Ingot

FORGIVENESS, PART I of III

A stalk of raw lemongrass is virtually indigestible. Tough outer layers make for a strong stick that doesn't yield to mortal chewing. By all means, throw it in a pot of tom ka gai to boost the coconut broth. Just don’t try to eat it. Tricky, that lemongrass.

I’ve been chewing on a stalk of emotional lemongrass for many month's worth of moons all the while knowing my chewing isn’t doing anything productive. In fact, my TMJ is worse than ever and my stomach is grumbling for actual sustenance. My heart is sick of this flavor. It insists I spit it out and move on to something delicious, like a box of Little Debbies. I want to. I want to but my brain argues, "This stalk is flat and molar-battered. It's bound to dissolve any day if you just work on it a bit longer."

In February of 2013, only two months after our failed IVF, I was given counsel by the Lord through my bishop. He told me to SEE with my heart, HEAR with my heart, and ACT with my heart.

I remembered that counsel in October of 2016 when President Uchtdorf said, “There are more ways to see than with our eyes, more ways to feel than with our hands, more ways to hear than with our ears.” I believe those ways are with the heart and the Holy Ghost; they are the consummate power couple, the undeniable one-two punch. I heard his words as I was sucking on my everlasting gobstopper of lemongrass. I had two non-eye, non-hand, non-ear witnesses nudge me to forgive and move on, to proverbially spit out the lemongrass and find something nutritional.

Being led by a soft heart is to bounce over life’s bumps on a cushion of compassion. Thorns don’t prick as painfully. Ugly shrieks are muffled. A soft heart relaxes Severity (who is always wound too tight) while its squishy submission counterintuitively conquers all. How dangerous and debilitating it is to be led by a hard heart.

Truth be told, I default to my heart often. When my brain can’t solve a situation’s complexity my heart is the candid calculator. I’ve also hidden behind my heart when my brain is required to speak a language it doesn’t want to be fluent in. In short, I hate debate, confrontation, analysis, something where there is a “winner”, and anything with a graded test result.

My heart is a mighty monarch that wears my body’s crown. By following my magistrate I’ve boosted many (and creeped out a few). I take great comfort in the Lord’s promises that he looks on the heart and knows its intents*. Maybe no one else gets me, but the Lord does.

I want my heart to beat in sync with His*. I want it to drum truth yet echo love. There have been times I’ve let God down, when my whole earth was in commotion and my heart failed me*. Heart attacks. Sad hurt smoldered in my chest, the telltale throb tortured my left arm. I was revived by repentance and given the chance to beat another day. My celestial core is constantly scheming against my natural man to avoid arrhythmia:

Ba-dum 

Ba-dum 

Be-soft 

Not-hard 

Let-go 

Sub-mit 

Once-more 

Try-again 

You’re-mine 

You’re-mine

I’m His. I was made for softness. God requires softness*.

I have come to see a famous scripture in a new light:

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. -Matthew 25:40

THE LEAST may not be the poorest, neediest, most down-on-their-luck specimen you intersect in your charitable comings and goings. THE LEAST might be the person you like the least. The person your heart is hard towards. The person at the bottom of your “People I Like” totem pole. I don’t think the Lord cares how much your bosom bequeaths to beauties if it can’t benefact a beast, especially that beast you can’t stand in the least (Grinch!). Perhaps that is the sacrifice He requires for cardiac compliance.

It’s easy to love your followers.

It’s easy to preen while others pet you with praise.

It’s easy to be civil to someone who does nothing to you.

It’s monumentally difficult to love someone who judges you, pushes all your buttons, or takes your trust and twists it into slander and gossip. What if that someone stares blankly while you sputter words of love and then tells you your message was lost in translation? What then?

Tenderizing my tough tissue is a Titanic test but only pliability passes. God requires all of my heart*. I cross my fingers that God’s Bank still exchanges devalued dross for refined gold. Wincing, I pluck out my dross and lay it on the altar. I stand at the point of sacrifice a moment longer, nearly paralyzed at this crossroads of pain and progress. Do it. Do it! Spit out your stinking lemongrass! Rid yourself of this plague!

And here I have stood for so many months. I know what comes next. I play it out in my sick head almost nonstop. I'll vomit that grotesque, limp stalk out of me and hurl it toward the altar. The worst will be over; choosing betterment will hurt less than the hurt I've been hanging on to. There will be no more chewing.

Then, while I'm rubbing my tired jaw, there will be a loud explosion. The smoke around the altar will clear to reveal the loaded scales of justice and mercy. What is my fate precariously balancing before my eyes? Mercy. Mercy tipping heavily to one side. There, where emotional dregs and pride's pulpy residue used to lie, will rest a shiny ingot. Mercy's metallic mass will be a gold mine that is all mine. I will receive forgiveness because I truly gave it, especially that last, loathsome lemongrass. Mighty change is mighty hard*, but if I can choose a change of heart it will automatically change everything else.

