Carmen Sandiego and the Book of Mormon's Captivating Qualities

When I was little I was enthralled with Carmen Sandiego everything. I watched the Carmen Sandiego trivia game show on TV, because I felt it was a fun way to test my knowledge on the stuff I was learning in school at the time. My parents got me a computer game called "Carmen Sandiego Word Detective" probably because they sensed that English was my favorite subject (and I still love it), and definitely because they knew I loved Carmen Sandiego.

(Tidbit: My adoration for Carmen Sandiego even prolonged clear into my senior year of college, when I was taking a clogging dance class, and for our final exam we had to split up into groups to choreograph our own 2-minute dance routines for a big end-of-semester recital. In a hushed tone I had calmly suggested to my group one day that the Carmen Sandiego theme song could be a cool idea for our routine. To my pleasant surprise, everybody loved the idea and we ran with it. After almost a decade, I still own my clogs.)

"Carmen Sandiego Word Detective" is a play on the Tower of Babel event in ancient world history, and the result of peoples' languages becoming jumbled. It's been a really, really long time since I've played my Carmen Sandiego game, but I think the point of it was to circumnavigate the globe by stopping at country after country to find where the missing pieces of the once-organized English language blew away to, and stitch the language back together by figuring out how the proper grammar, syntax, and spelling all have to be, and by doing so -- mission completion upon mission completion -- you eventually save the English-speaking/-writing world from permanent obliteration. The countries/missions I remember the best are when I had to go inside Nefertiti's dangerous cobra-infested tomb in Egypt, and way up high into a lofty jungle treehouse in Tanzania to solve some sort of crazy puzzle before a beautiful yet deranged explorer/safari lady with long brown curly hair and yellow clothes barged in on you with her whips made of . . . more snakes.

At any rate, I hadn't thought about this game in such a long time, until just a few nights ago. I was studying from my Book of Mormon. As I'm sure I've mentioned before in this blog, I love listening to the LDS.org narrator as he reads the scriptures to me. Being read to is my fav. I try to listen to at least one chapter per night, and at the end of each chapter, I write a quick little something about what the chapter made me think of.

Some of my earliest recollections in life are living-room scenes of a tiny version of Alison having family scripture study with her mom, dad, brothers, and sisters. Those of us who were old enough to read all took turns reading aloud. Even the itty-bitty baby brothers who were like...five or something...took turns sounding out the words of the verses. (Wow, I had never written down this memory before. This is tugging at my heartstrings quite a bit.)

Even way back then, the Ether chapters (which are located towards the close of the full Book of Mormon) were extra special to me. As a little Primary kid in church, whenever we'd discuss the adventures of Jared and his brother, I'd always unfailingly find myself feeling so fascinated.

But a few nights ago -- last week -- I was listening to the guy read to me, and upon his wrapping up of Ether chapter 3, I quickly assessed myself because I sensed I was curiously and suddenly feeling something pretty big: in this moment I was realizing that it now was not just my mind and heart that were fascinated by what I had just heard. It was more like......ALL the rest of me was fascinated. It's like, even my BONES and my blood...my hair and hands and feet... my eyes, my senses... my future and my past... the full-monty-of-me of every moment, every frame, of the duration of my existence -- from start to finish -- was fascinated. And convinced. Convinced with literally every.single.fiber. of my being, that what I had just heard from this portion of the Book of Mormon -- and thus all the portions of the Book of Mormon -- was honest-to-goodness truth. (This most recent General Conference also made me feel this way, in the moment, which actually had never happened to me before. Haha, so is this whole post basically just coming across as enigmatic, or what? Sorry.)

Even now, nearly a week later, I still can't stop thinking about the Ether chapters -- particularly #1-3, and especially #3. It started with mention of the "great tower" and how the brother of Jared (c. 2200 B.C.) prayed to the Lord that He wouldn't mess up his and his family's and his friends' words, so that they could all continue understanding each other.

And then the next chapter talked about Nimrod, and so I looked up "Nimrod" to remind myself whom that referred to, and I re-learned he was a king and a great hunter with whom the Tower of Babel is heavily associated.

