2024/14 EPIPHANY

Christmastime in our neighborhood is a flurry of love in motion. We live in a remarkable little piece of heaven here in the Somerset area of north Farmington. We moved here in 1982, when houses were just starting to go up in this new subdivision that used to be farmland and orchards on the eastern foothills of the Wasatch Mountains. We’ve watched bare earth become houses and houses filled with beloved people. Births and deaths and all the in-betweens have made this place on earth sealed in our hearts as “home”. 

Our countertops become overflowing with tokens of love offered by our neighbors at Christmastime. If I were a pragmatic sort, I might think it unnecessary and excessive, but being a romantic I love it and relish the richness of it. All these little tokens represent the presence of blessed people woven into our lives, each of them cherished. Their love overflows. I’d rather see the abundance than a polished kitchen counter, though there is something refreshing about light reflecting off a clean countertop. 

Our family delivers our neighbor gifts on January 6^th rather than before Christmas. It serves two purposes:

First, it accentuates the fact that Christ manifest himself to all the world, not just his parents’ people. This revelation, known as Epiphany, is celebrated on January 6^th. Its also known as Twelfth Night, or the night the Wise Men came to acknowledge the arrival of a new king to rule over all kings. The twelve days of Christmas are actually the days after Christmas, culminating in Epiphany (12^th Night). Look at the end of this post for some info on that. In much of the Christian world gifts are exchanged on January 6^th rather than Christmas day. Christmas Day itself is kept as a holy day.

Secondly, we’re frankly exhausted before Christmas. Not only is it busy because of normal Christmas preparations, most of my days and evenings before the holiday include concerts and other performances. Changing the focus on our beloved neighbor friends to January gives us the opportunity to sincerely focus on them and therefore appreciate them more. 

Thank you, Lord, for making January 6^th after Christmas 

I searched my computer for a few past epiphany gifts we have delivered. Here’s a bit of what I found:

EPIPHANY 2005

Epiphany, or twelfth night, traditionally ends the Christian Christmas season and represents the coming of the Wise Men. The Magi who brought gifts to the infant Jesus were the first Gentiles to acknowledge Jesus as "King" and so were the first to "show" or "reveal" Christ to a wider world. This act of worship by the Magi, which corresponded to Simeon’s blessing that this child Jesus would be "a light for revelation to the Gentiles" (Luke 2:32), was one of the first indications that Jesus came for all people, of all nations, of all races, and that the work of God in the world would not be limited to only a few.

The Wise Men left their homelands in the name of Jesus Christ, having faith that they would find Him, and carrying their finest gifts. Yesterday we of the Connors family made the trek to the Provo MTC, where we left the finest gift we could think of at the Savior’s feet: our Kate.  Today our eyes are clearer, our hearts more tender, our commitment more firm because we recognize the riches of the gospel of Peace. 

A blessed Epiphany to your family, and may 2005 find us all better children of God.

(I don't recall what gift we gave with this. Probably something oriental.Then again, I do recall one year giving posters with the 10 commandments written on them. And then one year we gave miniature Book of Mormons and New Testaments) 

Kwan Ji Moi
Sister Kate Connors
Hong Kong Mission

 

Davis County UT is rich in farmland where onions are grown.
One year we purchased local onions and set them in new nylon stockings
with knots between them. Hang these and they will keep longer and better.

After a devastating wind storm hit our community, 
we gave emergency candles.

At Longfellow's home in Boston I saw this quote
from his journal. That year for Epiphany we ordered quill feather pen
kits and gave them with blank journals to our neighbors.

During the pandemic we steeped fresh vanilla beans in Vodka.
We gave our neighbors homemade vanilla that year.

One year we brought  fresh maple syrup in sweet little maple leaf jars
from our Tawas Michigan Farmers Market

On years when I made a new album neighbors often got these new recordings.

Our friend Ross keeps beehives in our yard. One year we gave honey
from these bees. I also hand dipped little beeswax candles to go with it.

The year we gave hand crank emergency flashlights.

Last year I made massive amounts of fresh churned butter,
wrapped in wax paper and tied with red string

This year we gave canvas bags filled with pistachios.

Once we gave emergency cell phone chargers.

Coloring pencils and adult coloring note cards.
A number of our neighbors sent us colored cards as thank you's.

