The Searchers
My granddaughter Madden asked me where Jesus was today, and to my eternal embarrassment (pun intended), I didn’t know. We had been reading a church magazine and there were pictures of the apostles and prophets, all the people who worked for the Savior, but no picture of Him. And she wanted to see what He looked like.
We used to have a picture of the Savior in the kitchen but with the new paint job and the kids moving out and me updating things, it had migrated. There’s an “Out of Africa” look going on in that kitchen corner now.
I suddenly realized I had no idea where our picture was. Now, we’re Mormons, but even if we weren’t, we would be the kind of people who have a religious picture somewhere prominent. It could be the Pope, or the Dalai Lama, or Buddha, but it would be a picture of who or what we believed in. It would be there to teach our kids and to let people to know who we were and what our beliefs were. We would especially want it if the Mormon missionaries came by so we wouldn’t have to explain to them why we didn’t want the discussions.
So we went to look upstairs first because since the boys moved out, that’s where lots of things have gone. The upstairs was supposed to have morphed into an adorable guest suite by now with checkered curtains and pieced quilts, fulfilling my fantasy of having a bed and breakfast. About my fantasy, my daughter said, “Great Mom, you could do your two favorite things: make breakfast and wash sheets.” I guess that’s why I really haven’t done too much with the upstairs—my guests, which are usually my kids, need to be sure to leave their rooms clean when they leave—if they don’t wash their sheets, they better at least make sure they’re off the beds and in a pile next to the washing machine.
Today, going upstairs, there were echoes of the kids up there. The shouts of excitement when the gerbils got loose and crawled in among all the shoes and games piled on the closet floor. The oohs and aahs when my daughter twirled in front of the mirror in her maroon taffeta prom dress. Grumpy teen-age boys telling me to mind my own business. But, alas, no picture.
I also looked on our bedroom wall, which would have been a nice touch, and on the TV room wall next to the piano where I remembered there was some empty space. Hopefully I hadn’t put it in the storeroom while decorating for Christmas and never taken it out. That’s my trick for getting rid of chachkis I don’t want. At Christmas and Easter I replace them with Santas and angels and bunnies, and then, mysteriously, they never come back again.
Suddenly it came to me that the picture was down in the basement on top of the bookcase. My desk used to be there against the wall when we had an exchange student who had adopted my “office” as her bedroom, and I had hung the picture above the computer so everyone could see it when they did their homework and needed to be reminded of the power of prayer.
But the exchange student was gone now and the desk was back in its old room, replaced by yet another bookcase, this one for all the children’s books I had wanted to save, to read again, after the people I had first read them to had moved out. Now our picture of who we believed in was stacked on top of the bookcase where no one could see it. I, for one, had clearly lost track of it.
So Madden and I hung it back up in the kitchen today. Now if Buddhist missionaries come to our house, they'll be able to see right away who we believe in. And when our “guests” come home for Thanksgiving, they can be reminded, hopefully, of the lessons they learned as kids. And when Madden asks me where Jesus is, I can show her His picture and tell her how much He loves her.
Just when you think that being an old woman is going to be the start of your wild and crazy years, along come the grandkids and it’s back to being good again.
We used to have a picture of the Savior in the kitchen but with the new paint job and the kids moving out and me updating things, it had migrated. There’s an “Out of Africa” look going on in that kitchen corner now.
I suddenly realized I had no idea where our picture was. Now, we’re Mormons, but even if we weren’t, we would be the kind of people who have a religious picture somewhere prominent. It could be the Pope, or the Dalai Lama, or Buddha, but it would be a picture of who or what we believed in. It would be there to teach our kids and to let people to know who we were and what our beliefs were. We would especially want it if the Mormon missionaries came by so we wouldn’t have to explain to them why we didn’t want the discussions.
So we went to look upstairs first because since the boys moved out, that’s where lots of things have gone. The upstairs was supposed to have morphed into an adorable guest suite by now with checkered curtains and pieced quilts, fulfilling my fantasy of having a bed and breakfast. About my fantasy, my daughter said, “Great Mom, you could do your two favorite things: make breakfast and wash sheets.” I guess that’s why I really haven’t done too much with the upstairs—my guests, which are usually my kids, need to be sure to leave their rooms clean when they leave—if they don’t wash their sheets, they better at least make sure they’re off the beds and in a pile next to the washing machine.
Today, going upstairs, there were echoes of the kids up there. The shouts of excitement when the gerbils got loose and crawled in among all the shoes and games piled on the closet floor. The oohs and aahs when my daughter twirled in front of the mirror in her maroon taffeta prom dress. Grumpy teen-age boys telling me to mind my own business. But, alas, no picture.
I also looked on our bedroom wall, which would have been a nice touch, and on the TV room wall next to the piano where I remembered there was some empty space. Hopefully I hadn’t put it in the storeroom while decorating for Christmas and never taken it out. That’s my trick for getting rid of chachkis I don’t want. At Christmas and Easter I replace them with Santas and angels and bunnies, and then, mysteriously, they never come back again.
Suddenly it came to me that the picture was down in the basement on top of the bookcase. My desk used to be there against the wall when we had an exchange student who had adopted my “office” as her bedroom, and I had hung the picture above the computer so everyone could see it when they did their homework and needed to be reminded of the power of prayer.
But the exchange student was gone now and the desk was back in its old room, replaced by yet another bookcase, this one for all the children’s books I had wanted to save, to read again, after the people I had first read them to had moved out. Now our picture of who we believed in was stacked on top of the bookcase where no one could see it. I, for one, had clearly lost track of it.
So Madden and I hung it back up in the kitchen today. Now if Buddhist missionaries come to our house, they'll be able to see right away who we believe in. And when our “guests” come home for Thanksgiving, they can be reminded, hopefully, of the lessons they learned as kids. And when Madden asks me where Jesus is, I can show her His picture and tell her how much He loves her.
Just when you think that being an old woman is going to be the start of your wild and crazy years, along come the grandkids and it’s back to being good again.
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