Showers

My favorite night since quarantine began: the Lyrid meteor shower on April 22, 2020.

My second favorite night: my night in Paris, also known as the late night I baked a tidy half batch (two ramekins) of Sophie Chang’s mini molten lava cakes, dusted them with sugar on my French dessert plates, and watched Funny Face for the first time. Perfectly set centers oozing 60% dark comfort rivaled Avedon’s graphically perfect opening credits.

Back to the meteor shower. I’m not one of those “space people” that flaunt their prowess in physics by grasping the workings of axes, orbits, hemispheres, and rotations. I don’t have a star finder app on my phone, I don’t get alerts about upcoming cosmic events, and I don’t understand why every two months a new brand of super moon is being hyped. I’m just a girl in the world (no doubt) who thinks the sky is pretty and has the aurora borealis on her bucket list.

By complete accident, I saw a reminder on the news that one would be able to view the Lyrid meteor shower best from midnight to four a.m. that night. My first thought was, “Finally! Something happening in my time slot!” As a proud night owl, it’s so draining to hear all my perky hiker friends blab on and on about the sunrises, cool air, and dewy zen that mornings offer. One of my worst memories is the day I had to set my alarm to a number that started with five to hike with a friend. Enough of the morning! Let us celebrate the night! (Someday, when the temples are open around the clock, I’m volunteering for the midnight to six a.m. shift. We were all made for something; I was made for the wee hours.)  

I wrote "METEOR" on my planner and waited and waited until midnight (just kidding, midnight comes at me like a flash). At 12:01, RE victoriously slammed her laptop shut with semester finals behind her; I peered into her doorway and told her I had a surprise. We snuck out the basement doors to an air mattress and puffy quilts staged on the tipsy top terrace of our Machu Picchu yard. (The terraces all slant down for drainage. Isn’t it fun that my boys will learn to play catch while fighting falling off a cliff? It’s all about core strength…) With verbal jazz hands I announced the event and she was on board. I clarified how I’d read there should be about six meteors an hour, however, that was probably for the whole sky, and we were only looking at a small slice of heaven from our spot. While bundling up and getting situated we saw one. It was faint, like a short chalk line drawn on a blackboard, but thrilling. Then two more, just as faint but just as exciting. Six an hour my foot! We’d already seen three in couple of minutes. I had a feeling the space nerds were off on their estimates. This was going to be good.

Because all three meteors radiated in the same general vicinity, we assumed that was chunk of sky getting atmospheric bombardment, so we set our gazes toward Lone Peak and watchdogged without blinking. Forty-five minutes later—and slightly cross-eyed—we’d seen nothing other than the upside-down Big Dipper lose half of its scoop behind our roofline. I guess the science nerds deserved their scholarships.

Make no mistake: I loved snuggling next to a happy RE and whispering about things, but I was also slowly turning numb from the cold air and getting a headache from focusing on the sky so intently. I wondered if the meteors were in all the places we weren’t looking, so I craned my neck left and RE craned right. As we sought the periphery, a pale meteor flashed way over in a spot I hadn’t been patrolling.

This confirmed my suspicion: the meteors were every which nilly willy way in the super huge sky. Drat!

I confided to RE, “I wish I could just ask Heavenly Father to put a giant meteor right in front of us so we wouldn’t miss it, but I would never bother Him with such a trivial request. He is God, after all.” RE replied, “But Mom, if it’s important to you, it’s important to Him.” I said nothing but immediately thought of the scripture in Matthew where it talks about God being a good father, saying if I asked for bread, He wouldn’t put a stone in my hand, or if I asked for fish, He wouldn’t give me a serpent.* She was right.

Inside myself I uttered a silent and respectful prayer: Heavenly Father, first of all, I do not need this. I’ve seen meteors. I know Thou art real and that Thou loves me. However, I also know nothing is impossible for Thee and that Thy arm is outstretched over the heavens. So, if it’s convenient for Thou to scramble or reroute some cosmic debris so it can incinerate in my sight line, I would love that. But if not, I love Thee just the same.

