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.

paper plate thanksgiving

Martha Stewart, had she been invited, most certainly would have sent her RSVP regrets. The dinner table was not set with fine china, and did not feature an awe-inspiring seasonal centerpiece. The menu was more Charlie Brown than Julia Child. The crystal goblets remained in hibernation as we celebrated another paper plate Thanksgiving.

For years I dreamed of pulling up my upholstered, high back chair to a table featuring hand lettered place-cards, fancy napkins and proper etiquette; but the phrase "please pass the perfectly polished heirloom silver service cradling the golden honey glazed baby carrots grown in my private vegetable garden," has yet to echo down the length of the spacious dining hall.

Holidays are for celebrating traditions. Unwittingly, I suppose I have infused our family time with the tradition of work. From a daunting newspaper route to the Chabin makeover, my family has foregone traditional fare in order to assist with one (or more) of my crazy projects. This year, in addition to Aunt Bernice's famous pies, the family rallied around the Jefferson Square renovation. We cleaned windows and floors, stripped wallpaper, moved furniture, filled the dumpster with construction debris, and swept the courtyard...and somewhere along the way, ate turkey.

With the passage of time, my interpretation of the "perfect Thanksgiving" has changed. This November, once again, in the midst of another "crazy Jed project," all of the essentials were there: food on the table, a roof (several roofs) overhead and family to love. For this, I give thanks.

raking the stink

Years ago I read a poem in the Daily Universe, BYU's campus newspaper, written by a disgruntled student groundskeeper. The poet expressed her disdain for the supervisor who, in the early morning hours of fall semester, made her "rake the stink." That descriptive phrase resurfaced this Saturday as Fran, Alison, Deena, Mike and I tackled the yard at THE HOUSE for what may have been the last time. It wasn't the "fetid jelly" oozing through the teeth of my rake that made my stomach turn, as much as the idea of abandoned harvests. Unrecognizable fruit guts hidden under layers of fallen dry leaves served as a reminder to celebrate things in their season. What could have been a tasty treat was now a stinky chore, all because of procrastination. Prophets have declared that "by their fruits ye shall know them." Today I resolve to be represented by choice fruits, and not rotting apples and pears.

wrinkles

If you were experiencing chest pains and numbness in your arm, what is the first thing you would do? Call a doctor? Go to the hospital? If you were my mom, you would do some IRONING of course. This morning when my sweet, self-conscious mother finally disclosed that fact she was experiencing some discomfort (she didn't want to be a bother) she wouldn't let me to take her to the clinic until she had a clean, pressed shirt to wear. She reasoned, "just because the doctor is going to see that I am wrinkly under this shirt, doesn't mean my clothes have to be wrinkly also." Moms.

for now

This blog is a stretch for me...on many levels. I've already related my distaste for keeping a journal, but presenting something using a generic template makes me equally uneasy. One of the biggest lessons I learned from the fire episode, however, is to not to wait until everything is pressed, and polished and perfect to share it. If I had followed that usual safe, controlled pattern, there would be no chabin memories to cherish. I would not have opened the doors on that place for anyone to see until sometime in April 2006...one month after the fire. So, what I learned was to love what is...as it is, which includes people, places, circumstances, and things. The majority of life comes "as is." You can miss out on a lot of it if you are waiting for the ideal. Is your "best self" really truly yourself? Someday I will create a site looks more original than a church newsletter, but for now, this is it...this is me.

Rudyard

Rudyard. Who would look down at a cute little baby thing, and decide that the best name for a new life would be Rudyard? Well, Mr. and Mrs. Kipling I suppose. This is my new favorite poem. Thanks to a kid with a funny name.

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

"The God of Things as They Are." I love that.

the book in my lap

Once I talked with a girl about the book in her lap. We were seat mates on a long bus ride across Iowa, and so the conversation about cornfields eventually had to end. The curly haired girl said that the fancy book was her journal, and asked me if I kept one. Yes, I replied, I kept one. But just one. It had exactly three written entries, with plenty of breathing room (about 15 blank pages) between each date:

January 1979. My name is Jed Nelson Platt. I was born on January 15, 1971. Today I was baptized. The water was very cold.
April 1990. I entered the MTC today. Soon I will be heading to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Did I spell Albuquerque right?
March 1992. In a few weeks I will be returning home from serving a full time mission to the "four corners" of the earth. Where did the time go?

I hate keeping journals.

During my freshman year in college I wrote a term paper outlining all of my reasons for not keeping a written account of my life. I even received an "A" on it. I reviewed my long list of justifications with my traveling companion Angie, since we were now on a first name basis, things like: it takes too long to compose something worthwhile; who would want to read about me anyway...I don't even want to know a lot of things about me; if there are angels above silent notes taking, couldn't I just get a copy of their books when I get to the other side? I continued on, and on, into Nebraska, exhausting every excuse. All the while, Angie listened politely. When I felt as though I had built a pretty solid case, she then replied, "Now may I tell you why I do keep a journal? First of all, it's a commandment." And that was it. I was stopped. Stymied. Stuck...in the middle of nowhere.

Since that call to repentance, I started collecting a series of cool journals from different journeys–leather bound with handmade papers, sketchbooks from famous museums–each one holding the promise of being the one that would inspire me to write. But, unfortunately, no book ever took. While my library was full, my record remained empty. So when my house burned down, although it was terrible, a small part of me felt somewhat vindicated. "See, it didn't matter anyway," I told myself. Everything, literally everything, was gone.

Donella, another friend of mine has been a faithful journal keeper. Once when her backpack containing a special journal was stolen from her car she responded thoughtfully, "Well, I believe in the resurrection. Anything that has been created will one day be made whole again. Including journals." Once again, my protests and arguments did not stand.

Recently I received very strong words of counsel to start keeping a journal. One witness came in the form of a priesthood blessing, the second witness from an Apostle in General Conference. So, since this blog cannot burn or be stolen, I guess this has officially become the "book in my lap."

Reviewing the brief posts in my original journal, I suppose what was started is just about what the pattern should be for keeping earthly records: a history of who you are, the covenants you have made and an accounting of your life's mission. As the enlightened Ebenezer Scrooge said, "I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach."

I will if you will

Sitting somewhere near the back of the chapel on an rust upholstered golden oak pew, dotted with soggy hymnals and random dry cereal parts abandoned by someone's slobbery baby– during testimony worship did you ever get a poke and a whisper from a siblingfriend challenging: "I will if you will"? I've never liked the idea of a testimony dare. True sharing should not have to be coerced. But, (everyone has a big butt, Simone) a pact is a pact.

Recently I entered into a "I will if you will" blog agreement with just such a friend. And since she was the first to bare her soul to the world, I am now reluctantly following behind. My heart is nervous, and I have no idea what I am about to say. Good luck to all of us.