And, as if this post wasn't already long enough, here's the 12 Days of Christmas info:

The song “on the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me….” was actually taught to Catholic children to learn their Catechism. There was a time when they were not legally allowed to study Christianity, so this little song taught them aspects of their religion in what appeared to be benign symbols. 

Here's a little info on that:

From 1558 until 1829, Roman Catholics in England were not permitted to practice their faith openly. Someone during that era wrote this carol as a catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning known only to members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word for a religious reality which the children could remember.

-The partridge in a pear tree was Jesus Christ.

-Two turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments.

-Three French hens stood for faith, hope and love.-

-The four calling birds were the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John.

-The five golden rings recalled the Torah or Law, the first five books of the Old Testament.

-The six geese a-laying stood for the six days of creation.

-Seven swans a-swimming represented the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit--Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy.

-The eight maids a-milking were the eight beatitudes.

-Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit--Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self Control.

-The ten lords a-leaping were the ten commandments.

-The eleven pipers piping stood for the eleven faithful disciples.

-The twelve drummers drumming symbolized the twelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed.

 

 

2024/13 SWEET NOTHINGS

Nothing is a tricky word. It’s almost always a lie, or at least a fib. Whispering sweet nothings is actually a fairly firm statement of adoration. When a kid says he’s doing nothing, you’d better check on what he’s up to. And you can be sure when someone responds to your thanks by saying what they did was nothing that they appreciate being noticed.

Nothings are also actual somethings that got lost; either physically lost or symbolically lost. Things that were once pretty important slip into the category of forgotten.

Life is full of nothings. The older one gets the more true this becomes.

In reality, it’s all the sweet nothings that add glitter and shine to an ordinary life. It’s kind of fun to pause now and again and look at the reflection of light sparkling off those little something/nothings we get.

Last summer Dave and I were honored to be Grand Marshalls of the Farmington Festival Days Parade. We love our hometown, and we love that charming hometown parade that weaves its way through the sycamore trees that line Main Street. But frankly we are almost always late getting to the parade and never even noticed that there is a Grand Marshall that leads the parade. It’s one of those sweet nothings. They planted us on a nicely polished convertible from a bygone era, painted with an American flag billowing across its doors. Our kids and grandkids were asked to walk behind us, throwing handfuls of candy to the crowd. They gave us all matching Festival Days tee shirts and caps. It was a whisper of appreciation to a couple fairly devoted souls who had served our city in whatever ways we could, from teaching guitar for a decade or so to Farmington residents and providing an annual holiday concert, to leading the whole community at a pivotal time as city council member and mayor. They had to wait till Dave retired as a judge to give us this little token of appreciation.

It’s extra special when you get to share nothing with someone you love. 

A few years ago my brother George received an award from the Governor of Utah for science and technology. Two other noteworthy people received the award with him that year: Senator Mitt Romney and President Russell M Nelson, the prophet of out church. President Nelson, besides being a spiritual giant, is a world-renowned heart surgeon who was part of the team who developed the artificial heart. We sat at our large round dinner table surrounded by relative brilliance. We stood and clapped for our brother as they hung a ribboned medal around his neck. George noted how unique it must be that in one family we have recipients of Governor’s awards of Excellence; one in technology and science and the other in the arts.

My brother and fellow award recipient, Russell M Nelson.

Gabbing with Mitt Romney.

One for all and all for one.

“Hey Cori,” he quipped, “Let’s get a photo of us both wearing our medals!” I had received the Governor’s Mansion Artist Award a few years prior.

The next time he came to our house he brought his medal so we could get that picture. The problem was that I couldn’t find my medal.

“I know its somewhere around here,” I mumbled, frustrated that I could not remember the logic I used when I put it in a safe place. 

Receiving the Governor’s Mansion Artist Award a decade ago was not a small thing to me. I was deeply honored and surprised that anyone on that level was even aware of what I did. I cherished the experience of playing for the governor and others in his beautiful and historic mansion. The receipt of that award holds a place in my artistic bio. I respect the honor and am grateful for having received it. Nonetheless, I lost the medal with its shiny blue satin ribbon. Ironically, I found the box, a lovely wooden box made just for it, engraved with the stamp of OC Tanner who custom-made the exclusive bronze token. I spent many days of frustration digging through a massive amount of other nothings looking for the medal itself.