Not a minute later, directly in our gaze, a bright orange head seared diagonally through the sky with a white-blue tail streaking behind it. It was the brightest, longest, most glorious meteor I’d ever seen. We punctuated the stillness with joint, audible gasps, RE unaware of my prayer. And then, because God is a god of cups running over when extra pouring is provident, a similarly stunning second meteor crossed the opposite way, the two meteors making a nearly neon “X” in the squid-ink sky.

I have been filled with peace as I have remembered those meteors every day for the past two months. 

Behold, he changed their hearts; yea, he awakened them out of a deep sleep, and they awoke unto God. Behold, they were in the midst of darkness; nevertheless, their souls were illuminated by the light of the everlasting word… (Alma 5:7)

And I will make them and the places round about my hill a blessing; and I will cause the shower to come down in his season; there shall be showers of blessing. (Ezekiel 34:36)

To steal words and sentiment from both verses: my soul was illuminated by a meteor shower of blessings.

Some may say this was mere coincidence—that I looked at the right place at the right time. I know otherwise. Do I really think that God can sort through the clamor of cries from bush fires, pandemics, killer hornets, genocide, displaced refugees, survivors left in the flotsam and jetsam of natural disasters, and cities being torn apart by brotherly hatred to hear a non-essential plea for a shooting star and care enough to send not one, but two? Yes. This is the father I know; the father who loves all of his children.

I won’t underestimate His love for me by underestimating two meteors.

Greg generally falls asleep on the sofa every night, wakes up around 2 or 3, and stumbles to bed. The night of the meteor shower was no exception except when he came to bed I was not there. He walked around the house looking for me only to discover RE was missing, too. He checked the garage, counted all the cars, and began to worry we’d been kidnapped from our own home. The whole time he was wandering around the house we were screaming at him from the yard. Once he found us, RE went to bed and Greg decided he was anxious to see some meteors. I stayed out another hour with him (read: frostbite) and while we saw seven more they all paled in comparison to my divine twofer.

Photo quote from the hymn "With Humble Heart", written by Zara Sabin.

Stone and bread and fish and serpent scripture: Matthew 7:7-11

SOPHIE'S MIDNIGHT MOLTEN LAVA CAKES – serves 2

2 oz butter (4 T.)

3 oz chocolate (I use 60-70%, but you can use whatever you like)

1 egg

1 yolk

2 T. sugar

½ t. vanilla

1 T. all-purpose flour

Pinch salt

Grease 2 7 oz. ramekins by rubbing a stick of butter around the bottom and edges. Melt chocolate and butter over low heat in a sauce pan. Cool slightly. Add other ingredients, mix, and split between ramekins (I am a psycho about this and weigh each ramekin on my digital scale so they are identical). Place on a cookie sheet and bake at 400 F for 10-11 minutes (if you have convection, use it). They will look jiggly, especially in the center, when you remove them from the oven. Let them rest a minute, tap on the counter, and invert onto a plate. Dust with powdered sugar and berries. If you didn’t cook it long enough, it will be all goo. That’s okay, just microwave it for half a minute and it’s ugly but edible. If you cooked it too long, you won’t have much lava. It will be a fudgey cake and still edible. If you timed it perfectly: gold star for you…and it’s still edible.

Cone Corner

I've been compiling a book of advice from women in my area for the graduating seniors. I may print a book for myself because the advice is so good! Participants simply filled in the blanks on phrases like:

I hope you get ____.

I hope you become ____.

I hope you remember ____.

One of my favorite submissions:

I hope you get to become a giver, not just a taker.

Amen! Although I can't remember when I became a giver. If I had to pin the tail on that donkey, I'd aim for my late twenties. RE was born when I was 24. I got a real Italian leather purse and started eating avocados and tomatoes at 30. Giving came somewhere between those important years.

This was my other favorite bit, written by my uber positive friend Lorraine, who told me she typically forgets to stress about things because they always work out. Opposites attract...

Anyway. Lorraine's bit:

You will have a great life. You will have sad moments, and you will have a lot of happy moments. Enjoy both! When you need to cry, cry it out, and get an ice cream cone and sit on a corner to eat it. Then when you stand up and finish your ice cream, let it be done and leave that problem on the corner.