And, naturally, I thought about "Carmen Sandiego Word Detective" and the mighty, complex, and destructive Babble-On Machine.

I am fixed upon the idea that the Tower of Babel story is one that possibly most of the world knows about. I am sure that hundreds of millions, and likely billions, of earth's population knows about it. But I wouldn't be the first to tell you that the Book of Mormon is FULL of accounts of ancient peoples which not "possibly" but definitely most of the world doesn't know about. But here we come to these specific chapters in Ether, and we land upon none other than...drum roll please...the Tower of Babel. Lately I've been pausing now and then to ponder just how astoundingly amazing I think it is that the Book of Mormon contains an actual, very personal record of real people who were THERE. There at the tower. There, experiencing very real fears and anxiety regarding the possibility that their vital modes of communication could be irreversibly confounded, unless by God Himself.

And a lot of opposers of the Book of Mormon say that a young, foolish Joseph Smith made the whole thing up. That it's nothing but a compilation of fibs and fables. But, oh my goodness, do you even realize how much insane and insanely-longwinded effort would have to go into writing a fictitious book *that* lengthy and detailed, from scratch? When you're only 22 years old, and you're not that educated with a hearty academic background, and the World Wide Web would not come into existence until 162 years later?

There are 142 years between Joseph's day and my day. I hold a high school diploma, a college degree, and a decade of full-time businesswoman life under my belt. And I have virtual endless access to libraries and internet tools. And I didn't even really know who Nimrod was until like four days ago. And so I not only highly doubt, but know for certain, that Joseph did not "make up" the Book of Mormon. The writings already existed. They had to have. They are the compelling journalings (not a word, but it is now) of real people who already existed. They are strong testimonies of people who already lived. These people personally testified that what they were writing was true, and every time I read phrases like "these sayings are true," a powerful witness tells me in my soul that they are, indeed, true. And mine is not the last attestation among Book of Mormon-readers you'll ever talk to -- millions of others have received the exact same witness.

AH! So anyway, let me hurry up and explain to you a little more in depth how Ether chapter 3 made me feel the other night. Like I said, the narrator had just finished up reading it to me. And I zoomed so fast down memory lane to the era when my parents were training me to pray all by myself. When I was really little, either my dad or mom would come downstairs to my room and kneel beside me at my bedside and guide me in what words I could say to my Father in Heaven, until I felt confident to do it on my own. Comparable to how a more experienced biker takes time to train you to detach yourself from training wheels on your bicycle.

My bed: it was phenomenal. My grandfather built it. I still don't know anyone else in all the world who's ever had a bed like mine. It was like a bunk bed, but for only one person (the top bunk), and it was built into the wall. Or built out of the wall. It was like...stairs made up of wall, that led upward to more wall material that was in the form of bed. Um, wow. Hard to describe in words. Do you maybe get the picture? Talk to me in person someday, and I'll perhaps be able to explain better with my hands, hahaha.

After prayer time was done, I'd sit on my bed -- sometimes just in the middle of the day on a Saturday or after school on a weekday -- and I'd just sit on the mattress and talk to Jesus. I had this photo of Him pinned to my wall above where my head lay at night......

......and I'd just sit there and talk to Him, out loud, imagining that He wasn't just a picture, but that He was someone in-the-flesh I was literally sitting next to. I did this dozens of times. Audibly it always just sounded like a unilateral conversation, but under the layers of what the human senses can detect, He was talking back to me. In my heart, I knew He was listening. I knew it. He was fully aware there was a gangly, tall-for-her-age, dark-eyed, dark-haired, quirky adolescent girl sitting atop her bed, talking to a 5x7" paper image of Himself, and He listened to every word she had to say. I've told no one in the universe about these chats I had with Him in my youth. Not until now. You, reader, are in the first audience that I've ever told. :)

In Ether 3, this very, very, very same Jesus Christ is the Christ who visited with the brother of Jared nearly 4,000 years ago. The brother of Jared spent who knows how many tedious hours of moltening (I guess, in scriptural context, would be a word) sixteen stones out of a larger rock, crafting those stones to be "white and clear, even as transparent glass," and I'm sure the process would have been full of much spiritual reflection along with the meticulous handiwork.

