In Tune

I only read magazines in the tub; I love books too much to ruin their edges.

Four years ago while comfortable in my own life and reasonably comfortable in my tub I read a think piece about the life of George Frideric Handel and the oppressive circumstances prefacing his composition of Messiah, which includes the world-famous "Hallelujah Chorus". My takeaway from the article was NEVER GIVE UP, NEVER QUIT, ALWAYS TRY AGAIN. If the chips of life have fallen and left you penniless, in poor health, past your prime, or unable to please a critic then you, like Handel, are at the most important spot life could place you: you are one try away from hitting the jackpot.

I thought about Handel years later when our first IVF failed. I distinctly remember thinking, "Perhaps the NEXT try will be my magnum opus. Maybe baby is still one try away." Not quitting is commendable and having the guts to keep trying is equally bold but I now believe I was missing the Handel boat entirely. The bells of Notre Dame woke me up.

Last year I flew to Paris on Easter Sunday which coincided with newly minted bells inaugurating Notre Dame's 850th anniversary. France's iconic landmark holds ten bells, nine of which are new. One is not. It is called Emmanuel and it is the masterpiece of the group.

Emmanuel is the 13-ton bronze beauty cast in the 15th century and recast in 1681 by request of King Louis XIV, who also named him. EMMANUEL is Hebrew for God is with us. Emmanuel is the only original bell to survive the French Revolution; the rest were melted down to make cannons and coins.

Notre Dame has always looked the part but never sounded the part. Notre Dame caught a lot of flack over the years for having "the most discordant bells in Europe." Bell experts (why did I not know this was an occupation?) joked that Our Lady's ear-shattering clangs caused Quasimodo to go deaf. Since the bells were owned by the government and not the church it took over 100 years to make new bells happen. You know, red tape and whatnot. Even for bells. Ring-diculous!

Paul Bergamo, the bellmaker who cast eight of the new bells at his foundry in Normandy, said the old bells were acceptable for a medium-sized church lost in the countryside but no match for the first church of France, arguably the most famous cathedral in Europe. After all, he was creating replacements for bells that announced the crowning of Napoleon, signaled the end of two world wars, and proclaimed a day of prayer on September 12, 2001.

Crucially, the new bells were forged to be in tune with Emmanuel, whose F-sharp set the musical foundation. Nine new bells created from scratch to pair with Emmanuel remedied centuries of cacophony. Notre Dame pealed majestically when I was there. She sounded royal to me.

Ringing in unison is a human project, too.

Handel had an insatiable craving to be successful. His bell was tuned to fame, fortune, and acceptance but all it got him was rejection, depression, and creative paralysis. His bell clanged FAILURE every time it was struck. Three months after closing up musical shop and giving what he believed was his final performance this happened:

Late one August afternoon Handel returned from a long and tiring walk to find that a poet and previous collaborator, Charles Jennens, had left him a manuscript. This libretto quoted liberally from the scriptures, particularly the words of Isaiah, foretelling the birth of Jesus Christ and describing His ministry, Crucifixion, and Resurrection. The work was to be an oratorio. Given his previous failures, Handel was apprehensive as he began to read through the text.

“Comfort Ye,” the first words of the manuscript, seemed to leap from the page. They dissipated dark clouds that had been pressing upon Handel for so long. His depression waned and his emotions warmed from interest to excitement as he continued to read of angelic proclamations of the Savior’s birth and of Isaiah’s prophecies of the Messiah, who would come to earth to be born as other mortal infants.

A familiar melody Handel had composed earlier flooded into his mind...the notes distilled upon his mind faster than he could put pencil to paper. Upon completing his composition Handel humbly acknowledged, “God has visited me.”

The humbling loss of public approval, money, health and happiness had melted his old bell. From Square One at Rock Bottom he tried something new; he partnered with God and recast himself a new bell. In a miraculous three weeks' time he wrote the bulk of Messiah, the time-tested tour de force which has declared the Savior's reality to millions upon millions.

Maybe the real message of Handel's life isn't about trying again...because a hard-working, out of tune bell can ring all it wants yet forever remain out of tune. Handel tried so hard he gave himself a stroke. Trying won't always change the result. Maybe the secret is to try again as a NEW BELL; one built with a purpose, one aiming to chime with God.

God is with us, his toll constant and unchanging, yet He will never force us to change. He did not intend for us to be a two-bit bell ding-donging forgettably in the middle of nothingness; we were created to ring in Notre Dame! Yet we may ring as we please.

