A Sunday Tradition

On Saturday nights, just before Lucy goes to bed, we sing a little song that I learned as a child. You might recognize it. A few of the words are...outdated. We sing it anyway.

Tomorrow is Sunday and that's my favorite day
'Cause special things happen on Sunday that's why I'm gay
I get to wear my Sunday dress and mother does my [out of control curly] hair
I get to go to Sunday school and hear the stories of Jesus there

Tomorrow is Sunday and that's the best day of all
'Cause sometimes on Sunday the folks I love come to call
And everybody gathers round and I feel good inside
It's easy to see why it's special to me
On Sunday I feel very satisfied

We've been spending our late Sunday afternoons (the last four or five, at least) at the Provo temple, a tradition I see ending only when winter winds keep us away. The grounds are beautiful. The view is thrilling. The music sounding from subtly placed speakers is lifting. Lucy loves the fountains (drinking and decorative) and the hills (for rolling) and the flowers ("Not for picking!" Ahem).

"Temple time!" has become an anticipated weekly activity. Contentment shines in all of our faces as we soak in the beauty and bask in each other's companionship.

There is something soul-stirring in the setting. Something provoking. The penetrating phrase HOLINESS TO THE LORD overshadows our experience as we stroll and linger around the temple structure.

It's powerful to remember that holy temples are consecrated and dedicated to God. To his work. To his glory. To the exaltation and eternal life of all his children. It's humbling to remember that, as similarly consecrated "temples" of God, our souls - our lives, are dedicated to the very same holy purposes.

And yet I often loose both feelings of holiness and purpose as preoccupation dawns distractingly with Monday morning. I loose them somewhere between the ordinary-ness of sippy cups and sidewalk chalk and the chaos of last-minute appointments and lost keys. The purpose behind my everyday work becomes muddy, hard to see, and holiness of heart gets buried by frustrations, discouragements, and lazy pleasures.

And that is, I suppose, why our Sunday afternoon temple trips are so satisfying. Sacred time. Sacred space. Dedicated to remembering and recommitting.

And Wes blessed me a few days ago with an opportunity to go in the temple for a mid-week session. It was a needful break from life. There is something about true worship, like temple worship, that provides a counter to my every-day pride and preoccupation. Time in the temple reminds me that I can stop worrying about looking good, sounding intelligent, receiving acknowledgement or validation. Life is just not about those things. Sometimes I forget. The temple reminds me. The temple is becoming, for me, that needful "great check" that Alma observed amongst the people of the church in Sidom, "Yea...the people were checked as to the pride of their hearts" as they "assemble[d] themselves together at their sanctuaries to worship God before the alter."

Perhaps they came home from their sanctuaries and alters with the expanded perspective and purpose that I come home with: perspective that reminds me to, say, exercise in order to maintain my health and energy to serve, rather than to achieve an "acceptable" size or a perceived status; perspective that reminds me to seek learning to edify rather than to impress others; perspective reminding me that quiet service, mundane work, and unrecognized effort that make a difference in some one's life (even a two-year-old's life) are more important than praise or credit.

The temple reminds me that there is purpose and holiness in my ordinary life: purpose that I often fail to pursue, holiness that I often fail to feel when my pride and preoccupation go unchecked.

I love the temple. I love it's holy purposes. I love it's quiet, powerful reminders.