ME for an English project and mailed me a finished copy. Being loved and remembered for things that had nothing to do with physical beauty was one of the best feelings I ever had.

Gift Wrapped

Years ago, before there was Joy in her world, Blue-eyed Becca went to the Holy Land and brought me home two requests: a stone from Shepherds' Field and an olive pit from Gethsemane. (Five years later I learned she also bought me a Bethlehem blanket to wrap my babe in for a church blessing…I’m so glad she believed in my future when I was iffy. Those blue eyes have foresight!) I glued the souvenirs on linen in a shadow box and pinned strips of paper containing lyrics from “O Holy Night” under each tidbit. Beneath the stone: IN ALL OUR TRIALS BORN TO BE OUR FRIEND. Beneath the pit: HE KNOWS OUR NEED, TO OUR WEAKNESS IS NO STRANGER. Ever my favorite lines they bookend the singular perfect life; a life filled with purpose and prophecy from day one where shepherds were abiding in the field through the fulfillment of the atonement to this end was I born. A stone and a pit beloved in my home.

I love this time of year because WONDERFUL, COUNSELLOR, THE MIGHTY GOD, THE EVERLASTING FATHER, THE PRINCE OF PEACE bounces repeatedly in my brain's elevator music. WONDERFUL not as a platitude for GREAT but WONDERFUL because Isaiah was predicting He would cause people to be FULL OF WONDER. As in oh it is wonderful that he should care for me enough to die for me/oh it is wonderful, wonderful to me!

There are scores of names for Jesus Christ. Once my aunt wrote as many names as she could find on bias tape, wrapped the tape around an antique spool, and pinned it with a pearly-head pin to stay put. It’s one of my favorite gifts to date.

ONLY BEGOTTEN – JEHOVAH – EMMANUEL - LAMB OF GOD – SON OF THE HIGHEST – ALPHA AND OMEGA – LIGHT AND LIFE OF THE WORLD – ADVOCATE WITH THE FATHER – GOOD SHEPHERD – MESSIAH – KING OF ZION – ROCK OF HEAVEN – BREAD OF LIFE – THE TRUE VINE – THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE – THE BRIGHT AND MORNING STAR – REDEEMER – THE GREAT I AM – MEDIATOR – SAVIOR – CHIEF CORNERSTONE – A STAR OUT OF JACOB – THE LIVING WATER – LORD OF HOSTS – A SURE FOUNDATION – THE END AND THE BEGINNING

But one was missing. The best one. The one that doesn’t even show up on lds.org’s search engine despite being typed perfectly.

Sheena Parker used to teach Sunday School and it became a joke how she consistently involved a rock as either an object lesson or as table décor. One week I heard her describe the Savior by a name I had never, ever heard in all my life of attending three hours of church every Sunday and in decades of scripture study. (I obviously glossed over Isaiah in my personal reading because the best name sits quite openly on the page. I think a lot of stuff is hidden in Isaiah. My Grandpa Kerby used to tell a joke about the missionary who was shot at close range on the street but survived because the bullet went through his Bible…and nothing gets through Isaiah. [ba dum dum] I must be getting old because all the beautiful words I’m finding lately are in Isaiah. No wonder Nephi loved him! Shakespeare has nothing on Isaiah, either.)

Therefore thus saith the Lord God, Behold, I lay in Zion for a foundation a stone, a tried stone, a precious corner stone, a sure foundation: he that believeth shall not make haste. -Isaiah 28:16

A TRIED STONE.

It’s easy for me to imagine the Savior as the chief cornerstone; strong, solid, perfectly cut, able to have everything stacked on top of him because he already bore infinite burdens.

It’s simple to envision the Savior as the sure foundation because we sing “How Firm a Foundation” and quote Helaman 5:12 a lot. We want to be wise men who built on the rock, not foolish men sinking in sand. The Savior is sure because He is forever level and never wobbly.

Of course he is the Rock of Ages and the Rock of Heaven; his right hand stretched forth the heavens and his ample, outstretched arms have never ceased reaching out to any of us whether they belonged to Jehovah, the son of Joseph the carpenter, or the resurrected Lord.

But a tried stone. I just never saw it coming. Never thought of the words. How do you try a stone? You try to break it. You try to find a weakness, a crack, a fissure. You hit it with external force so great it shatters. Oh, my sweet brother and Savior knelt in the garden as a perfectly chiseled masterpiece and never fractured. He took it all for all of us; enormity times infinity. It is such an apt and simple description of the greatest one.

We have trials and issues as varied as the names of the Savior. If your trial is extra messy, sticky, hurtful, or heavy do not be deceived you are in it alone. I believe The Tried Stone is asking you to TRY HIM for relief. For I am thy God and will still give thee aid. Only Christ can offer it; He alone will deliver it. Succor always arrives in a pretty package.

Gift wrap from the same aunt who made the spool. This pattern has it all…the new star, balmy palm trees, sheep who got a sight from the angels, harps and horns and glad tidings. Bells ringing to announce the King of Kings closeby in a lowly stable, camel transportation for wise men, and tall things that look like Eiffel Towers but really are sideways angel trumpets. I don’t save everything but I am a total paper hoarder.

"Gethsemane" is Hebrew for "olive press". I’ll always think of it as a stone press, too. Or maybe the olive was needfully pressed but the pit remained. The resilient, withstanding, industrial strength pit forever able to take us out of our deep pits. “There is no pit so deep that He is not deeper still.” –Corrie ten Boom 

A stone and a pit. See what I mean about WONDERFUL?