St. Patrick’s Day Eve

 

     While technically the day began in Nauvoo for us all, it felt like it began on the bus to me.  I woke up (as it were), staggered to the shower, staggered into my clothes, staggered down to the cafeteria to spill cereal down my chest and make a box lunch.  I made mine extra big.  The “extra” consisted mostly of cookies.  Let’s pretend we can blame that on the hour.

      As we boarded the bus, consciousness started fumbling around for its timecard.  Our driver was Pat (who had also taken us to Mark Twain country, and who would, tomorrow, hand me the mike for my religious tolerance speech) and our visitor was Stephen A. Martin from The Hawk Eye newspaper.  My bus buddy for the day was Sarah, but it was a while before I became a very good bus buddy.  That is, if I ever did become a very good bus buddy.

      I knew our trip was off to a promising start when we took our first Missouri potty break at Ozarkland, because Ozarkland was very, very cool.  It really wasn’t much different from any other roadside souvenir shop except for two major differences, the first of which was size.  Ozarkland was huge: three levels, and full of Stuff You Don’t Need.  You know the type—spoons too small to eat out of, marginally vulgar postcards and embarrassingly large, foam cowboy hats that give passers-by the impression that a curiously neon hippo has taken a fancy to the view from your head.  The second notable thing about Ozarkland was a little, fluorescent-lit room behind the Big and Scary Knife display.  (You know, the kind designed to gut mammals much larger than you or me.  Put together.  With hippos on our heads.)  That little room was the fireworks room.  They had all sorts of fireworks I had no idea were legal anywhere in the states.  They certainly weren’t legal in my state.  Very noisy, very bright and very high up in the air were all on display.  There was a small sign on the wall with letters carefully penned with a marker explaining that these wildly flammable, explosive devices were available to anyone who could provide out-of-state ID.  But if you got a Missouri ID, you get no boombangs.

      Not having Missouri ID, I was, I’ll admit, tempted.  I wanted boombangs!  But I held back.  After all, my funds were limited and I couldn’t legally send or bring fireworks home anyway.  (That darn United States Postal Service would never take them, and what happens when the airport dogs sniff out explosives in my luggage?  I don’t know either, but ten to twenty sounds about right.)  So what good would they do me?  Brother Dahl said I couldn’t use them on the bus, so that would have to be that.  No fireworks for me.

      Independence didn’t quite turn out how I expected.  I mean: here we are in Zion, the (to be) New Jerusalem, and the thing that most catches my eye is a statue of Harry Truman, and I immediately remember this is his hometown and start plotting my path to a Harry Truman postcard.  “They probably won’t have them at our Visitor’s Center or at the RLDS temple, so where. . . ?”  I had to have one.  Two, actually.  One for me and one for my old roommate Shon, who was fanatic about Harry Truman.  Sometimes he wouldn’t shut up about him.  “That’s nice Shon.  I respect the gentleman too, Shon.  Shush, Shon.”

      Our first stop was the Visitors’ Center, and it was the nicest one we had been to thus far, in my opinion.  The historical sections were more expansive than either Nauvoo or Carthage, but I think my favorite part was the very first wall visible after walking through the front doors.  There was Harry Anderson’s painting of Christ returning to Earth the Second Time.  You know the one—he’s descending with his arms open; angels on either side stretching back to infinity, blowing trumpets and being happy.  Often, this is all of the painting that is visible in a print.  But beneath Christ is a range of purple mountains and dried up dirt and weeds.  When you enter the Visitors’ Center, you are on an even level with the roughly lifesized image of your Savior.  Above you are angels, below you is the telestial world.  It is an unusual perspective.  Then they play that same script played at all visitors’ centers, the one where Christ introduces himself and invites us unto him.  I’m used to the Christus during these words, but seeing the Lord returning to earth as the voice spoke gave the words a peculiar poignancy.  “I am Jesus Christ.”  Yes, and you are coming.  Perhaps very soon.  I hope so.

