Castles in the Sky

Curly thinks the temple is a castle.  I think it's because she knows it's where we get married, and it's all tower-and-spire-y and well, princesses get married in places that aren't really that far off.  The other day she found a picture of the Salt Lake City temple in her quiet book and screamed out "That's where you got married!"  She rushed off to our bedroom where a picture of me and the Daddy man rests on the wall, all heavenly in our white dress/black tuxedo/perfect day happiness.  "See, there you are!" she points.  "Someday, when I find my true love, I'll get married in the temple too."  And I died.  At her strong little confidence in the fairy tale.

Once upon a time, I met my true love.  At first we were friends.  And then we were more.  And then one day he asked me to marry him.  And I said "yes". 

Then, once upon a time, a little later on, I woke up in a hotel room to hear my parents stirring next door.  I was 21.  The temple was out my window.  A white dress hung from the armoir.  I was quiet.  I was calmer than I've ever been.  I was happy.  I had waffles with strawberries and whip cream while my hair was styled.  Five hours later, I was a Mrs. 

The flowers were new.  And everywhere.  And beautiful.  We wandered the garden, slipping in and out of coats to pose for pictures.  My brothers inhaled a bag of Lion House rolls off to the side while they waited.  The entire day went off without a hitch.  It was a perfect start. 

A few years went by.  We worked jobs.  I got my B.A.  We moved across the country.  We had a baby.  Then another.  Did a lot of everything, including Dental School.  We grew.

Then, one more once a time.  Handsome and I went back to the temple.  We opted to act as proxies in sealing ceremonies for couples who've passed on.  Our church believes in eternal families.  There was a woman there who'd brought in a stack of family names, many of them with children.  Daughters and nieces and cousins to be reunited forever with their parents.  I was their proxy.  She was so excited for them; I felt honored by her.  Pleased to participate.  I slipped into my own place, felt pastel chalk images of mothers receiving swaddled babies: Here you go.   

And then I couldn't help it.  With each repetition I just relived the moments when my own angels were handed to me.  Fresh little individual beings.  Curly, doing everything from birth on down on her own terms.  She's the one with a plan.  So very, very present.  So earnest.  So invested.  I remember fine details.  Her wet little curls and sweet little nose.  Her birdie legs that would become squishy little sausage casings in a matter of days.  Her cry.  She changed my world the moment the nurse placed her on my chest, like a veil lifted before my eyes and colors and forms sharpened, magnified.  Then Little Louie Blue Eyes, who came so casually I barely knew what was going on.  The midwife told me to reach and catch her, and I did it without even thinking.  And there she was.  Simple.  Sweet.  Confident.  Content.  Like she just did stuff like being born every day.  Like she was available to take me by the hand and show me what to do next if I needed her to, but she wasn't gonna push.  She just knew exactly where she belonged, and it was here.  With us.

I'm not one to divine much about whys and hows when it comes to the gifts the good Lord has seen fit to give me.  But I know those three, the monkey, the blue bird, and the handsome man, they were pretty much just handed to me like the babies in my soft pigment imaginings: here you go.  And sometimes I want to cry and laugh and essentially just melt into a shiny puddle of emotion at that idea.  "Here's love and struggle and beauty and pain and everything else that makes life holy, here you go."

I guess the lesson for me is to cherish what I've got in this minute.  To look at life and see what it is.  And remember to have faith.  And believe in living happily ever after.  Just like my baby does.