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."