Isn't that the greatest? Reminds me of the time I finally got my hands on a dark chocolate Berthillon cone...and then dropped it in the street on my way out of the shop. I had it backwards. Leave your problems on the corner, not the ice cream.

Covid life is bipolar; I need a lot of ice cream and a lot of corners. Thank goodness for the endless uplifters in my rolodex who smooth life's corners when it's time to sit on one.

Heavenly felted, metallic, and round-cornered ice cream card given to me by Liesa, who is hip and happy and always gives me cards I want to frame. This one has been on my board for a year. 

Low Tide

My dad is a beachcomber, meaning he prefers to wake up before sunrise on vacation to find whole shells and sand dollars. He has paid a heavy price in morning spindrift to amass his stellar, hand-picked collection and I’m happy he’s happy—but in my world there isn’t a shell worth getting out of bed for.

Still, truth is truth, and the truth is low tide is when treasures are more easily found.

I’m so thankful this truth is also figurative; that I don’t have to actually wake up early to find treasures. I shall remember when life feels low, or when its fullness has receded or been taken away, it is prime shell-hunting season.

It felt low when I drove Archer through the school drop-off loop and watched his beloved, gloved teacher toss his personal school supplies through the window while he extended a wrapped, giant homemade cookie we baked just for her. As we pulled away, she said she loved him, he said he loved her, and I started to tear up.

It felt low when I was braking in the car parade to honk and cheer for a neighbor who just finished her last round of chemo, and when I saw one of the young women from my church group bagging groceries in a mask and we couldn’t talk in line.

Low isn’t depressed or devastated. It’s just…different. It’s low because the love and emotions are the same, but the normal actions for showing that love are missing.

I’ve learned that the ache of wanting to be in someone’s face—or at their dinner table, or with my arms around them, or walking by their side—is probably just how Heavenly Father feels but He, too, is limited by boundaries created to allow us to grow from faith into sure knowledge.

When you can’t be physically next to someone and you still love them, you get creative. You send letters or texts. You savor the phone call. You hide Easter eggs in yards and stick notes under windshield wipers. You sidewalk chalk, sew from scraps, and bake favorite foods. You pray for them.

God isn’t physically here, but He’s close, and He loves me. What has He left in my path to assure me of his affection? Daffodils, for starters, and the symmetry of hyacinths. Moody clouds. That meteor shower Tuesday night. Music. Paved bike trails. My daughter making my bed. Scripture written thousands of years ago but precisely what I needed today. Snail mail. That singular glacial lily on my glacially slow hike with the boys. The Ogdens giving us 20 bags of their ex-waterfall mulch—just what our yard lacked but without the trip to Home Depot. I could go on forever about my assemblage of marine tenderness.

In the low tide of shutdown I’m simply learning to love like God does—from a distance but with gestures of absolute sincerity. Limitation doesn’t prevent personalization and closure can’t stop closeness. This realization has been the most cherished acquisition yet; my perfect, pink-bellied conch shell.

Photo of a card I made with one of the mini sand dollars Dad gave me. It's about the size of a plain M&M.

Curves

If I’ve learned one thing about myself in quarantine it is this: I can only cook 18 consecutive meals before my shell cracks and the crazy starts to hatch. Greg has made himself aware of the signs, so last week he wisely buckled us in the truck and off we went for a nature drive somewhere over the rainbow and called in The Old Goat’s take-out pork nachos for our pot of gold.

We wound through the canyon past the checkpoints: Bridal Veil Falls, Greg’s parking spot for fishing the river, the Sundance turn, the big swoop preceding Deer Creek, wind surfers and barns in the same point of view. Archer was drawing staircases on his Etch-a-Sketch and as the drive leveled out he challenged me to draw an Easter egg. It took a few tries—those two simple knobs lead me swiftly to cerebral dead ends—but I ended up a golden goose. Archer was blown away (5 year-olds are good for the ol’ self-esteem) and wanted to try for himself.