I am nothing without Christ. I am not creative, witty, resourceful or inspired on my own. Me, Myself, and I are myopic and uncertain. Flying solo has never taken me anywhere worth visiting. Alone I am the unimpressive sum of my parts. Lately I have been stuck as a mother. I keep hitting the same potholes and brick walls. I think it is because I have been trying to do it on my own. I forget to rely on the source that will magnify and enhance all my efforts. I need His help if I am to do anything of consequence.

The prise de conscience (just a fancy French way of saying realization) that living as God's instrument equals deliverance, not shackles, is available for every spirit to discover. Handel told the sponsors of Messiah, "I have myself been a very sick man and am now cured. I was a prisoner and have been set free."

Handel was buried in Westminster Abbey where bells have been ringing and singing since the year 1230. Coincidentally, a neighbor gifted me an ornament today obtained on a recent trip to Westminster. The ornament has sheet music all over it and says "Joy to the World" in calligraphy. Hello, Handel wrote the tune to "Joy to the World." Even more coincidentally, this is the ornament another neighbor tied to my Christmas present later today:

 

Photo of Notre Dame's north and south bell towers one week after the new bells were installed. Photo quote from The Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. Indented section is the original magazine article by Spencer Condie quoted; read Handel's amazing life story here.

Evergreen

One of the best gifts I ever received was unwrapped unexpectedly at the Alpine roundabout three winters ago. I've thought about it often but have always been frustrated at translating it into words. In the midst of writer's block I recalled this story from a packet of required reading in one of my design classes at BYU:

When I was 19, I hesitated about going on a mission. I yearned for some kind of spiritual assurance about my faith and the direction of my life. In the midst of this turbulence I went very late one night to the St. George Tabernacle using the key I carried with me as an assistant organist. I sat alone at the organ with a small reading light for about two hours filling that darkened, historic building with the sounds of Bach and the hymns of Zion. When I finished somehow I just knew I should go on a mission. I had been lifted and taught in spirit but not in ways that I could describe.

I have often wondered what it is about music and aesthetic experience that connects those things with our most significant sense of feeling and meaning.

Music and aesthetic beauty. They are roots that connect me to my deepest sense of self. I FEEL things are true or right long before I ever UNDERSTAND why they are so. I trust my feeler.

That night three years ago RE had been invited to a classmate's cat-themed birthday party (I only remember because she hated it-she had to communicate with meows and lap cake and ice cream out of a bowl with her tongue) and of course it was snowing like crazy and Greg was working in Salt Lake. I had to man up and drive over the river and through the woods to drop her off.

After safely making it to Cat House my white knuckles and I headed for home. It was 7 pm on a December weekend but oddly enough I was the only car on the dark road. The snow suddenly changed from blizzard snow to snowglobe snow; the kind that falls slowly in fat flakes and doesn't smear on the windshield and blur your vision. I was listening to my favorite rendition of "O Holy Night" on volume 27 (my car goes to volume 39; 27 is just below going deaf but loud enough the marrow in my thickest bone can hear). I approached the twinkling roundabout as the chorus swelled. Something about being the only car around, the black sky, the silent snow, the string lights wrapped around every twig, the song...

All the elements were stirred in that circle and like epoxy solidified forever inside of me. I cannot forget what I felt in that moment. I simply knew that Christ was real and I felt how much He loved me. I also felt how much I loved Him.

That was three Decembers ago. Two Decembers ago was the failed IVF. Last December I was newly pregnant. This year I hold the babe in my arms. My Decembers have been as varied as they come but my constant has been the Savior. Whether complacent, hollow, hopeful, or healed He has known my needs. In this world of drought, fatigue, waning, and weakening the Savior is evergreen. He is alive and he is the source of life.

Excerpt from "To Enliven the Soul" by Bruce C. Hafen, Provost, Brigham Young University, Church Music Workshop Keynote, July 31, 1990. My other favorite paragraph: The great German composer Johannes Brahms was a deeply religious man; he was also among the most technically profound of all composers. Over the years I have come to feel special appreciation for his music. When I saw Reid Nibley on campus a few years ago I told him I was on a Brahms kick. He said, "Are things really that bad?" And not long ago in a private prayer by my bedside I found myself asking the Lord if he ever sees Johannes Brahms. If he does, I said, please thank him for me.

Top Dresser Drawer

Once upon a time when I was engaged to be married I heard a retired estate lawyer speak uncommonly about top dresser drawers. In his lifelong employment he observed by the time someone died of old age their most important things were few in number and in the top dresser drawer. All those paychecks for what? The wedding ring, marriage certificate, will, patriarchal blessing, old photo, and bundle of letters remained priceless while a lifetime of possessions had slipped through the sieve of meaning.