      As I mentioned, the Independence Visitors’ Center was a very fine visitors’ center.  It was nicely educational, and the sisters knew their stuff, but we were all feeling rather smartypants, because we had only just barely been studying that stuff, haha, and so we knew all about it.  It caught them off guard that their visitors knew everything about the little towns and prominent people and sometimes even the exact dates of events.  “Look at us, sister missionary lady,” it probably seemed we were saying, “we‘re so smarmy.”  Except for me of course.  I’m never smarmy.  I did, however, come up with one of those marginally relevant questions no one has ever thought to ask before and that stumps everyone in a twenty mile radius.  Someday I’m going to ask such a question in a place less friendly than an LDS Visitors’ Center (ex. Murderin’ Rogues’ Living Museum), and get slapped and thrown out.  I dread that.  “But I really want to know!”  I’ll likely whine as I brush the dust from my newly torn trousers.

      Fortunately, the folks at the RLDS temple were just as nice as those at the Visitors Center.  We started with a video sharing some of the RLDS faith’s history, and its efforts to promote peace throughout the world.  It explained the history of the RLDS temple, its unique appearance and symbolism, and the scriptural mandate that led to its building.  It ended with a recap of their mission for Peace and flashed the word peace in many different languages across the screen.  Peace . . . pyounghwa . . . paz . . . fred.  Honestly, if the world doesn’t need a little more fred, I certainly don’t know what it needs!  It was a very nice movie, but it was after we left the screening room that I really started being impressed by the temple.

      The RLDS temple is inarguably the most distinctive building in town.  It spirals up to heaven, stainless steel gleaming—the only building of its type in the world.  Before I learned more about it, I admit always struck me as resembling a sort of large kitchen utensil.  I apologize for that.

      [ill==rlds temple]

      The temple’s shape is dictated by a strict mathematical formula derived directly from nature.  The same number sequence can be found in a pinecone, snail shell, pineapple or nautilus.  The nautilus was the example used specifically by our tour guide.  The nautilus shell is often counted among the most beautiful objects in nature. [ill, simple spiral, captioned ‘nautilus’] If someone has a nautilus shell in their possession, they display it.

      If you have somehow only ever seen the outside of a nautilus shell, you missed its inner splendor—it is not until the shell is cut in half that its intricate and iridescent beauty is revealed.  The temple is similar.  The outside is impressive, but it is the inside which is truly beautiful.  When we arrived in the large, inner meeting area and looked up, we saw the inside of the spiral arching up heavenward.  I put my head back, awed by the loveliness.  It’s a beautiful room.

      In addition to the beautiful form of the building, it is filled with beautiful art.  (If I use to many derivatives of “beauty” on this trip, please slap me.)  Some, naturally, are better than others, but that which is the better is absolutely breathtaking.  For instance, there is a short walk tours go on called The Worshipers’ Path to the Sanctuary, in which even the lighting and slope are symbolic.  The glass doors we walked through to start on the path immediately impressed me.  Sandblasted over the whole of the doors and their accompanying glass walls was a wonderful, life-sized depiction of the Sacred Grove.¹  Represented was a large selection of plants and animals native to that corner of New York.  The intricate detail and loving rendering of each leaf and bird (and with a sandblaster, no less) was touching.

      Next down the walk was another piece of art by the same artist, Kathy Barnard, this time sandblasted onto a large, black rock.  It was the Prodigal Son, welcomed home again.

      I’ld love to take you through the rest of the path, but I don’t want to ruin the actual experience for you.  When you are able to visit Independence, tour the spiral temple.  When I took the tour, every time our guide would say “Did you notice that ———?” I would think, “No!  My word!  That’s so wonderfully symbolic!”  When you’re there, notice the walls and the lighting and the fascinating thing they do with light upon a cross.