A necessary journey was soon to be made across the raging sea for Jared and his loved ones, and the type of vessel that would bring them all across the sea was pretty much a fully-enclosed barge, and there were to be several of them, and none of them could have windows, thus making them be very dark inside, and this sentence is full of comma splices, and so the brother of Jared presented these sixteen (16) stones before the Lord and said:

"....touch these stones, O Lord, with thy finger, and prepare them that they may shine forth in darkness; and they shall shine forth unto us in the vessels which we have prepared, that we may have light while we shall cross the sea.... Behold, O Lord, thou canst do this. We know that thou art able to show forth great power, which looks small unto the understanding of men."

And so the Lord, Jesus Christ -- the very same one who sat with me on my bed and talked with me and listened to my sometimes-hour-long schpiels about whatever -- reached out His hand (first with only His hand visible) and touched each stone with His finger, which made the stones all light up, so that they could essentially serve as extremely awesome night-lights inside the pitch-dark barges.

And the brother of Jared (okay, so his name was Mahonri Moriancumer, but since nobody can say that name five times fast, we stick to calling him "the brother of Jared" hehe) flipped out and fell over! Like, for real fell over! And then every single verse from this point onward is now basically my favorite verse in all scripturedom, including these two:

"And the Lord saw that the brother of Jared had fallen to the earth; and the Lord said unto him: Arise, why hast thou fallen? ....And he saith unto the Lord: I saw the finger of the Lord, and I feared lest he should smite me; for I knew not that the Lord had flesh and blood."

And what cracks me up here is how the brother of Jared knew for sure that the Lord had power to do honestly anything, which of course would include the power to annihilate anything, anyone, or anyplace, without having to provide to man any visual of lifting a finger. And yet, here comes His finger into the brother of Jared's view, and all of the sudden he is deathly afraid. Does this scenario reflect how we, in our day, sometimes are? Do we fear the arm of flesh, and the concrete things we can see with our eyes, more than we fear He who is omnipotent and whom we cannot see with our eyes? I dunno. It's just so interesting to me!

Anyway, so what's so fantastically beautiful to me is the part where Jesus Christ shows His whole self unto the brother of Jared, due to his great faith and firm knowledge that Christ is "a God of truth" who cannot lie.

Elsewhere in the Book of Mormon, pages and pages prior to this, it talks about people hearing a voice that pierces the soul straight to the very center. When I heard my LDS.org narrator read these next three verses, my soul felt similarly pierced:

"Behold, I am he who was prepared from the foundation of the world to redeem my people. Behold, I am Jesus Christ. I am the Father and the Son. In me shall all mankind have life, and that eternally, even they who shall believe on my name; and they shall become my sons and my daughters.

"And never have I showed myself unto man whom I have created, for never has man believed in me as thou hast. Seest thou that ye are created after mine own image? Yea, even all men were created in the beginning after mine own image.

"Behold, this body, which ye now behold, is the body of my spirit; and man have I created after the body of my spirit; and even as I appear unto thee to be in the spirit will I appear unto my people in the flesh."

YOU GUYS. This was really happening! This really happened! This was Jesus Christ who, for the first time in all the history of this planet, had never before revealed His physical self -- in person -- to any other person on the planet. The brother of Jared was the first, in this awesome, awesome setting.

This was Jesus Christ essentially saying, "I really am going to come to this world to redeem mankind, and this is what I will look like." (And now, in my mind, almost every Christmas carol about the Savior somehow ties perfectly into this.)

And it was this same Jesus Christ whose portrait hung on the wall above my bunk bed in the basement of the house I grew up in. The same Jesus who is my personal close friend, whom I have always counted as a dear friend since before I can remember. I talk with Him. He talks with me and walks with me. I pray to Heavenly Father in Jesus' name. His Father is my Father.

I just really, really love that all of this is true, and I'm so THANKFUL that all of this is true!

The end. This may have been my longest blog post yet. I've been sitting here for houuuuurrrrsssss typing!

On Voting with Purpose; Popcorn; and Tom Hanks Movies

Holy schmokes, we've been watching 2016 Presidential Debates for officially LONGER than a year; I wrote this last blog post officially over a year ago (almost exactly one year ago).