I don't have a dresser but Greg and I do share a nightstand. Our top drawer has two sets of old-fashioned printed scriptures, a wind-up flashlight, a nearly-illegal Chinese laser pointer, three rogue cough drops, Nike receipts from Greg's annual birthday shoe investment, and the notes RE leaves on our bed. It's something.

My life's top dresser drawer? Chock full of nothing tangible.

Underneath it all is my wedding day complete with a braided calla lily wand. There are the two evenings my children were born, both of which Greg nearly missed by trying to snag supper while I effaced, and the two afternoons they were blessed in church surrounded by complete extended families. There's the hug I got from my dad after his 18-month mission and the recent Paradise Bakery lunch with my siblings where we bantered so fast we could hardly keep up with ourselves.

There's the day I asked Suz and Andy to forgive me while the airport shuttle van was running in the driveway. I see RE riding her bike towards the sunset with her hands open and reaching for the sky. It's dusty and old but I spy an Aerosmith song and a sunroof with Cristall (and an apple pie that appears to have been run over). I hear Matt's voice box car alarm. My mom's endless back scratches. The afternoon Mother Bear helped me decorate a birdcage and my father-in-law's unmistakable laugh.

There's Archer's smile every morning when I peek over his crib and RE's smile every day when I pick her up from school. I put these in the drawer day after day. Oh, my life is good.

Sifting through the piles I see myself jumping off a bridge into the ocean with Greg and RE and swimming in a Caribbean cave with David and Tracey. NYC, SFO, and Chi-town with the aunt who formed so many of my current sensibilities. Witnessing Rat's maiden voyage/close call on the canyon swing in Glenwood. Glitter toes in the basement with my six SILs. Cutting and gluing with Mary, Michelle, Jaime, and Jonna. A piece of leftover lasagna from a next door neighbor. Three bishops who were at the right place at the right time with wives to match.

I keep pulling a day from last November out of my drawer. Greg and I were in Manhattan for his birthday and had found out two weeks prior that our second IVF worked. I was only six weeks along and still injecting progesterone to make sure baby was in Club Med. With four hours of allotted free time before a business dinner we flew through the Met just long enough for Greg to see Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte and for me to spot Van Gogh's beautiful blobs. Then we meandered for several hours through Central Park as the sun set and the city twinkles came out. We got waffles and cocoa and shuffled through crunchy leaves off the cement path. I leaned on his arm and can't remember being happier. Everything we wanted was coming to pass and all those years of question marks and unrest were practically behind us. Plus I had smooched him in front of the opal clock at Grand Central the night before. #bucketlist

I only save the best for my top dresser drawer. My drawer is getting full so there's simply no room to hold on to car crashes, embarrassments, failures, arguments, rashes, bad haircuts, regrets, mismanagement, lost money, or guilt. And no meanness! Nothing mean in the drawer!

What do I want for Christmas this year? More items for my top dresser drawer.

*The retired estate lawyer was Elder Marlin K. Jensen, on assignment in the Columbia, Missouri Stake. Hands down one of the best speakers on earth.

Photo of zebra wallpaper I saw in the Parade of Homes. After much searching, I believe it is the Peel and Stick Coral Zebra wallpaper by Scalamandré.

Fetter

     

Seven years deep in infertility. That’s where I was when I decided I would attend the temple weekly until I got my baby. The temple was a mere eight minutes away, I had the time, and it was what all those barren women of the Old Testament did. I just knew without question it was what I should do.

I took a picture of the temple every week as I drove away. One crisp, hard temple against the looming, organic backdrop of Mount Timpanogos. A photo collage proved the quick passage of time. Timp morphed green to red to brown to white to green again like a giant chameleon. One year down. No baby.

I kept going. FNDN babysat RE weekly during summer vacation so I could attend. It was my birthday gift from her complete with a laminated 10-punch card. That winter there was a massive snowstorm the night of December 30. It was the last night the temple was open for the year and nearly closing time. I looked outside at the unplowed roads, looked back at my wussy Honda, and said a prayer. I told Heavenly Father that I didn’t want to lose my goal over snow so to please help me get up Temple Hill without getting stuck or wrecking. As I approached Shelley Elementary a plow turned in front of me and cleared the entire route to the temple. It was a good year. No baby.

A third year came and went. The day I lost my baby I went to Draper because Timp was closed for cleaning. Smaller, slower Draper with its natural light and marbled stone. I sat in that light dressed in white with a stone face as a secret mess of reality bled out of me. I lost what I wanted most in silence and stared at the Minerva Teichert painting of Mary and Martha on the wall. I heard Jesus tell me, too, ONLY ONE THING IS NEEDFUL and the thing wasn’t a baby; it was Him. I will never forget the long arms of peace that wrapped around me in Draper. I drove home without I-15 and my new path introduced me to Suncrest and Corner Canyon. I felt something the minute I drove past it…without a baby.

