states of grace

This letter was written to my cousin Darren and his wife Sarah after the funeral service of their precious baby, Jack Bitner Nelson, last October. It has been three months since Jackie B.'s passing (or "graduation" or "heavenly birth" as I have heard it called), and with the recent passing of Sarah's grandfather, their family has been on my mind. I think we can all use a reminder now and then that mortal life is temporary, and that we are blessed with a Divine Heavenly Father who grants us grace.

Dear Darren and Sarah:

I just returned from spending the day with your remarkable family. Oh, how you are loved! The best word I can think of to describe the proceedings of this experience, and of its conclusion today, is "grace."

By grace, Jack came into the world. Isn't the creation of life a marvel? While visiting Portland last summer I attended an exhibit at the OMSI, all about the miraculous design of the human body. Normally I am quite squeamish when it comes to seeing anything on the outside that is supposed to be on the inside (I don't know how you do it professionally, Sarah) but I endured it, and came away extremely inspired by God's handiwork.

By grace, Jack was born into a loving family who has the fulness of the gospel. Aren't we lucky to be a part of such a valiant family? I thank God for letting me be a part of you. It is hard to believe, but so much of the hurt that exists in this world is generated within families. I am grateful that we love each other, and allow one another enough space to repent and forgive. Aren't we fortunate to have our individual testimonies of the restored gospel? Aren't we blessed to be bound by covenants that enable us to be together forever? I know Jack was born in and for the covenant.

By grace, Jack departed this world. His work was complete, and God called the physical suffering he endured sufficient for his life's test. He returned home spotless and triumphant, without his pure spirit being tainted by the world.

By grace, we are all redeemed from death through The Savior, our loving Elder Brother, Jesus Christ.

And finally, through it all, the usually wise-cracking Darren and ever spunky Sarah handled everything, their Abrahamic test, with dignity, humility, courage, hope, faith and grace. It truly was incredible, to see your strength in adversity. You make an incredible team. I hope I can be a true "help meet" like that someday.

The Wells Ward chapel, like our hearts, was filled to capacity today. The entire First Presidency was seated on the stand. What a tribute to your grand little fellow. I was amazed that as grieving parents you could be so composed in such a setting, but the circumstances could not compromise your convictions. Thank you for your testimonies.

When Kent, Cameron and Sarah played a melody of primary songs, I must admit, I lost it a little bit. In particular, my heart was breaking for Kent, leaning in closer to the music stand, playing the violin so intently for his little grandson. Even now I become teary eyed thinking about it. I suppose the scene reminded me of my own Grandpa Nelson playing the violin for me when I was little. How special that memory is to me...and the thought that Kent wouldn't have that experience with Jack made me melancholy.

In spite of the sad circumstances, it was a remarkable day. Jack is an amazing person. I look forward to becoming reacquainted with him someday. Families are special. Life is fragile. The Gospel is true. Thanks for the reminder, Jack.

ariel and the afterlife

In "The Little Mermaid," do you remember how much Ursula coveted Ariel's melodic voice? Now, I'm not plotting a takeover of the underwater world, but this week I could relate to her vocal jealousy.

On Wednesday night I attended a private Josh Groban concert up at Sundance. Sitting about 15 feet away from his grand piano hearing him belt out romantic and inspiring anthems was truly thrilling. If in the next life, when all things become perfected and perhaps we get to chose new talents, I want his voice.

end of an era

I am now officially old.

Before there were seat belt laws and an operable AC (other than a rear window rolled part way down–manually of course), I remember riding around town in one of a fleet of used cars owned and driven by my dad. As we traversed the east bench of Salt Lake City, he would usually point out a vacant street corner or new office building and tell me about what used to be standing in that location when he was growing up: his school, his ball field, his church. I was usually interested in his stories of yesteryear, but most likely dismissed their significance as quickly as we would turn the corner–equating change to progress.

Driving around Salt Lake recently, I waxed nostalgic as I realized that many of my childhood landmarks are also no longer standing. My elementary school has closed. The junior high is being torn down and replaced. My high school is unrecognizable in both architecture and ethnicity. Ice cream parlors, shoe stores and hamburger joints are now offices, and vice versa. The parking lot turned water park is now a parking lot again. The department stores I remember waiting and waiting and waiting in for my mother and sisters to finish shopping, are now trendy eating places equipped with WiFi. Sugar House, where I used to get on the bus, and downtown where I used to get off the bus, are in various stages of demolition and construction.

I am not necessarily condemning change. Personally I have renovated two aging structures, themselves once new, hoping to extend their life span and usefulness as I saw it. But, sooner than I had hoped, they too were claimed by time and the jaws of a bulldozer or swinging fists of a wrecking ball.