His first attempt was a square. Second attempt, not much better. Thirteenth attempt deemed “an eagle” by onlooking little brother. Finally, and might I add completely undeterred, he drew something quite ovalish. I was so proud of him. And then I said the unlikeliest, least planned bit of motherly advice: “Archer, if you can draw an oval with an Etch-a-Sketch, you can do anything in life.” Almost immediately he replied, “No, Mom. You can do anything with practice.”

I’ve thought about my egg feat and Archer’s wisdom all week. Which is more phenomenal: making an oval with a toy designed to draw straight lines, or mastering anything with enough practice?

Life before Covid-19 was a spirograph: overlapping color curves and endless possibilities spun into wildly intricate filigrees of freedom. Life amidst Covid-19 is an Etch-a-Sketch: straight lines inside a mandated box border. The rigidity of enclosure has been, at times, austere. FOR THE LOVE, SHAKE ME! START THIS GROUNDHOG DAY OVER!

In my metaphor, ovals symbolize happiness, therefore an oval born inside an Etch-a-sketch proves happiness and joy can exist anywhere. I suspect our prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, has been quoted roughly 5.6 billion times for his assurance,

The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.

Isn’t that just another way of saying ovals can be drawn with straight line knobs? Or ovals against all odds just take practice?

So I’m practicing drawing ovals because I know they are possible. We’re all practicing ovals: smiling at each other behind masks, waving through our windows, air hugging, Zooming, delivering baked love* on doorsteps. Ovals in a time of pandemic are beautiful and deserve to be framed. Maybe an Etch-a-Sketch isn’t a prison, but a frame. Perhaps this unique season in history is showcasing goodness we’ve never been prouder to create.

I feel like the world’s population is collectively showing and receiving each other’s best attempts at ovals, and it feels awfully unified and not at all isolated. It’s like the next socially-distanced rally at the Capitol could be optimistic knob bosses waving Etch-a-Sketches in the air to chants of NO MORE STAIRCASES! WE ARE DRAWING OVALS!

We’re sketching for weeks to come but I know it’s not all right angles of doom. There will be softness, and arcs of reaching, and miraculous shapes drawn from people’s persistence.

Let’s not flatten all the curves.

*Are we all making banana bread? Pre-quarantine I made Jaime’s banana muffins twice a week. We’re definitely up to 3x/week. Perhaps 2020’s slogan should be “No Black Banana Left Behind”. For Jaime's muffins we are a house divided and do half with mini chocolate chips and half with blueberries—because my life isn't complicated enough. I also do 1/4 c. each of all-purpose, wheat, and almond flour to make my 3/4 c. flour, but 3/4 c. all-purpose works just fine. And I reduce the sugar to 1/4 cup. We only do minis and I always leave them in for 15 (or more, you really can't burn them). We like them darker!

Bluebird Day

I’ve lived in Utah for 26 years and skied zero times (but I own a ski mask for snow blowing). I think every other resident of Utah skis, which is why I accidentally know the term “bluebird day”. A bluebird day is a blue skied, cloudless, sunny day that usually follows a snowstorm. For the elite that own snow pants, it means prime ski conditions. For me, it’s just a beautiful reward for enduring bad weather.

Easter always feels like a bluebird day to me.

Christ’s last mortal week was full of bad weather: that weighted last look over Jerusalem before His triumphal entry, Judas’ betrayal, sleeping apostles while he oozed from every pore, unjust accusations, an unfair trial, carrying His cross alone, a bloody crown of thorns, torn and whipped flesh, nails and a sword, vinegar, watching his family weep as they watched Him hang and die. Yet all of that was surpassed Sunday morning when, whole and radiant, He spoke to witnesses at the empty tomb.

I think of Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin’s words concerning the first Easter Sunday and the calm gift it was after Friday’s devastation:

Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. In this life or the next, Sunday will come.

Me: Archer, why do you think it’s called Good Friday?

Archer: Because it was good for us.

The promise that every storm will end? Pretty good indeed.

Photo of a bluebird day as seen from my deck. I mean it—I didn't photoshop out a single wisp of cloud.