      Tucked off in a corner hallway, away from the crowds, was a favorite piece of mine I want to mention before we move on.  It was a layering of bronzed autumn leaves.  Just keep your eyes peeled—who knows what hidden treasure you might find?

      Our tour ended in a portrait gallery, including the originals of what are probably the most famous portraits of Joseph and Emma (artist unknown).  Accompanying them were other Smiths notable to the Reorganized Church—or Community of Christ as they now prefer to be called.

      In the gift shop I picked up some postcards, but as there were none celebrating Harry Truman (don’t be too shocked—there weren’t any at the LDS Visitors’ Center gift store either), I left the temple and played around with my fellow students on a huge, brick map of the world.  We took some pictures of the temple through the boughs of their blooming cherry trees, and admired the Auditorium across the street.  (It’s the equivalent of our Tabernacle.)  Both the Auditorium and the Temple have large, impressive organs.  I didn’t see the Auditorium’s, but the Temple’s was very impressive.  I love it when organs have trumpets sticking out.

      [ill of trumpets sticking out]

      While we were frolicking about however, two disappointments pressed upon my mind.  First that I still hadn’t found a Harry Truman postcard, and foremost, that since we were now out of time in Independence, I wouldn’t be able to see the Temple Lot.  The Temple Lot is owned by the Church of Christ, often called the Hedrickites.  Their membership is down to roughly 2,000 and they only have about three apostles left.  They feel that they have a divine injunction to keep the original lot sacred and ready until Christ brings further instructions.  But with only three apostles left, what do to is becoming a worrisome matter.  I applaud their integrity, as they strive to fulfill their calling, but I wonder—what will they end up doing?

      We reloaded the bus, and just as I was sitting down, ole G-Rock boarded with a big, happy grin on his face (“See what happens when you’re not stuck on Harry and the Temple Lot?”  I thought.  “You can smile”) and gushed about the Temple Lot

      “What?”

      He and a few others had ran over to the Temple Lot and back while the rest of us hopscotched along the Equator to Asia.

      “What!  Oh no, I didn’t know we could go over there!  I thought—  I thought—  Aarrgh!”

      But it was too late.  And I didn’t even have a Harry Truman postcard to soothe my pain.

      We stopped at a buffet for dinner, and I loaded my plate with an unhealthy assortment of meatballs and gelatinous salad.  A little jittery because of the days two huge failures (no Harry and no Hedrickites), I downed my meal at a frenetic pace.  Having finished early (and because I knew from my listless wandering between tables that at least three gospel conversations had been started with other restaurant patrons), I left the restaurant and spun my head around.

      There!  A drug store!

      I ran to the drug store and scurried through the aisles, looking for postcards.  Found them.  No . . . no . . . no . . . no—No Harry!

      I ran to the front of the store and assaulted a cashier and stocker mid-conversation.  By this time I was desperately out of breath.

      “Do [pant, pant, pant] you [pant] have any [pant] Harry Truman [pant, pant] postcards?”

      They looked at me for a while.  I was flushed from the run and my hair was getting ready for a haircut (translation: it was everywhere).  I was panting and running through their store, looking for Harry Truman postcards.

      One of them, finally, was able to begin a point in the direction of the postcards.  I barked: “I’ve already looked there!”

      “Then, um, I don’t think we have any.”

      “Aiiiee!”

      I took off running through the doors.

      As I ran, I looked for another likely location.  But the strip mall we were in seemed to be built in the middle of a Missouri wilderness.  On one side ran the six-lane highway; perpendicular to highway ran a four-lane beast.  Down the edges of these roads ran chicken wire fences.  Kiddycorner to our strip mall was a gas station.  It was my last hope.

      [ill: frogger]

      Naturally, there were no Harry Truman postcards there either.  I went back to the buffet a little sad and in need of a thrill.  Root beer and red Jell-O did not provide.  Surprisingly, they don’t go well together.

      [ill: glass w/jello in it]

      But at least there was something to look forward to.  Now we were going to Liberty.

 

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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.