Needless to say, this Presidential race indeed has been going on forever, and there is a chance that literally most Americans are ready for it to be over. ;)


However, it's been a fascinating ride for me, which I think has helped me learn more about myself and how I want to live my life.


What I'm about to explain to you is a glimpse into a personal journey. Before I go into anything further, I'll tell you that I do have people dear to me who support certain Presidential candidates whom I simply do not, yet I think highly of these people anyway. They are wonderful. I've loved getting to know them over the years. I support a Presidential candidate whom I know for a fact is someone many of my close friends will for sure not be voting for. But wouldn't ya know it, we're all still good friends.


I felt something interesting stir in my heart while I was having a hot date the other night with a delicious bag of popcorn in the far-top-left corner-pocket seat in room #12 at the local cinema. My date was also with Mr. Tom Hanks. I spontaneously wanted to go see him play "Sully" in the new great Clint Eastwood film.


A decent chunk of the movie depicted scenes of the passengers of Flight 1549 experiencing a huge, very serious emergency together. These scenes were carried out magnificently by the actors. I could vividly picture how the group dynamics likely were on the real airplane, on the real January 15, 2009, on that real day in New York City.


I thought to myself, Any differences -- small or big -- that could ever cause any bad beef between any and all of these people, did not matter anymore. What it all boiled down to was that all these people were human. Each one of them had loved ones either at home, abroad, on that plane, or wherever. They each had somebody who loved them. They each had somebody to love. Each person mattered. Everyone was on the same level -- the same level of importance -- and in these moments of high-stress urgency on the Hudson River, I think everybody understood that about everybody else.


I'd like to translate what I learned from the "Sully" movie into how I treat people throughout my life. One of millions of scenarios: the election cycle. Election processes can get way heated, as we all are fully aware. Speaking of heat, I perceive there are a couple of different types of fires that can blaze during the course of an election cycle:


One -- heated debates between people. Two -- the fire that burns in a citizen's soul when they have been latched onto values that they believe are proper, and they stand up boldly for what they feel is right. And now as I am typing this out, I realize that the two types of fires very often combine one with another naturally. I just think that it's likely often wise to be cautious when standing up for our candidates, to not get carried off so far, that we find ourselves having damaged our relationships that we cherish. I personally have not witnessed many of my own associates' relationships significantly damaged, as far as my eye can tell, but I'm sure it happens all across this country.


So, back to standing up for what we each feel is right. Naturally and obviously -- simply because we are all different from one another -- not everyone's views are going to be identical. Great. That's totally fine. In fact, it's kind of beautiful. The diversity. I like it. Nay, I love it. We shouldn't be clones of each other. Being non-clones of each other, in my opinion, is what makes us all interesting to each other -- interesting to get to know. It's so cool.


But when we go hit the polls and come face-to-face with our ballots, I hope that this is the reason we go vote in the first place: "because I want to stand up for what I believe is right." It honestly might not be the current reality for millions of Americans -- that there is a great candidate on this season's ballot for everyone. Millions of Americans, I am sure, do not feel that way.


But I guess that is another reason why it's important for each of us to study up on who is actually running for Prez. Check to make sure there really isn't someone you could visualize yourself being happy to have as Prez.


I, for one, have found someone whose name will be on my state's ballot whom I am going to be thrilled to vote for. I'm not about to try to force any one of you to vote for the person I'm voting for. But I will tell you that I am going to be very pleased to fervently place a mark next to Evan McMullin's name. #McMullinFinn #ForTheWin


My plea is that, whatever you do, try to go to the polls with a positive purpose. I predict that many, many, many people are going to go to the polls with the sole purpose of "well, I guess it's just my civic duty." No one is making you go vote. You really do not have to. In fact, if you don't vote this year and don't make a peep about it, you'll probably very effortlessly slide by for the rest of your mortal existence utterly undetected regarding it.