Receiving the award from Governor Herbert.

All for one and one for all.

Then one day last summer, when I was trying to ride the rare wave of willingness to give stuff away, I found the medal. I guess I had tucked it into the drawer of a wooden box designed to store ribbon. I had put the ribbon box in the DI giveaway pile. Something in me said to open the box and look inside before I gave it away. Sure enough, there was nothing sitting right there. 

We have yet to take that photo.

I recognize the value of tokens. They represent, in a physical way, things that are worth acknowledging and celebrating. Still, eventually, they will take their place among all other things in this realm, including our bodies. We come with nothing, and we leave with nothing… and there’s nothing wrong with that.

2024/12 A POCKET FULL OF JUST-IN-CASE

Today was wash day for my puffy coat. Having a good lightweight down filled jacket that’s black and doesn’t show dirt is a good functional decision for someone with a frenetic life. I have to use logic and remind myself it’s about time for a good wash because the coat is not going to ask for it. The black hides everything. 

I started the washing machine, filling it with lukewarm water and soap while I emptied the pockets in my coat. Interestingly, ten-year-old Beth was at that very moment changing from her ballet leotard to her play clothes. I pulled one of her undershirts out of my coat pocket. “You need this?” I asked, and of course she did. (I have no idea why her training bra was in my coat pocket.). Then I emptied the rest: a handful of receipts, a few concert tickets, piece of gum, one of the grandkids backpack key tags, half a Tylenol, pocket change, two Life Savers, a folded Band-aid, a screw, a floss pick and a safety pin. Don't judge me.

Since I was in the mindset of washing coats, I went out to the locker room to get Dave’s jackets to wash as well. I pulled out of his locker two coats and one vest. On my way back to the laundry I checked his pockets and here’s what I found:

Nothing.

Seriously, three jackets he wears regularly and not one of them had anything in the pockets! 

You think you know someone!

Who would have perfectly good pockets completely at their disposal and not use them to hold stuff? For emergency’s sake, if nothing else? Not even a tissue, or a piece of gum. Not one penny or emergency Band Aid or even a golf pencil.

I am again reminded that he is the Yin to my Yang.

And I am excessively Yangy!

Now be honest, if you were lost in a forest and had a runny nose, needed to pin a note to a tree for help, were starving and scared and thought you might leave a path of coins for someone to follow to find you, what would you want to have in your pockets? 

I like to carry my “just in case” with me. Plus, when I’ve washed my little’s training bra and need to remember to take it to her house, the pocket’s the place. Nice deep pockets in a soft black jacket. 

Stick with me, folks, just in case!

I've read too many Reader's Digest stories of survival.

2024/11 OH. (SPILLED MILK)

I paused in the kitchen and watched spilled milk work its way around the dishes on the counter. It quickly found the edge of the countertop and took the long plunge to the kitchen floor, like a creamy white waterfall. I surprised myself with my casual response, just standing there watching, allowing the milk to take its own path. Isn’t it human nature to rush to grab a dishtowel and stop it?  Yet there I was, a good chunk of the way into adulthood, frankly pretty experienced with wiping up spilled milk, curious about its course. The only word that came to my mind or my lips was “Oh.” (Not even with an exclamation point.)

I vividly remember that moment. It’s become rather pivotal for me. One of those moments where you were a different person before than after. I call those thin veil experiences, where our angels are more present than usual and the gravitational pull of this earthly realm has a hiccup. I felt like my little team; my assigned angels and I had a spontaneous heavenly huddle and decided it was time to let go of unnecessary panic. 

This must have happened to other people before because “Don’t cry over spilled milk” is now cliché, and things don’t become cliché unless they are repeatedly true.

I have found myself whispering the word “Oh” many times since.  I crunch the bumper of my car into a curb… a friend’s teenage daughter ends up pregnant… I hear someone whisper that they don't care for my music? I find myself calming myself with a little “Oh.” (with no exclamation mark.) Even when someone I cherish dies. "Oh," I think to myself. The lift and the lilt of the way I say it may change slightly. If you don’t understand the depth of the meaning, the comfort of a single vowel coming out of a swirl of emotion, you might think it heartless. That’s logical. I mean, if I heard someone simply say “Oh” at tragic news, I might judge.