Photo of a real postage stamp puzzle I bought at Swiss Days in Midway, Utah. You have to assemble the pieces with tweezers. So tiny! www.puzzledpostage.com

All the asterisks:

Doctrine & Covenants 6:16 Yea, I tell thee, that thou mayest know that there is none else save God that knowest thy thoughts and the intents of thy heart.

Psalm 139:23 search me, o God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts

Ezra 7:10 for (Melissa) prepared (her) heart to seek the law of the Lord, and to do it

Doctrine & Covenants 45:26 and the whole earth shall be in commotion, and men’s hearts shall fail them

Ezekiel 36:26 A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh.

Doctrine & Covenants 64:22 for I, the Lord, require the hearts of the children of men

"Mighty change is mighty hard." -Neal A. Maxwell

Off the Cuff

My mother-in-law, who used to sew her seven kids' clothes from scratch, has the stitched phrase A DAY HEMMED IN PRAYER SELDOM UNRAVELS hanging beside her sewing machine. Her sewing nook is a wonderland in the mouse hole beneath the stairs. When I sew on her machine I pop in one of her cds: George Strait, Rod Stewart, oldies. If she's beside me she whistles. Her whistle has a soothing, easy vibrato. It's the audible equivalent of slow rocking on a Southern front porch. My sewing memories with her are few but happy.

RE was blessed in the dress my youngest sister Natalie wore; cascading tiers of intricate lace somehow sewn over five months of foggy postpartum by my mother.

I asked my mother-in-law to sew Archer and Everett's blessing outfits so both grandmothers would be represented in our christening histories. I requested rompers of "pioneer simplicity." She pieced the heirlooms in secret and unveiled her handiwork on the eve of each event. They didn't disappoint: Archer's pintucks and Everett's miniature Peter Pan collar are doll-sized cotton masterpieces.

The jewel of each romper is hidden in plain sight. A small ALL IS WELL adorns Archer's cuff and Everett's SECRET PRAYER wraps around his chunky thigh. My boys' middle names were born of hymns; these words symbolize their unique journeys to me. My sister-in-law Stephanie did the honors with her embroidery machine, the beast with a user manual I'd like to steer clear of. Mothers, sisters, babies. Stitches, love, seams.

ARCHER WEST is my Zion seen in visions and promises galore. I trekked more than a territory's length to reach him. I dug to the center of the earth and back out again before his freedom and sanctuary were staked.

There seems to be no shortage of snippets, articles, and facts relating to Archer's name. Bows and arrows, aim, bulls-eyes. Arches, keystones, what makes structures strong. I'm on high alert for these tidbits, cutting and pasting them into a collection for him. Someday he'll be thirsty and I'll have the reservoir of his heritage copied, bound, and waiting.

The latest addition to THE BOOK OF ARCHER:

My mother used to tell her children that we were of “pioneer stock.” I wasn’t sure if I really knew what that meant when I was younger, but I did know the stories about crossing the plains. They were usually filled with unbearable chal­lenges, setbacks, and seemingly impossible odds. And at the end of the day the pioneers circled their wagons, built a fire, sang, and danced—or at least that is the way I remembered the stories. And what was their theme song? “Come, Come, Ye Saints.”

I always thought this was a strange song for those who were hungry, fatigued, and at the brink of devastation. One verse, for example, reads, “And should we die before our journey’s through, Happy day! All is well!”

All is well? Anybody could see that all was not well. And just who were these overly optimistic people anyway? Apparently they were my people. And now, years later, they help me to remember just who I am and what it means to be of pioneer stock.

Years ago I was sitting on the stand in a cha­pel in Europe singing “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” A leader leaned over and whispered, “You know, the Polish translation of this song is quite different from the English version.”

“Really?” I countered.

“It doesn’t really read, ‘All is well! All is well!’”

I looked at him somewhat surprised.

“The real translation,” he said, “is ‘Not so bad, not so bad.’”

I couldn’t help but quietly chuckle. Then I thought of the pioneers who might not have always described their own circumstances as being “all is well.” But I could see how with their expanded vision and tremendous dedication they could say, “This is not so bad, not so bad,” and then with a deep breath take yet another step and continue to forge on.

Crazy, but my brother speaks fluent Polish. I called him to verify the grammar. It panned out. It was cool to hear my brother speak with his mission tongue. My brother is permanently 10 years old in my head, wearing a yellow Izod shirt and popping wheelies into the garage sheetrock on his Huffy bike. I forget he is a multilingual grown man with a job, a family, and whiskers like dad.

EVERETT (BOON)E answered my secret prayer. On Everett's blessing day the congregation sang "In Humility, Our Savior" prior to the Sacrament. Let our prayers find access to thee. Oh, they do. They do. I preselected "Secret Prayer" for the closing hymn because I wielded such power as the chorister. As luck would have it the talks went long and my hymn was skipped in favor of the choir performing. No "Secret Prayer" for my secret prayer.  