I agree that one singular citizen's vote -- out of hundreds of millions -- is a tiny droplet in the massive ocean. In the grander scheme, it doesn't count as much. You are one of these droplets. I am one of these droplets. It would be easier than pie to go to the poll, check Yes next to a nationally-powerhouse candidate you'd rather not have win, and go home ho-hum, feeling like voting was actually quite a waste of your time. And so my question is, "If this is how you're going to vote, why are you going to go vote anyway?" I'm not really telling you to not vote. Please do vote. But try to see if there really is NOT any candidate you can see yourself voting for in "good conscience" (because that's the term that's popular with the kids these days ;)


If you haven't heard of Evan McMullin, then here is me telling you about him. If you have heard of Evan McMullin, but have not had much exposure to learning about him, and you do not care that much for either of the two most major candidates, please look into McMullin. Just please do. Just do.

(Here is one of my favorite recent interviews with him. It's kind of long, but I think it paints a decent pic of what he's like and what he wants for the United States of America.) (P.S. If you also don't care much for Glenn Beck, you can zone him out and zoom your focus in on Evan.)

"O Love That Will Not Let Me Go": So Many Thoughts From Sunday

There was a whole bunch of big things my heart was feeling all day last Sunday -- the feelings kept pinging again and again. I tried over and over to wrap my head around the feelings, and while everything felt absolutely beautiful, it was (and still is) a difficult task to try to explain in words. But even now I feel like I still need to try to put it all into words. I don't know how successful I'll be, but here goes:

Early Sunday morning, most other people in the time zone are still fast asleep in their beds while I and approximately 400 other musicians are working hard on prepping songs for a television broadcast to be held mere minutes away. This is every week. This most recent Sunday, we worked on and performed an amazing arrangement of the Scottish Christian hymn "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go," by George Matheson. I'd sung this song with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir a couple of times before. It had always been a pleasant, mild-to-moderately-moving experience, and it had always "spoken to me" somewhat. But this time it was an entirely different "speech." The song never talked to me the way it did last Sunday.

Early Sunday, first-things-first, right out of the bullpen, we began our first run-through of the song that morning. The first verse was the men's verse. In lovely unison, the basses and tenors melodiously uttered the first line: "O Love that will not let me go, I rest my weary soul in thee..." And that's all it took. That alone is what got me going.

Instant reaction - my brow involuntarily furrowed in deep thought (probably that "angry" look that people say I sometimes pull when I'm reading uplifting literature) and it seemed to stay that way for a while. That initial lyric I had just heard the men sing made me do it. The poem was written from the perspective of a mortal man who is enduring life's twists and turns and is putting his faith in God. But in this particular furrowed-brow moment, I wasn't thinking solely of a regular mortal's tests. Mostly what I was thinking about was Jesus Christ's ultimate test, in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I was contemplating how Christ's faith in His Father (God) in these real-time moments of the Atonement was incredible beyond imagination. I was comparing the faith and strength demonstrated by regular people in their personal trials, with the faith and strength demonstrated by Christ in His paramount trial. I think these both are the same species of faithful strength. I think as long as our faithful strength is rooted in and focused on God, it can be considered to be the same variety as Christ's. Because I believe it's something that comes straight from the spirit of a person. And we and Christ are very much alike in that aspect. He and we -- we all come from the same Father. We come from the same family. We've got the same sort of spirit inside us. It's hereditary.

And so, if I were to summarize these particular thoughts into a one-sentence statement, to repeat over and over again in my head all day long (which I did, last Sunday), it would be, "To pass through trial with trust in God is a holy and sacred experience because, in a way, it mirrors what Christ has done." To "endure to the end," as it says in the scriptures, is a truly Christlike skill.

I would now like to share with you a snapshot of a write-out that my MoTab soprano friend Sherry made (I'll type out the words, too), along with the full lyrics of the published hymn:

Engaged to the love of his life, George Matheson had heard that he was going blind. His fiancée, learning this, decided she couldn't live her life with a blind man. He wrote this in his despair for his loss and love for the Savior, who finds us wherever we are. He was 20 at the time and he never married. He eventually joined the ministry. ~Ryan Murphy

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

O Love that will not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee;

I give thee back the life I owe,

That in thine ocean depths

Its flow may richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way,

I yield my flickering torch to thee;

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

That in thy sunshine's blaze

Its day may brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee;

I trace the rainbow thru the rain,

And feel the promise is not vain,

That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from thee;

I lay in dust life's glory dead,

And from the ground there blossoms red life

That shall endless be.