I suppose that little revelatory moment when I let the spilled milk hold its proper place in the long-term importance of things continues to manifest itself in repeated lessons. There is so much I cannot or should not control, or want to control, in the way life unfolds. Getting worked-up about what is meant to be is likely a misuse of energy. Of course, the brain is more often powerless against the strong arm of the heart. But I guess my angels decided to toss me that single syllable as a reminder. Sometimes, often times, I get crazy worked up about stuff. That’s my nature I suppose. But sometimes I comfort myself with little “Oh’s”. They are, in slightly more focused terms, my way of saying “Let God prevail.” or “Don’t rush to get in the way of yourself.”

Sometimes, when my imagination gets the best of me and I conclude that I am either going to die, someone I love is going to die, or my faith is going to die, I can stop the panic by simply verbalizing the word “Oh.” (Sometimes I allow an exclamation mark for emphasis, out of respect for the severity of the imagined situation.) It’s amazing to me how effective the practice is. It doesn’t solve everything, but it kind of puts the pegs in their proper place while life figures itself out.

So, now I’ve been ruminating all morning on O, the roundness of it and the eternal nature of it. I roll my wedding band around my ring finger and ponder the endlessness of it. And then I get to thinking that good is God with an extra o. 

Maybe I’ll ease my way to God by just allowing myself to be good.

2024/10 DEFINITION OF A CAMEL

The other day I pulled up a little video stored on my phone. It was my friend Margaret standing in her sewing room, her apron tied at her waist, scissors and measuring tape hanging over her shoulders. I can almost smell the steam, starch and machine oil as I watch it. The video is less than 30 seconds long. She tells a joke:

“Definition of a camel: 

a horse made my committee.”

Her lips curl up, and I can hear the giggles of my friends listening from their machines and the cutting table.

That little joke remained in my head this week, brought to the forefront when we were gathered in the cultural hall of our small church after the funeral of a dear friend. The crowd of loved ones was larger than expected. Chatting with some friends, I looked up and noticed one of our Relief Society sisters rolling an additional large round table out into the crowded room to make more seating space.  I scurried over to suggest we not do that as the space was already too full of tables and the place where they would put it blocked the drink table and the serving line of the food tables. It was habit, I suppose, that made my feet move and my mouth boss people around. One of my oldest and dearest friends, frustrated by what must have been a forceful suggestion, turned around, returned the table and left the church.

Later that afternoon I called her to apologize. 

“I think I overstepped my bounds today, and I am so sorry. I am no longer Relief Society president, and who am I to say how things should be done?”

She replied that she has struggled for years with how we tend to do things in our ward. People bring food in perfectly good bowls and we resituate them in the bowls we want. We want things “just so” and in the process make more work for everyone. She owned her own feelings, much to her credit, and I listened with an open mind.

She’s right, we all seem to have our own ideas how things should be done. And when we get together, if there’s not a clear understanding of what we are hoping to achieve, feelings are bound to get hurt. Frankly, I’m amazed we women are able to do this kind of thing repeatedly. This was the first funeral in our ward since I was released as RS president. During my tenure we had done 20 funerals followed by family luncheons. I suppose I took too much ownership in how things should be done.Our new president was out of town and I was going on muscle memory.

I’ve really been pondering the idea of committees. Frankly, if we are participants in the human race we are part of committees on all sorts of levels. Our classrooms are committees, our families, neighborhoods and congregations. We who are part of a democratic society participate in massive communities. Most projects, from the PTA carnival to city fireworks to the serving of the Sacrament require people to work together. The beautiful thing is that we are allowed to think independently and then share those thoughts collectively. You do it this way, and I do it that, and we end up with humps on a camel.

We try, sometimes unsuccessfully, to smooth out the bumps. Still, the thing gets us where we need to go, even if the ride isn't always smooth. It may not be perfect, but after all, the Wise Men got where they needed to go on camels.

Jesus, on the other hand, will return on a horse. 

Revelation 19:11

(Some things don't need a committee.)

2024/9 BELL BOTTOMS & PROM DRESSES

My grandson Parker sent a text a few days ago.

“Hey Gum, do you happen to have one of these?”

