Out of the Ashes
I STARE IN FRUSTRATION at the garage’s concrete expanse—as if the car could somehow be hiding behind the tools and clutter. He said he’d be home in ten minutes! The mental shout echoes through my head as I glare, once more, at the empty garage. Fuming, I shut the door to find the phone. I dial his office. No answer.
Glancing at the clock every two seconds, the minutes tick slowly by—ten, twenty, then thirty. The carpool, unable to wait, leaves me. My children are awake now, demanding to be fed. I pour their cereal and milk, listening for the car. An endless string of minutes later, I hear it. The engine’s rasping thrum is my signal. I kiss my children, grab my bag, and head out the door as if my heels are on fire.
He must have known I’d be angry, or perhaps my baleful stare clues him in, for the first words he utters are an apology. “I’m sorry, I just had to ”¦” The words blur together without meaning. Except for temple trips, I can count on one hand the number of times I’d gone anywhere without at least one child in tow during our nine years of marriage. Excited for a “girls’ day out” volunteering for the temple open house, I’d been numbering the days like a child waiting for Christmas. I brush past him in my haste. “Now, I’m late and will have to drive the whole way by myself—thanks a lot!” My accusing words drip with sarcasm. I slam the door and look over my shoulder to back out. Through the open window I hear, “Be safe. I love you!”
I gun the engine and speed out of sight. Incinerating thoughts fuel the first part of the drive. Consumed with resentment and disappointment, I focus only on the tumult within. An hour later, my anger burns into ashes. Then there is silence. Sadness. Despair at my failings. I notice it is raining. I suddenly notice many things—the skin stretched over my clenched knuckles on the steering wheel, my stiff shoulders, the alarming speedometer, my growling stomach. I slow down to set the cruise control while my normal, rational self emerges and finds a snack.
I spend the next hour in self-examination. As a capable person with a wonderful family and very good health—why do I feel so unequal to the challenges in my life? The verdict? I am burnt out—burdened by my blessings. Children, husband, callings, and school, are all taking their part of me. I am in pieces. I pray to be made whole again.
The route changes now. I pay attention so I don’t get lost. Illinois Highway 96 is a narrow road winding through a patchwork of fields with occasional glimpses of the muddy Mississippi River. A few ramshackle river towns hug the road, but are gone in a blink. It would hardly be memorable, except that it is the only road in and out of Nauvoo.
Drawing nearer, the dreadful morning fades from my mind as anticipation grows. I think of the multitudes traveling this path before me—on foot—and their tremendous sacrifices that moved the Lord’s work forward. Coming from a long line of Lutherans, I have no ancestral connection to the Church’s pioneer heritage. Yet, as I contemplate the difficulties they faced—taming a mosquito-infested swamp, sacrificing precious possessions to build the temple, and then leaving it all behind to escape mob violence amid winter’s icy grip—my life doesn’t seem quite as challenging anymore.
With five miles to go, there is no sign of the town. I begin to think the twisting highway has triumphed over my navigation skills. Then suddenly, it’s there. A bend in the road and the town gathers all around. Highway 96 is now Main Street. The line of traffic slows to a crawl—a modern wagon train. From this end of town, buildings and trees block my view of the temple. Soon my line of sight clears enough to behold a golden figure soaring above the town, proclaiming a welcome with a warning: “Come and see, we are here, and we will not leave again!” Like a phoenix, the Nauvoo Temple rises out of the ashes of the past to be born again.
Moving to Illinois a mere four years earlier, I could scarcely have dreamed of this event. Yet here I am, experiencing history in the making. Closer to the temple, people mill about the historic buildings, buying souvenirs, greeting old friends, and making new acquaintances. Driving on, I imagine the scene as it once may have been. Past and present merge in my thoughts, my heart leaps, and I am filled with wonder.
It’s early May, although it feels like March. Drizzling rain chills the air and the earth, but not my newly revived spirit. It is the first day of the open house for the rebuilt Nauvoo Temple, and I am thrilled to be a part of it. Gathering with the other volunteers in the dim auditorium of the Joseph Smith Building, I’m swept up in the group’s enthusiasm. Silly grins crack everyone’s faces—no one cares. Elation charges the air. Volunteer coordinators cheerfully call out assignments. There are too many people and not enough jobs, but no one leaves. I’m assigned as a relief usher.