Four hours later, a knock at the door produced the entire Thornton family (including Bishop, who had just left church and hadn't even eaten his waffles yet) singing "Secret Prayer" a cappella for us. Don't think I didn't bawl the entire song. I did. At least I was dressed. The last tune they sang on my porch was a freezing "O Holy Night" in December wind to me and my robe despite the lunch hour. (To be fair, I was very morning sick with Everett and the pregnancy was still hush-hush.)

I don't know how to describe my life right now. It's probably just like everyone else's. Most things are ALL IS WELL. Thimbled thumbs up. Serger strength. Some things are NOT SO BAD. Tissue paper pattern corrections—refolding on a new dotted line. Being mortal, however, I have a few loose threads. When I focus on one, when I obsess about it and wind it through my fidgety fingers, I start unraveling. In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can't see. My heart no longer pines for children but I assure you new secret prayers are ascending to heaven. These communions twist, twirl, and tug my pleading soul to the mercy seat.

Whether I'm dancing in the wagon circle or fighting just to hold myself together, the daily tailoring of prayer is what shapes and secures the life I am fashioning.

Photo of old Singer sewing machines taken somewhere on the Mag Mile. My aunt and I were on a night stroll in Chicago, full of day-one-of-vacation energy and Ghiradelli squares. 

"A Visionary House", Matthew O. Richardson, BYU advancement vice president, delivered this devotional address on 25 October 2016. His footnote, for all the Polish gurus:

See “Chodź ,chodź mój bracie,” Hymny, oraz pieśni dla dzieci (Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1982), 6. “All is well” is translated as “nie jest źle” (“it is not bad”). In 2016 a new edition of hymns was published, and the “all is well” translation was changed to “dobrze jest” (“it is well”) (“Naprzód marsz, święci,” Hymny kościóła Jezusa Chrystusa świętych w dniach ostatnich [Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 2016], no. 19).

And, last but not least, so she doesn't feel left out, here is a picture of RE on her blessing day. Pictures have come a long way since 2001. I mean, I did a monthly photo shoot of Archer in natural light with props and costumes for the first 18 months of his life, and for RE's blessing day...I threw her on the carpet and took a pic of her from a weird angle. Oh well, at least I have some record of her amazing day, amazing dress, and amazing hair!

Cornucopia

autumn

and her crisp-cold aaron copland sunrises

majestically wake the world with

long

brassy notes

gather in the harvest

fill your tree with nuts and indian corn

rewind clocks

stack wood in pyramids

free sweaters from cedar chests

lock bounty in mason jars

and deep freezes

snatch whiffs and pigments of abundance

for fade they must

mother earth will soon take her

well-deserved

and long-awaited

nap

Photo of our miracle gourds. After we moved, we noticed a few giant leaves bigger than the regular weeds growing in our rocky topfill. Then we saw vines. "Rogue zucchini!", we thought. Friends were impressed we planted a garden right off the bat. Not so, but miraculously the vines multiplied and produced several dozen gourds without water or care. Archer and I harvested our treasures off of their prickly, hollow hoses hours before the bobcat leveled our land. Autumn really does scream abundance. These reminded me of Blue-eyed Becca's perfectly round pumpkin that grew in the hidden midair of her lilac bush, the lesson being growth can occur when (and where) we least expect it.

Thankfall

Archer brought a sandwich baggie of acorns home from Missouri in his little backpack, maggots and all. Today he organized them and put the loose caps in one pile, loose nuts in another, and full nuts in another. (This child has my brain.) There was a triple cap connected with a tiny stem. It made my soul smile. I have my three kids. I really do. Three perfect nuts are safe in Mama Squirrel's tree. Twenty-four hours ago Greg and I vowed to never fly again; our bodies sore from wrangling a certain sleepless wild child the entire flight. This morning his curly hair was swirled around his head just so; I thought I spied a halo. My kids stretch every feeling I have; I'm often exhausted and extra thankful at the same time.

First Steps

Everett finally walked. Just shy of 15 months. I am overjoyed he was not interested in standing up until after we moved. I am extra-glad he waited because it means I have one baby that had "a first" in The Chateau. This house is where my last baby took his first steps.

He is walking in his brother's footsteps. Literally. Dug the old red moccasins with the holey toes out of the save box. Be still my heart. Two Hiawathas.

Three days ago I got a text from a lady I've only rubbed shoulders with at church:

Hi Melissa, this is __________. I didn't get a chance to say a real hi to you today but I wanted to let you know I'm so glad you have moved into our ward. You bring a 'notable goodness' with you and I'm looking forward to getting to know you more. Enjoy the rest of your day (rosy cheeked smiley face emoji)

It felt like a big step. Someone saw my cross-section and liked my colorful, weird insides. Notable goodness. It felt like this chicken might actually cross the road to a social life up here.

Life has so many stops and starts, finishes and beginnings. It really is renewal on repeat. I am glad that, like my baby, I am taking many "first steps" in this house. 

Photo quote from "I'll Begin Again" from Scrooge, the musical.