He included a photo of a brown suede men’s jacket with fringe on the arms and hem. Straight out of the 1970’s. Lucky for him he has four grandparents who actually lived in the 1970’s. He is also conscious of the fact that one of those grandparents may have kept her wardrobe from that era. Sadly, if I had a jacket like that, I either can’t find it or I begrudgingly gave it away. (Someone someday is going to need this, is my general mantra).

That’s how I got my date with Parker. It was just a few weeks after my date with Anna.

Park and his cousin Anna are both high school seniors. I join the rest of our privileged society in lamenting the fact that they have so quickly morphed into capable pseudo-adults from tiny toddlers with blankies and binkies. They snuggled so comfortably against my chest not that long ago. My heart, feeling somewhat abandoned, yearns for being needed. I think it’s a path of most grandparents.

So, when Anna said she wanted to sleep over a few weeks ago, and maybe we could go look for Sweethearts Dance dresses, I jumped on it.  Anna claims certain places around here: the couch in our bedroom for sleeping, the chair beside mine for dinner, my recliner if I’m not in it. It’s been this way her whole life, but I sense recently that she is anxious about having to grow up and leave home. I remember feeling the same way; the push and pull of wanting to be independent but also wanting to curl up in a soft blanket with Mom. 

My shopping date with Anna ended with her coming home with a Sundance Outlet shopping bag. She found the almost perfect dress. “I can easily bring in the sides,” I told her as I pinched the seams around her tiny waist while we stood before the dressing room mirror. It turned out that her mom had already bought a Sweethearts dress. The one we found, lacy and flowy and a perfect blend of innocent and elegant, would become her Prom dress.

Yesterday Parker and I spent a glorious afternoon at the Layton 5 Hour Store. It’s really called NPS, but decades ago, when my friend Carol first introduced me to the original store in Salt Lake City, I came home and told my mom I had found the perfect store. “It’s a five-hour store. It takes five hours to go through and see everything they have to offer.” My whole family knows it as the 5 Hour Store. Once my Aunt Becky even wrote a check out to 5 HOUR STORE when she was checking out. They looked at her like she was crazy.

Anyway, Park and I gave a visit to the Layton store and found three pair of pants, a corduroy shirt, and some groovy upholstery fabric to sew into the jeans and make them bell bottoms. He was trying to deck himself out for the Hippie Dance at Farmington High. He was massively pleased with himself for finding a suede leather jacket on Poshmark for $45.

My job was to alter Anna’s dress and Parker’s trousers.

Last night, as I sat at my trusty little sewing machine brought out to the kitchen table, I relived waiting in the check-out line with Park. We stood side by side in silence for a minute. I’ve find it to be a good indicator of a safe relationship when two people can share space comfortably and not have to say anything. Parker doesn’t even shift his stance or turn his head. He just breaks the silence with: 

“I love you, Gum.” 

I pressed my foot into the pedal of my sewing machine and felt my old Grandmother heart pump with the throbbing of the needle into his Levi’s becoming retro hippie bell bottoms. My love for these two kids becomes cinched with each tiny stitch. Two separate pieces of fabric becoming one.

Every once in a while, I imagine my grandkids being grandparents. They’ll be lucky to live that long, I know. I pray they do. I imagine them seeing relationships from this perspective. I see them loving little ones who are currently only dreaming of having bodies. Their lives will be altered, shaped and bound like these garments at my kitchen table. Changed for good by the flesh of their flesh. 

Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to live long enough to watch the little ones around me become relatively independent humans. And thank you for keeping us close enough to stand in a check out line, side by side, and comfortably say, out of the blue: 
“I love you.”

I love you too, buddy.

Parker at Sweethearts Dance with Ayla.

Anna at Sweethearts Dance with Lucas.

 

 

2024/8 UNSENT

Yesterday, in an attempt to sort through some of the randomness in our home, I dug into a box of stuff that looked like it might have once been in Dave’s nightstand or study drawers. Besides receipts, warranties, letters and photographs, I found a little stack of hand- written thank you notes. I recognized the tidy handwriting as that of our son, John. There are seven thoughtful thank you cards for high school graduation gifts… unsent. John is now older than I was when he wrote those! His second child is about to graduate from high school. 

I’m frankly pretty impressed at the notes he wrote. I’m also reminded of this apparent family flaw that puts so much effort into stuff we never quite finish. Perhaps he gave those notes to us to address and mail. Who knows? Even if I wanted to mail them now at least one of the people has an address somewhere in Heaven.