Year four. I had learned to anticipate the week the honey locusts burned brightest yellow. I stared at them until I had my fill because the flash never lasted seven more days; faded glory would coat the parking lot the following week. After several weeks of dizzy worship from IVF meds I once again sat in front of Mary and Martha empty-bellied. Autonomy took over and robotically I showed up each week because it was needful. Needful was an understatement. I can scarcely remember the rest of that winter. It seemed like one never-ending inversion; no green, no sun, no agenda, no baby.

One week shy of five perfect years I gave birth to my son. I knew I was being induced so I went twice that last week to round it out right. Thirteen hours before heading to the hospital I waddled out of the archway with two-hundred and sixty visits behind me. Two races run, one finish line crossed, the other waiting for me in the morning. I looked up at the night sky and let the cover of night hide my emotions.

Thanks to the miscarriage I had an affinity for all things Draper and worshipped at the Draper temple several times a year. I started a little tradition of turning on “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” as I left the parking lot because the goosebumpy climax of the hymn (4 minutes and 28 seconds in) coincided with the road winding to a mind-boggling expanse. I never tired of it.

That song, that song. I can’t even talk about it. Suffice to say it is the prayer of a desperate, yearning soul torn open from the opposing forces of consecrating and quitting. That song with that drive was a temporary emotional patch I applied week after week. Here’s my (broken) heart, Lord, take and seal it. I choose you. Will I ache forever? I choose you. If this never ends…I still choose you.

There is absolute aid in the temple. All those years I focused on my unanswered prayer by checkmarking the calendar and searching for strength. I expected Popeye speedy spinach power but that is not how it came. Link by little link (or “almost perceptibly” as Elder Bednar would say) is how I was FETTERED CHAINED WELDED to my Savior.

Some of my photos of the Mount Timpanogos Temple. Regarding that Draper view Greg and I each loved instantly: we bought a piece of it in the spring. Someday when we move I will remain eight minutes from a temple. And if you don't have the song you need it. The album looks like this and the song is on iTunes.

Spellbound

Magical things can happen in your house when your kids are little. I personally feel the PRIME GULLIBLE ZONE lasts until they turn six. (Case in point: We took RE to Disneyland when she turned five and she believed parrots were singing in the Tiki Room and jungle cruise piranhas were about to eat us alive. We went to Disneyworld when she was 6 and she reported, "Everything here is fake. We need to go back to California.")

When RE was in kindergarten I accompanied her class on the pumpkin patch field trip. Each student was allowed to pick a free pumpkin. Ever the cheapskate I encouraged her to get the largest pumpkin on the field. A lover of miniatures she picked the teensiest mini-pumpkin Farmer Ben grew. It fit in her palm. Boy did she love that thing.

Grandpa Herb happened to be staying at our house for a few days and was a first-hand witness of her gourd affection. RE was reluctant to go to bed that night without her new treasure so we quickly devised a reason for pumpkin to stay downstairs: it needed to sleep on the windowsill so it could grow bigger in the night just like she grew bigger every night. She bought it and went to bed alone.

I went to bed, too. But Herb went to the store. That sneaky guy bought a pumpkin JUST bigger than her original pumpkin, swapped it on the sill, and went to bed himself.

When RE came downstairs for breakfast she could tell her pumpkin had grown because it didn’t quite fit in her palm the way it had at the patch. Her eyebrows were raised and she was thinking. She went to school and Herb swapped the pumpkin for another size up. She came home and ran to the sill...yep! It was growing even more! That night Grandpa swapped it again, the pumpkin now up to a 6” diameter. Mom! Come see how my pumpkin growed! This continued for three days until my sweet father-in-law had to drive home to Colorado. The final pumpkin was so big it had to sit on the floor, not the sill, and she couldn’t lift it. I could hardly lift it. It was a prize-winning size if you know what I mean. Little RE accepted the sun and bedtime with confidence from that point on and just knew that things grow when they rest and feel the sun. Period.

I’ll never forget those few days. Those were days she wore a Cinderella dress-up over her real clothes, pink suede boots, and a metallic blue headband 24-7. I can still see her racing to the window to check on pumpkin with a dropped-open mouth, gasp, and wide eyes. Every check-up was the same. Oh, to be a child. They accept magic at face-value instead of looking for an explanation. They are excited every three hours because the sun is still shining and working its miracles all over the place.

Photo of 18-month old RE sitting on the biggest pumpkin we ever grew in our garden. "Big Max" was almost 100 pounds! If you love pumpkin and want to make your own purée for pumpkin chocolate chip cupcakes, click here.