I realized early last Sunday morning that, in my eyes, the story in this hymn seems like it's being told by George and by Christ, and sometimes individual lines in the text sound like they could have been spoken by either of the two people, in their own individual major trials. The hymn's words, to me, are reminiscent of the feelings of both a humbled and aching blind man, and the Redeemer of mankind, in the pivotal events leading up to the conclusion of His mortal mission.

First, special lines from "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go" that are especially perfect coming from George Matheson:

- "O Light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to thee." (Well, basically the entire second verse.) George, whose physical vision of physical sunlight had "flickered" out more and more as he grew older, never lost sight of He who has always been the true Light of the world.

- "I trace the rainbow thru the rain..." Again, as a blind man, George arrived at a point in his life where rainbows in the rain would no longer be visible to his human eyes, but he would still be able to stand outside in the rain, feel the cool, gentle drops, reach out into the air with his hand, and motion an arc shape where he'd imagine that a colorful rainbow might exist. I can just picture that, and it sweetly moves me.

Next, special lines from the song that I can imagine hearing the Savior say as He made His great atoning sacrifice, with accompanying scriptural verses of which I was reminded:

- "O Love that will not let me go..." "And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him." (Luke 22:43) I think back on a painting I once saw by Danish painter Carl Heinrich Bloch (I apologize for the dangling modifier), and I'm pretty sure it changed my life forever when I beheld it. It's called "Christ in Gethsemane" and I am touched and I smile to think that Heavenly Father blessed His Son with an angelic friend to come to His aid in this dark time.

- "...I rest my weary soul in thee; I give thee back the life I owe..." "And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost." (Luke 23:46)

- "...and feel the promise is not vain, that morn shall tearless be." I do love to think of this specific line as a testimony from a child of God here on earth, whose faith in Christ's Atonement and in the Plan of Happiness is solid and immovable. But for the first time since the first time I ever sang this hymn, I visualize Christ speaking these words. Once again my thoughts are directed to how intensely faith-infused Christ's performance of those poignant and crucial atoning acts must have been. I believe He had faith -- as He went through the pain that He went through -- that the good miracle would happen. That His sacrifice would do what it was always intended to do. To redeem us all. To save us all. I believe that He believed that there was a promise that would be made to His Father's children who too would follow in faith, that "morn would be tearless" for them -- in other words, that His Father's children (us) wouldn't have to remain in tears and pain, for they would have a Savior's infinitely wonderful gift to use on a day-to-day basis, any time they could ever wish for.

- I repeat the final verse of "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go":

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from thee;

I lay in dust life's glory dead,

And from the ground there blossoms red life

That shall endless be.

Does not this entire verse automatically spark a depiction of our kind and gracious Savior, Jesus Christ, in your mind? What gorgeous words. Christ's mission here on earth -- clear up to the final minutes and seconds of it -- was a mission He never desired to "fly from."

I know there may be moments during the remainder of my mortal mission when I won't feel as focused or strong as I'd like to feel. But I wish for it to be forever my goal to strive to follow my Savior's example of faith. I'm unsure if that's a statement I've ever stated verbatim before, but I'm stating and declaring it now. I thank my experiences last Sunday morning for causing me to think about all this. That was a good day.

Treating Each Other With Tenderness

Very recently I was in a training meeting where the featured speaker was Elder Ronald A. Rasband of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Everyone in attendance received wonderful counsel from him regarding leadership, delegation, and balancing various aspects of life.

Towards the end of the meeting was a short Q&A session, where audience members could freely ask Elder Rasband questions related to the topic in focus. One guy raised his hand, Elder Rasband called on him, the guy stood up, was handed a microphone, and he proceeded to put forth one of the most classic questions of all time:

"What advice would you give your younger self?"

Elder Rasband gathered his thoughts for just a couple of seconds, and almost immediately as soon as he began to talk, tears began shining in his eyes. The first words he uttered in reply: "Try to love more."