Our group scurries to gather up individual belongings, following our guide to the temple. The undercurrent of excitement, touched with reverent awe, rises as we mount the temple steps. At the top, we pause in a columned portico to put on our surgical-style shoe coverings before entering. Rustling paper on mahogany floors is the only sound in the hushed reception area. This is not what I expected. The room is a beautiful, richly appointed memoir to a bygone era. Vibrant crimson, gold, and amethyst brocades accompany formal mahogany furnishings. Imported vases and bouquets of silk flowers grace the tables. We are told that the temple building and furnishings were wholly funded through donations, including many priceless antiques. I contemplate the generosity of those who made this exquisite building possible and am filled with gratitude.
My breath catches as I follow the group toward the corner staircase where an elegant handrail sweeps upward out of sight. A column of air and light fill the center of the floating spiral staircase. Looking down over the railing, I see a large circular table with a garden of flowers placed upon it. Looking up, I am mesmerized. Circling stairs guide my view up and around, and around, and around to the ceiling at the top of the temple. I break my gaze. Disoriented for a moment, I find myself standing alone. My group has descended. I quickly follow.
Soft light fills the walkways as we are led to the lunchroom to set down our belongings. I sit as others are taken to their posts. Ten minutes pass, then twenty. It strangely parallels my morning, yet I don’t mind the wait this time. Although reluctant to revisit my earlier reflections, the serenity of the temple invites contemplation. We break out our lunches. A coordinator returns for more volunteers, leaving two of us to wait a while longer. I am eager to do something, but exchange pleasantries to fill the time.
Our coordinator returns and sits down. His eyes hold the bleak look of the weary. I realize that the innumerable stairs must be quite difficult for such an old man. I try to give him a quiet moment. Despite myself, I begin asking questions. I think he is amused by my enthusiasm. He has a gentle smile and patient demeanor as he answers my queries. I finally declare, “I came here to work, and so far, I’ve only eaten my lunch. When are you going to give me something to do?” Abashed at the boldness of my statement, I quickly apologize. Inscrutable, he gazes at me. Then in measured tones asks us to follow him. I obey and vow to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the shift.
This level of the temple has many small rooms along the outer walls. The baptismal font sits in the middle of a large, centrally located, window-lined room surrounded by walkways. Paned windows between the two have the mottled look of hand-blown glass. Colorful light filters through a stained-glass work of art. He leads us into the baptistry, where I am expecting to be chastised and then stationed for the next five hours. Instead, I am directed up the stairs of the font. It sits in the center of a sunken portion of the room just slightly larger than the font itself. Stone oxen support the bowl of the font on their backs, with stairs leading from the floor to the font’s lip and then down into the water. As I climb the stairs, the stained-glass window becomes visible just over the edge of the font. Standing at the top, I see the image of John the Baptist baptizing Jesus Christ across the room. Tears leap to my eyes as raw excitement ebbs away, replaced by the sweet joyful peace of the Spirit.
Descending back down the staircase, I am somewhat subdued. Humbled. I have been focusing on the wrong things. I am here, not for the novelty of being in the temple or as a break from my children, but to serve and help others come unto Christ. With the demands of daily living clouding my perception, I have not seen the Lord’s abundance all around. My blessings are not burdens, but gifts to help me grow. I glance once more at the image in the window. Contemplating my Savior’s sacrifice, I silently ask for forgiveness. Thinking of my husband, I pray he’ll forgive my lapse, as I’ve already forgiven his.
Our guide then leads us on an impromptu tour of the temple, sharing bits of history and explaining the thought and care that went into its reconstruction. I savor every minute. I am last to be placed at my post. As he turns to leave, I thank him for such a fascinating, private tour. He turns back, assures me it was his pleasure, but then says that the tour was hardly private with so many spirits following along. He leaves me, dumbfounded, outside the door to the celestial room. I recover from the shock of this statement and wonder if he is joking.
Standing in the deep silence of my post sometime later, I realize he was not. The veil is gossamer here, barely concealing the unseen. I imagine couples waiting to be sealed before heading into the unknown—the whispering of petticoats and light tread on the stairs. Stories I had heard in the abstract now become real to me, not as tales of a disconnected past, but as a continuing spiritual legacy of faith of which I am a part. The pioneers experienced such great heartache, yet even greater joy. As have I. Then I realize, like the temple, He is ready to lift me too out of the ashes. I just have to let Him. Finishing my shift, I rise to begin my journey home.