I also had, until very recently, a hefty stack of unsent thank you cards from way back when Dave finished his tenure as mayor of Farmington. Our remarkable and thoughtful neighbors went together and purchased a flagpole for our front yard. We came home from vacation that summer to a crisp new American flag waving in the east wind in front of our home. It was a surprise, and really very tender and moving to us. I designed and printed some small cards with American flags on them. That next month my mother ended up in the hospital for quite a while. I remember sitting at her bedside writing heartfelt sentiments to these kind neighbors on those cards. I addressed and even stamped them.

It’s been so long now I threw them away, offering a prayer of apology, hoping the Powers that be would one day reiterate our gratitude to them. Our neighbors never knew how very much their gift has meant to us.

I recall another time, when our Kate was a newborn baby. Dave’s Grandma Roy had been in the hospital. I thought I should call a florist in Florida and send flowers, so she would know we were thinking of her and we loved and cherished her. Day turned to night then to day, and night and so on… until we got the call that Grandma Roy had passed away. I remember sitting in my rocking chair nursing little Kate, my tears dropping on her baby blanket. My feelings spilled into words. Wrangled into a poem. “The Flowers I Never Sent”. It alluded to the fact that I had intended to send flowers when she was alive, but now was calling the florist to send them for her grave. I’ve lost the poem, but not the pang of sadness.

I have learned to try to be more gentle with myself. I discovered late in life that I have a brain with attention issues. Guilt over that weakness is a poor motivator. I’ve found love to be more effective. I now speak in gentler terms to myself. Still, while the words I choose in my self-talk are more encouraging, they nonetheless whisper that I should finish my tasks. Push through all the way to the end. I have a dreadfully strong mechanism that urges me to stop just before something is complete. So many unfinished songs!

My advice for the day is to complete something all the way through. Get that card in the mail. Hem those pants that have been sitting in your closet for a year. Eat that chocolate you're storing in the pantry.

I also have a nice collection of gift cards for restaurants and stores that are now out of business. So much unsent and unspent!

2024/7 FAKING OUT THE TOOTH FAIRY

Tessa's fake tooth.

My Brother-in-law, Michael is an oral surgeon. A good one, I understand. He was known as an exceptional surgeon for dental implants. Libby used to drive our mom to CA just so Michael could take care of her. He was thorough, precise and gentle. Besides, he’s an artist, which is a plus when you’re dealing with people’s faces. My whole adult life I’ve joked that as soon as Michael retired I would need a dental implant. Tip #1: do not say such things aloud.

I couldn't find a photo of Mike online, but here's a review report.

Sure enough, he retired and moved from CA to Utah, right into our neighborhood. That makes four of us “Hansen” sisters in one teeny neighborhood going to the same church each Sunday. We’re taking over the ward! And sure enough within a year of him retiring I had a root canal go south and they ended up pulling the tooth. A top tooth, right near the front of my mouth. A “smiley” tooth. It surely cramped my style, taxed my already delicate dental-emotions, and hit the pocketbook somethin’ fierce when we had to go through the “implant” process with no Dr. Mullen to handle it. 

After three hours in the dental chair and coming out without a pivotal tooth, I started the months long wait for my mouth to heal around the foreign matter placed in my jawbone, or whatever it is you call the bone your teeth are planted in. They made me a thing called a “flipper” with a fake tooth in it. I called it a pride tooth, because its only real purpose was to fill the black hole. Tip #2: Keep that flipper in a place you can remember.

$600 for two lost flippers and one completely failed implant later, I was sitting backstage during the third night of my Christmas concerts. Backstage banter with my boys Mark Robinette, Kelly DeHaan, Aaron Ashton and Timo Petersen, includes stuff like "I lost my tooth, Guys!" I lamented that somewhere between last night’s show and tonight’s I lost my second flipper. I was trying not to be distressed, but in less than an hour I would be center stage with a spotlight on my face, trying to sing while trying to hide the black hole in my mouth. We discussed possible solutions: how about one of those cubes of white cheese on the greenroom platter? We wet and folded paper but decided the moisture in my mouth would turn the thing into pulpy mush. I even tried forming a piece of gum into the shape of a tooth, but all I had was Spearmint Extra gum, which is chartreuse green. I ended up smiling a crooked smile and semi-consciously keeping my head turned to the side, distressing Eric who was running sound and trying his darndest to adjust what was happening on my microphone.

