He'd die of embarrassment if he knew I was posting this, but it was such an incredibly meaningful exchange to me that I can't resist...Ryan called me from the other room Sunday evening and told me to "hurry" to the computer.
"Look what I made. Do you remember?"
He had followed Trenton onto www.friend.lds.org and was coloring his very own sixteen-year-old version of the Mount Timpanogus Temple.
"Do you remember when we used to drive to Jazz Band in the mornings and the temple looked pink like this?"
I do. I do remember. And, I felt so grateful that he remembered, too.
First, I have talked of it often, but still can't get over the feeling of privilege at having had this gorgeous House of the Lord 500 yards from our front door. Even for just that short ten months, I can't even express how that proximity influenced my living. It made everything about life seem sacred: playing with the kids on the green space, sitting at soccer games, driving home in the dark with it's light as a beacon, and these early morning drives with Ryan.
Sacred is how living, and caring for a family should feel, and that temple brought those feelings to me in a way I haven't forgotten.
Second, Making the Jazz Band was the tender mercy of Ryan's Utah year at Mountain Ridge Junior High. After displacing him from a very secure Texas at twelve years old, a kind band director was willing to slurp him up and give him opportunities that gave him a place to fit in. Allowing him to be in early morning Jazz Band was such a kindness and transporting him there was an effort I wanted to make for him.
Even with that desire, that daily drive at seven am was a sacrifice. I was three, then four, then nine months pregnant, and then one, and two months post-partum during that school year. I felt terrible. The whole pregnancy I struggled with daily migraines, visual disturbances and extreme nausea. My heart raced faster than 110 bpm at rest and my blood pressure was skyrocketing. Then I had a c-section, divided nights with a newborn, and single parenting as Greg had moved to Arkansas in front of us.
I remember well getting out of bed each morning early, waking Ryan while the house slept on, and the two of us braving the Utah fall, winter (with it's snow and ice), then spring. Those morning drives from American Fork to Highland were so peaceful. It felt like Ryan, and me, and that temple, as it shined on, were the only things awake. Ryan was chatty and happy, and I was so grateful for his friendship. He didn't even seem to notice or mind my big, huge, Holden tummy, and he didn't seem embarrassed when I would wrap a fleece coat around my pajamas and we would run into Kohler's for fresh Jazz Band donuts.
Even though it was hard for me, it felt so good to be giving something to Ryan that he couldn't give himself. I never talked to him about it, and it really isn't that heroic, but hidden in a little part of my heart was the desire that someday he would understand that day after day, week after week, month after month labor of love.
With this little picture, I now know he remembers the pink, peaceful temple.... and that feels like enough.