Today I can add one more address into the "change" column: my family home. Built by my grandfather Francis, who also helped to subdivide the neighborhood, 2264 South 2000 East has been the Platt homestead since its construction in 1941. My father purchased the house in 1963, and has been building on it ever since. Today my parents signed a contract to sell "fort Platt" to a new family, who I am confident, have ideas of their own for the future of the property.

After posting an "After Christmas Sale" on Craig's List, an offer was accepted on what we all agreed was an appropriate day: Martin Luther King Jr. Day. We reasoned that the visionary buyers could say "I have a dream" and the weary sellers could exclaim "free at last, free at last." We will be packing up the remaining miscellaneous items and memories from behind the block wall on Saturday, February 2, and will say one last goodbye. The end of an era.

Goodbye game room: orange shag carpet, faux wood paneling, a popcorn ceiling and harsh florescent lighting were never so cherished.

Goodbye swimming pool, recently unfloored: location of flips and splashes, merit badges, a makeshift water bed, mom's broken leg, indoor trampoline, and in its later years everyone's storage shed.

Goodbye heating vents: congregating places, especially under the piano, on cold mornings before school.

Goodbye bathrooms, toilets behind random doors: all twelve of them.

Goodbye unique walls: your textures helped us navigate our way through the darkness late at night. Our knuckles are still trying to recover from the extreme-textured living room, and our eyes from the green shag crawling up the walls in the basement.

Goodbye steep staircases, eight at last count: falling down you always left an impression. No hard feelings, but the "fireworks stairs" were always my favorite.

Goodbye kitchen of your choice: a different one for each meal of the day...not only breakfast, lunch and dinner, but also brunch, after school and midnight snacks.

Goodbye secret hiding places: the tunnel under mom and dad's bed, the trapdoor stairs and the conservatory loft. The axe murderer never stood a chance.

Goodbye doors: each of your distinctive squeaks and creaks told a story. Your age, origin, shape, working condition, and building material punctuated the composition. James Bond and the ward librarian would feel equally at home.

Goodbye trees: apricot, peach, pear, plum, cherry, apple, hawthorne, pussywillow, helicopter/mustache and soaring evergreens. The weeping willow in the backyard whose selfless removal made the swimming pool possible, and the happy maple in the front that the whole neighborhood thought was perfect for climbing.

Goodbye underground wheat storage tank: another place to climb, but only as a chore. We always knew you would be there for us in an emergency.

Goodbye laundry chute: equal parts puppet theater and elevator shaft.

Goodbye bedrooms: at one time or another I have claimed each one as my own, as have a hundred others.

Goodbye. Goodbye from all of us.

big goals

Last January I was asked to give a talk in Sacrament meeting about BIG GOALS. Since it was the new year, I assumed that the bishopric councilor wanted me to give the token talk on goal setting. When I tried to confirm his intent for assigning the topic, he replied, "No, not just setting goals, but BIG GOALS. You are someone who takes on big things, and we want to learn more about how to do that."

One thing I have learned about playing big, is that the bigger the dream, the bigger the breakdown you will encounter on your way to achieving it–as evidenced by my personal set of plagues: the fire in Liberty and the flood in Ogden. Everyone up here in the valley is well aware of my bad luck/Charlie Brown syndrome. In my ward I am affectionately known as the "poster child for disasters".

Confident in my message, I stood at the pulpit and began to expound on the methods of successfully creating and achieving big goals. But just as I was starting to the make the point of "pushing through opposition," an unplanned object lesson presented itself. As if it had been perfectly choreographed, the emergency lights and sirens went off, as well as the serious automated voice telling everyone to evacuate the building. I immediately looked behind me to the Bishop, who said that it was most likely a false alarm and to keep going–he would send someone to turn off the alarm. So I continued, trying my best to keep my composure and preach the "good word" over the commotion. I must say that I was doing a pretty good job at keeping everyone's attention–that is until a lady on the back row stood up and said "Um, Bishop? There's kind of water coming in back here."

It had been so cold in the valley that week, that a pipe froze and then burst, causing the vestibule, hallway, gym and chapel to flood. The humor of it all–that the disaster occurred while I was speaking–was not lost on my ward.

I held up my hands in surrender, and said "You are all witnesses. I was up here the whole time and did not touch a thing." Honestly, the first thing that came to my mind was the motivational video my neighbor shared with me the previous night, called "The Secret." The message of the program was that we attract what we think about. So, while standing on the podium in front of 250 saints, I was convinced that surely I must have been channeling something about flooded churches.