What eventually happened, three oral surgeons later, is another discussion for another time. But the matter at hand was that I had several speaking and singing engagements and I was NOT going to order another of those $300 flippers. The thing was not only expensive but it felt like a piece of HiChew stuck to the roof of my mouth. It made me clip my syllables and choke on my own tongue.

“There’s got to be someone who can do temporary tooth better and cheaper than that!”

Enter "temporary tooth" in an internet search. 

A few clicks later I found the solution. Temp Tooth, (and probably fifty other similar products,) offers a perfectly suitable custom made fake tooth for a cool crisp 20 dollar bill, plus a little change. Within one day I was dropping tiny plastic beads in a mug of hot water. The beads turn clear and soft. Roll them into a little soft ball, put it in your blank tooth space, form it around the neighboring teeth, let it cool and turn white again, soak it in some tea if it’s too white, and voila… you’ve got yourself a tooth.

One little container has made me multiple teeth, because I lose them like I lost my flippers.

Today, when we picked-up six-year-old Tess from ballet class, she told us she lost another tooth. 
“I was so excited,” she said “cuz I wanted to put the tooth in one of those little teeny tiny animal boxes for the Tooth Fairy. But guess whaaaaaat?”

Tess has great comedic timing…

“I swallowed it eating a Taquito.”

(This is when having a grandma with too much stuff comes in handy.)

“Wanna make a fake one, Tess?”

That’s how I taught my tiniest grandchild how to make a fake tooth for the Tooth Fairy.

It takes me fifteen tiny beads to make my old lady tooth. Tess needed four.

It actually looked pretty real. Of course it doesn't need to fit in her mouth anymore.

I wonder if she’ll get away with it?

2024/6 LUMINARIES

Our beautiful friend Kari Jo Whitelock died. Today was the day her body returned to the earth. It rained, a soft and melancholy kind of drizzle.

Kari was a luminous soul, full of light, so much so that everyone who knew her said a room literally lit up when she entered. She was radiantly beautiful, outside and in. She took seriously her discipleship to Christ, so the glow was not only bright but also warm and comforting.

Kari Jo Whitelock

Just before dusk kids and grown-ups from our neighborhood scooped sand into white paper bags, then placed votive candles inside. We turned down the edges of the bags and loaded them into our van, driving them to the Whitelock home. I paused as we were setting the bags, watching people I love and who loved Kari bending in sacred silence to place these tokens of love a few feet apart from each other around the Whitelock home. They lined up like holy soldiers, little straight white bags, up the sidewalk and along the road, into the curved driveway, the stone walkway through the trees, and up the front steps. One by one we lit the candles until there were 100 glowing bags by the time the sun set. They flicker still, as I write. 

This is how our neighborhood whispers love to each other. We share light. It’s our Utah version of Pacific Islanders singing outside the homes of the deceased.

Before dark

After dark

For the last four decades our neighborhood has lit luminaries on Christmas Eve. When the kids were little we would do our dutiful parent prep after the kids were asleep, then drive around the neighborhood, usually around 3 am, our headlights turned off. If we were very lucky there would be a fresh falling snow. It felt like we lived in a snow globe, the houses of people we loved sitting dark and quiet behind flickering lights lining the streets. 

For the last few years we have started honoring those among us who die with these glowing lights. They are a soft enfolding of our love around our grieving friends. 

I am surprised how protective a thin paper bag can be, even in inclement weather. Even in the drizzle of this night Kari’s candles burn. Such a simple thing: a lunch sack, a small scoop of sand to add weight to the bag, and a humble mound of wax and wick. It works for hours. 

I am thinking tonight that we tend to complicate things too much. We try to make everything more efficient and more beautiful, and in the process make it more complex and difficult. Really all we need, sometimes, is something that will simply protect a little flame so it can fill the measure of its creation. Then, when it’s done, like Kari, the memory of the glow can sustain us.

Love lines the walkway

The Palmer home the night of Dee's funeral

 Annick and Randy the evening of their son Mark's funeral.

The Shill home after Danae's funeral

Danae had been Primary President in our church.
The kids colored her luminary bags.
"I wish I could blow you kisses every day."