Gardens of God

Sealing Room in Manti Temple

I spent a morning this week in the LDS temple in St. Louis. For members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, temple worship forms the pinnacle of our religious devotion. Like Solomon’s temple in ancient Israel, temples represent our finest workmanship, our most beautiful architecture. While pondering in the temple, I thought of joy and rejoicing, of beauty and God’s presence, of gardens, and of the tools of creation.

The Lord intends for us to live with joy and rejoicing. In fact, in 2 Nephi 2:25 (in the Book of Mormon) we read that “men are that they might have joy.” Through Isaiah, the Lord commands, “But be ye glad and rejoice for ever in that which I create.” (Isaiah 65:18)

To the end that we might experience this joy, the Lord created this earth and beautified it. He gave nature not just function but also form and beauty. God left a bit of Himself in the beauty of His creations. Through that beauty, we touch the divine, whether it is in the stretch of moonlight across a quiet lake or through the ethereal song of a wild bird.

Places of beauty figure prominently in the Lord’s plan for His children, with gardens forming the backdrop for pivotal events. In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve walked and talked with God, enjoying His presence in their innocence. In Eden, He gave them the gift of agency, and they used that agency to set the Lord’s plan of salvation in motion.

Transgression made it necessary for Adam and Eve to leave the garden, and forever after humans have experienced the tension between garden and wilderness, between the peace of the Lord's presence and the weeds of everyday life. We learn our greatest lessons in the wilderness of our trials, and we grow stronger as we struggle to reach spaces of beauty and peace. The gardens pull us forward. The wilderness shapes us.

The Savior, Himself, atoned for our sins first in a garden. Though strengthened by His Father’s presence there, he bled from every pore as He struggled beneath the weight of the sins and pains of billions of his brothers and sisters. Then the Savior left the Garden of Gethsemane, only to suffer all that pain a second time in the foul air of Golgotha, for a time utterly alone. It was critical to the plan that He accomplish this part of the atonement outside of God’s presence.

Window at the Carmel of the Holy Trinity

Finally, as the early morning sun stretched over yet another garden, Jesus rose from the dead, bringing hope to a world languishing in darkness. A lovely stained glass window at the Carmel of the Holy Trinity in Spokane, Washington (right) depicts the scene outside the garden tomb. In fact, we owe much of our understanding of religion to the artists and composers who have brought the scriptures to life through the centuries.

Medieval theologians believed that light, as the first act of God's creation, represented the purest manifestation of divine presence. For hundreds of years, artisans have carefully crafted stained glass windows designed to bring that divine light into the worship services of churches throughout the world. Other artists bring beauty through music, dance, poetry, sculpture. Ordinary people live lives of beauty that inspire those around them.

When we create, particularly when we create beauty, we access the spark of God within us. We draw on inspiration and form a partnership with the Creator. At the same time, on those occasions when our creations approach true beauty, they provide a vehicle for the audience to step into the presence of God, if only for an instant.

AXIS Dance Company

Years ago, I sat in a dark theater on New Year's Eve, enjoying Burlington, Vermont's First Night celebration and ready to applaud any event that kept me out of the frigid New England air for a few minutes. The curtain opened, and I sat back in my chair, stunned. A group of dancers, some disabled and some not, kept me entranced for the next half an hour with one of the most profoundly moving dance performances I have ever experienced. Lines between traditional dancer and disabled dancer blurred. Fear and pain and stigma melted away, leaving just the aching beauty of the dance. No sellout performance of the New York City Ballet could have touched my soul more deeply.

I ponder my own opportunity to create moments of beauty for those around me. I no longer dance, and I never claimed any ability to bring canvas or stained glass to life. All the same, I can find my own tools, my own way to live a life of beauty. St. Francis of Assisi said simply, "God is beauty." I look to reach toward God, to build gardens in my life.

All in a Day's Work

I have spent the last few days working retail for minimum wage. At the mall, no less. Yes, the mall. That place I avoid like the plague. That hallmark of American capitalism scented with the ubiquitous odor of Abercrombie meets Yankee Candle meets Cinnabon. I hate to shop, and my days of stalking the cute boy in the music store have long past. Besides, malls remind me of so much of what I deplore in society: shelves stuffed with useless merchandise simply to provide the illusion of prosperity and give us the opportunity to make pointless choices, teenagers wasting time when the world offers so much more than they realize they can attain, food designed to plunge us further into the pit of obesity.

And yet...this has been a good week. Let's face it. A temporary job came when I needed the money. Until I figure out the magic formula for earning my living by my pen or land an interesting job that allows me to wrap my arms around my daughter when she skips down the school bus steps in the afternoon, the local economy offers me limited options. Besides, this retail job affords me time with a dear friend and coworker, and if it interrupts my usual exercise routine, at least the hours of loading boxes on a trailer keeps the muscles from atrophy.

I have had ample opportunity while counting inventory and loading boxes to ponder the difference in my life now from when I last worked for someone else over a decade ago. I note with some sense of surprise how guilty I feel about my soft life. I often deplore the lack of sufficient hours in the day. And yet, I find time to exercise for an hour or two every day. I nap occasionally (although, since I wake up each morning at 5 a.m. to teach a class, I feel less guilty about that). I spend hours at the computer researching and writing a book that I will never sell. Occasionally, not often enough, I snag an hour or two to read a novel. I never watch TV.

This week, when I come home from work wanting a chance to unwind and simply get off my feet for an hour, I hesitate before complaining to my husband, realizing more now than last month just how much he sacrifices his own time for the family. I remember how much I used to accomplish when I worked a demanding job and traveled frequently, yet still managed to teach early morning seminary and raise children and make dinner on a fairly regular basis. I fear my capacity to achieve has diminished.

I remind myself that Brad played the supporting role when I lived a corporate life, making my full schedule a possibility. I think of the stress that full schedule caused and the peace that gradually set in when I traded the dayplanner for a more sedate life at home. I see the value in developing my creative side and providing an anchor for the family. Still, as I finish up my week as a mall rat, I tender a moment of gratitude for the reminder of the rare blessing it has been to raise my children and find myself over these past 13 years. I renew my appreciation for my husband. And I savor more than ever a "soft" life that may not last much longer.