Come to think of it, Noah was a man with big goals whose message also got "watered down."

a way to the manger

An impromptu retelling of the nativity story during a sacrament meeting talk provided a touching scene for Christmas. Cast members pulled from the congregation stood in awe as they were called forth to approach the manger scene. A five year old angel, barely taller than the podium, stretched a star-topped broom handle heavenward to show them the way. Taking their cues, and hats, three teenage wisemen aka "Prom King," "Burger King," and "Tinfoil Superhero" knelt next to the cradle, while shepherds holding a flagpole and mop handle stood watch. Unrehearsed, today's telling taught me there was a new way to come to the manger: Now, and as you are. Who knows when the Savior will come again into the world? Will I be ready, or "asleep, asleep"–like the trio of primary girls sang softly to those of us watching, and waiting, for our invitation to "come and adore Him."

sing, sing a song

Today I returned home an hour and a half after church was over. (No, I didn't need a special interview with the bishop or anything like that.) I was at choir practice. I know. Me. At choir practice. Something I told myself I would never do.

Now, I love music. I love the hymns. I love Christmas carols. But I do NOT sing in public. In fact, for most of my life, even during congregational hymns where there are over 250 voices to hide behind, I have been singing so softly for fear that someone would hear me.

I used to like to sing. But, like my voice, all that changed in Junior High. During dress rehearsal for the holiday program, Miss Summerhays, the choir director, had us line up in rows according to height. I happened to be just shorter than Mike Z, so he stood in front of me when we went on stage and stood single file, slightly turned in. I don't remember what the song was, but whenever we sang a particular high note in that particular song, Mike would elbow me in the gut. Perhaps he had an uncontrollable spasm or was just simply teasing, but whatever the "real" reason, what I decided in that moment is "I can't sing. And unless I want to get hurt, I'd better not let anyone hear me." So, for over twenty years, with the exception of being alone with the car radio, that pudgy, freckled faced 8th grader has been mouthing the words.

Recently, that decision made long ago created a dilemma for me. I received a personal letter from the ward choir director pleading for me to come and sing. Being relatively new in the ward, I dismissed it, rationalizing that this Sister clearly didn't know me or my voice. Then, coincidentally/inspirationally, as things usually occur, the lesson I had to prepare for Sunday School that week was all about sustaining others in their callings. I was reminded that when we raise our hands to sustain someone we are promising to do whatever they require of us, to assist them in fulfilling their assignment. As I was pondering on the topic, the letter from the choir director came into my mind. Drat. Then this thought followed closely behind: "if you didn't intend on supporting (agreeing to help) this sister, you shouldn't have raised your hand to pledge that you would. It is too late to put your hand down now. There are witnesses, you know." Drat, again. I mean, Fa-La-La.

Covenants trump insecurities.

my own Horatio Alger story

Wikipedia says:
Horatio Alger, Jr. was a 19th century American author who wrote approximately 135 dime novels. Many of his works have been described as rags to riches stories, illustrating how down-and-out boys might be able to achieve the American Dream of wealth and success through hard work, courage, determination, and concern for others. This widely-held view involves a significant simplification, as Alger's characters do not typically achieve extreme wealth; rather they attain middle-class security, stability, and a solid reputation — that is, their efforts are rewarded with a place in society, not domination of it. He is noted as a significant figure in the history of American cultural and social ideals, even though his novels are rarely read these days. As bestsellers in their own time, Alger's books rivaled those of Mark Twain in popularity.

When cruising around antique stores, rarely do I look in the old book section; but when I literally tripped over this book in the hallway crowded with collectibles, I had to buy it. I have heard the term "Horatio Alger story" before, but never knew I was one, until this week. As if it were a 250 page horoscope, I stayed up until 4 a.m. reading it, to see how "my life" would transpire.

In Alger's telling, "Jed, the Poorhouse Boy" is about a youth who attempts to leave behind the oppression of his upbringing and make his place in the world. In his quest, he crosses paths with both robbers and good Samaritans, and learns valuable lessons from each encounter. When the world seems to be conspiring against him, he does not sulk, dwell on his misfortune, or plot revenge against those who intentionally mean him harm....eventhough others would threaten to "step on his necktie." His humble confidence propels him forward. He is gracious in accepting help, and generous in offering assistance to others. Whether met with good or bad fortune, he remains true to his principles and his noble character remains unaffected.

To spoil the ending...it turns out that Jed was actually kidnapped as a child, and abandoned at the poorhouse in order to hide his true identity. In the nick of time, he is identified and reunited with his rightful inheritance and status as an English Baron. (So, pretty much, that is about the only part that fits.)

"Notwithstanding his accession to the ancestral title and estate, he has not forgotten the years during which he was known as 'Jed, the Poorhouse Boy.'"

I will try to do the same.