I wonder if the secret to time travel is right under our nose.Think about it. Every memory locked up somewhere inside a bottle of Old Spice, or Rubber Cement, or cinnamon, or inside of our grandparent’s new Subaru. Every emotion is scented and, to me, kindness smells like industrial soap.
Whenever I have occasion to visit someone in the hospital, I duck into the hospital bathroom, wash my hands with the industrial soap, then press my hands to my nose and inhale deeply. It brings tears to my eyes immediately, because that industrial soap lingered in the air for nine weeks while I had some of the most intense experiences of my life trying to bring my twins into this world.
To me, industrial soap smells like the nurse who dropped by every day in bright yellow scrubs and told me dreamy stories about Seattle; and the nurse who told me I looked like a Victoria Secret model every time she came into my room. When you're flat on your back in a hospital gown something about those words gives you the strength to brush your teeth each morning. Industrial soap also smells like the nurse who held my hand while the phlebotomist drove a needle the size of Vermont into my neck; and the nurse who placed cold cloths on my forehead while the room did summersaults, and the nurse who rubbed my feet while I signed waivers that the doctors were not responsible if my babies came out blind, deaf, or dumb.
I think i know where God hangs out. People say you'll find him in church or in temples or in nature, but I bet he's rolling up his sleeves with the nurses in the hallowed halls of the hospitals.
Wouldn’t it be cool if the church started a pilot program, like instead of going to Sunday School you could go to the hospital to learn about God? Is it blasphemous to say I would be the first to sign up?
And is it blasphemous to say I keep waiting for the Bishop to receive the right revelation and put me in as the compassionate service leader. Ever since I had my twins I've known it's the only thing I want to be when I grew up, but somehow he keeps getting his wires crossed.
Whenever I have occasion to visit someone in the hospital, I duck into the hospital bathroom, wash my hands with the industrial soap, then press my hands to my nose and inhale deeply. It brings tears to my eyes immediately, because that industrial soap lingered in the air for nine weeks while I had some of the most intense experiences of my life trying to bring my twins into this world.
To me, industrial soap smells like the nurse who dropped by every day in bright yellow scrubs and told me dreamy stories about Seattle; and the nurse who told me I looked like a Victoria Secret model every time she came into my room. When you're flat on your back in a hospital gown something about those words gives you the strength to brush your teeth each morning. Industrial soap also smells like the nurse who held my hand while the phlebotomist drove a needle the size of Vermont into my neck; and the nurse who placed cold cloths on my forehead while the room did summersaults, and the nurse who rubbed my feet while I signed waivers that the doctors were not responsible if my babies came out blind, deaf, or dumb.
I think i know where God hangs out. People say you'll find him in church or in temples or in nature, but I bet he's rolling up his sleeves with the nurses in the hallowed halls of the hospitals.
Wouldn’t it be cool if the church started a pilot program, like instead of going to Sunday School you could go to the hospital to learn about God? Is it blasphemous to say I would be the first to sign up?
And is it blasphemous to say I keep waiting for the Bishop to receive the right revelation and put me in as the compassionate service leader. Ever since I had my twins I've known it's the only thing I want to be when I grew up, but somehow he keeps getting his wires crossed.
When I lived in Hawaii I was called to be the Relief Society president, which is kind of like a bossy compassionate service leader, plus a whole lot of meetings.
When I moved to Utah I was called to be the Young Womens president, which is kind of like a bossy, cranky compassionate service leader, plus a whole lot of meetings, activities, and personal progress.
But guess what my young women just made? Guess, guess, guess!
A magic quilt.
Those of you who have been reading me for a while know that about a year ago I started this magic quilt project to heal the world one quilt at a time. But then Kritta (my magic quilter) and I both had major life changes this year, which put the Magic Quilt project on the back burner.
Well, good news! Kritta is almost done with the quilt and we will soon be unveiling it and sending it to the first recipient. YAY!
In the meantime my Young Women have pieced together their favorite t-shirts and made their own magic quilt, which they have been passing around to those in need of comfort in the ward. This past Sunday someone bore their testimony and mentioned their granddaughter who is struggling. After the meeting one of my young women rushed up and excitedly suggested we take the magic quilt to that struggling girl.
Be still my heart.
Wouldn't it be cool if God had his own set of quilting blocks?
When I moved to Utah I was called to be the Young Womens president, which is kind of like a bossy, cranky compassionate service leader, plus a whole lot of meetings, activities, and personal progress.
But guess what my young women just made? Guess, guess, guess!
A magic quilt.
Those of you who have been reading me for a while know that about a year ago I started this magic quilt project to heal the world one quilt at a time. But then Kritta (my magic quilter) and I both had major life changes this year, which put the Magic Quilt project on the back burner.
Well, good news! Kritta is almost done with the quilt and we will soon be unveiling it and sending it to the first recipient. YAY!
In the meantime my Young Women have pieced together their favorite t-shirts and made their own magic quilt, which they have been passing around to those in need of comfort in the ward. This past Sunday someone bore their testimony and mentioned their granddaughter who is struggling. After the meeting one of my young women rushed up and excitedly suggested we take the magic quilt to that struggling girl.
Be still my heart.
Wouldn't it be cool if God had his own set of quilting blocks?
