The city streets whisper stories from ancient days, long ago when travelers found refuge on the sandy shores of the Mississippi River.
The green hillside slopes in reverence to the crystal white walls of the Saint’s ultimate life work, the temple. Sunstones cap the great pillars to eternal life and heralding calls of angels.
Great billowing flames in the blacksmith shop stoke our hearts to look inward at our roots, in awe at their courage, their determination and willingness to follow, despite and in spite of the burning opposition of those who would stop the work from rolling forth.
Lists of names lost, those who traveled west and those whose remains stay on hollowed ground, offer a wellspring of grief, and humility, at their willing sacrifice.
The baker, Skovil, his ovens offered a warm, soft gingerbread cookie, and his broken heart followed him to England to serve a mission for the Lord.
He lost his teenage son in Nauvoo. When his wife delivered baby girl twins, they lived just 13 days, and together the three took their last breaths on the same day. Those four graves remain in Nauvoo’s Old Burial Ground. The hallowed forest, on top of a rolling hill provides refuge for a plethora of birds whose calls serenade the curious wanderers. Great trees hover above, as if to protect and help sanctify the ground, their canopy height offers shade, and yet the slight cooling breeze between their emerald leaves gives way for shimmering light to penetrate into the soft and lush grassy floor. Worn and nearly forgotten, the tombs mark the location for remains, and yet it is nearly impossible to discern names or recognizable letters. Mr. Skovil found hope in the promises of the eternity, families can be together forever.
A sketch of the temple, carried in his pocket, made the great journey across the pond as he preached the gospel to those whose hearts would hear.
That simple drawing provided solace to the trials that could cause his faith to grow into bitter fruits of opposition. Yet his heart remained soft. The simple sketch was offered to an artist. With great care this beautiful art was transformed into 1800 works of china. A simple white platter was adorned with a blue sketch of the Nauvoo temple, outlined with the names of the prophet and the 12 apostles. Did he carry the plates himself? Or were they shipped? We do not know, however, 14 or so copies remain. One man’s grief found Elliad’s balm through the everlasting covenants of family in the temple.
The center. What’s in my center?
Old Nauvoo, the days when industry offered each willing adult an opportunity to be an expert, working as a single cog in a machine of growth and prosperity.
The potter used his craft to provide working vessels for the entire city. Milk, water, cheese, container, transporter, organizing all of life’s needs. These vessels were hand crafted. The expert hands who molded and styled the earth’s clay into working pieces were practiced and fine tuned. Rough fingers used the kick spin for syntrifical force. To create symmetry, the potter was required to find the center. Round and round the plain mound of clay would go. With pressure in just the right location, his fingers worked the top of the clay, while his sturdy thumbs pushed the side up. Finding the center of the now flat around round surface he could create a vessel to hold the living water. What if the center was off? The whole piece would ruin. Folded in on itself, the misshaped mound could start over again. My life is spinning, spinning, trying to hold and to create a holding chamber for my family, my finances, my life’s work. At the center, if Christ is, everything of importance can be contained. The living water of forgiveness, repentance, happiness, growth and learning can be enjoyed by our brood of 6. And yet, when I get off balance, when other cares and worries take a hold of the center, everything is in disarray. We can collapse our mistakes, find a common ground, even up the walls and plunge into the Christ, keep him at the center of our lives, and we can find permanent opportunity for growth and learning, we can have refuge from our labors, we can reserve our faith, we can increase our capacity.
Early on Wednesday morning, Ben’s hunger cries awakened me from an exhausted slumber. After nourishing his little body the call of the temple pulled me away from my sleeping children. I arose, dressed in my Sunday best, and walked the two short blocks to the House of the Lord. A black iron fence encases the great building.
Beautiful raised flowerbeds paint the canvas of hollowed ground with splashes of pink, purple and fiery orange. Spanning the horizon, I see great rolling hills blanketed with lush, green trees. Off in the west lies the great Mississippi River. At the shoreline lily pads grow, and as I glance to the water a childhood tune tickles my mind. In bronze, a huge statue lies on the west side of the temple’s entrance. Joseph and Hyrum’s final ride past the unfinished temple on their way to Carthage, what would be their demise. It is recorded that Joseph looked to the temple, and around the beautiful place with gratitude. He already knew the great and terrible trials that awaited the saints. Like a lamb to the slaughter, he willingly left his children, his sweet Emma, and the temple. These were the sacrifice he brought to the alter of God. Unlike Isaac, his life was not spared.
I rounded the corner to the temple entrance just as the great chime of 8:00 a.m. rang through the misty morning air. Replicating the light of old, enormous candle lit styled fixtures hang above the temple doors. I enter the great building. The style and furnishings all mimic what would have been in the original temple. Beautiful deep, rich wood enhances the interior, the recommend desk, the office space, and the floors. Pictures depicting the early days, breathtaking sweeping vistas of the surrounding areas and images of the Savior hang graciously and reverently on the bright cream walls. There is a great assembly on the ground level, smaller but of similar stature to that of the Salt Lake Temple, with mirroring and ascending three tiered sitting areas. I am kindly directed to the stairs where I will go to do the work. There in the temple, is a spiraling stair case, up and around six times. I grab the glossy hand rail, and work my way around, what would have been for those pioneers, hand carved steps. In a moment of childlike curiosity I leave the right side and make my way to the far left of the stair case, to glance up at the encased spiral. Round and around, and around, my eyes ascend naturally to heaven. Just as Jacob’s dream, this temple reminds me that my journey to return to my Heavenly Father requires patience, it requires a climb, one step at a time. My time here on earth is limited, and yet progression is a natural byproduct of righteousness. I need not be farther along on my journey than I am, I can enjoy the journey, and continue to make my way upward. I find my way to lady’s dressing room where I am warmly greeted and shown the way to initiatories. Three beautiful senior missionaries await my arrival. “You are an answer to our prayers! We love having patrons here.” Their warm smiles wash over me, and I am so grateful that I heeded the early morning call to the temple. Inside my gut, deep within me the spirit resides. It feels like a forceful and bright glow. This Gospel is true, all of it. The ancient brick buildings in Old Nauvoo, the living waters of the great river, the whispering of the stories of generations long ago, all of it, this land, the stories, the familial connections we enjoy to this place, all of it leads to the temple. Its not just a landmark, or a good story, it is a breathing, living, working temple. The walls enclose a vast and great spirit. The ground is sacred. There was blood spilt for this place. And in its walls I can provide an open door to those who have passed on. Now, they too can continue their upward and spiraling climb to heaven through the saving ordinances of the Gospel of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. As the sweet sisters look into my eyes, I am reminded of kindness, I am reminded of the ancient prophets who were given this same ordinances in Biblical times. I am reminded of a sister serving in the Salt Lake temple 14 years ago, whom I knew from doing baptisms for the dead weekly, who helped officiate in my own washings and annointings, the promises of a future period without time, when Jonny and I can walk together in everlasting progression.