Elder Rasband put clear emphasis on the importance of "love and tenderness." I don't know why, but as soon as he spoke the word "tenderness," I latched onto it fast and firmly, and a massive chain reaction of thoughts exploded into existence in my mind.

So I don't have to try to regurgitate the chain of ponderings, I'll just copy and paste what I jotted down into my phone's note-taking app:

What advice would you give your younger self? "Try to love more. ...love and tenderness." Those are the things we give small children while they're in their growing years. Is it a key to growth no matter how old the child gets? Do we naturally slow down giving tender lovingkindness to people simply because they are getting older, and appear to be no more childlike? But we are all still growing. I don't think we ever stop growing. We continue to have growing pains, even though we've been out of grade school, junior high, high school for a long time. Life was hard in the formative years, but the more I continue to age, the more I realize my "formative years" don't seem to be over yet. But I find that when somebody else is gently heart-to-heart with me, or is simply just genuinely happy to hear me out, it means a lot, and I feel like I have been nourished and fed with good things. The growing gets a little easier.

It's what we want to do when we have a baby or a toddler in our midst. It's our instinct to want so much for them to learn what's good and true, to grow up learning to do rightly and justly. We want them to find joy as they live from year to year. Our hopes for them -- and faith in them -- are bright. So what do we do? In what attitude do we often attempt to teach them, especially when they're tiny? Gentility. Encouragement. Tenderly guiding.

But as we, as people, get older, we're sometimes prone to get ruder. Sometimes we get cruder. We are now far beyond the age when we weren't actually accountable for our actions. It can be considered a pity of life that, as we garner more and more rotations-around-the-sun under our belts, we, as people, who once shone as bright pure silver, can be viewed as more and more tarnished. Sometimes we can be viewed as being defaced, simply because we're no longer precious, innocent "little children."

It is true: we do tend to get rougher around the edges, the further and further we move away from the days when we were little kids. But here's where we are the same as little kids: we are still learning. We do still experience many, many, many growing pains. The pains merely vary in type, but they're pains just the same... I see it in the elderly; they have their own challenges associated with their age... I see it in middle-aged married couples; things like having to relocate or having to let their children move from home and go off to college or even get married themselves -- those can be tough changes to face... I see it in young adults who are in my age group; there are issues and hurdles EVERYWHERE.

I'm now 30, and I am now personally trekking across some fresh new "adulting" territory I'd never known before. A lot of the stuff related to said territory is blowing my mind pretty thoroughly, and every now and then I am finding so much solace in simply having some other adult listen to me voice my concerns and opinions -- and I love, love, love hearing what they have to say about it, and the conversations are just so gall darn edifying. The friends and family with whom I am conversing about all these things -- they're not being "gentle" with me in the sense that they think I am fragile and I could shatter to pieces at any moment; they are being "gentle" with me in the sense that they are simply being calm and kind with me...

Calm, kind, and authentically interested in one another... Maybe that's one way to describe what it means to be "meek" with one another. In the grandest scheme of things, we're all still just kids who oh so often yearn for guidance in life, who always still have oh so much more to learn. It's what being mortal is all about. And so -- pretty much exactly like our tiny little children who are learning to crawl, walk, eat solids, understand the alphabet and arithmetic, play nicely with others -- we are learning a million things as well, and sometimes it's just hard. The little children need the gentle, tender nourishment. Why would we adults not need similar gentle, tender nourishment? Again, it doesn't have to be in the form of high-pitched, airy tones of voice -- like you are talking to a 1-year-old or a labradoodle puppy. We can be gentle just being normal with each other, with kindness, calmness, love, and genuineness. With a hug here and there, if you and/or your friend is the hugging type of person. ;)

But anyway, to me, this is what Elder Rasband's mention of "love and tenderness" made me think of. One detailed thought after another after another! Thanks, Elder Rasband! And now, to finish off this rambling post: SCRIPTURE REFERENCES! (*and a quick song reference*) I love all of these:

Titus 3:2 -- To speak evil of no man, to be no brawlers, but gentle, shewing all meekness unto all men. <--- This is maybe my favorite! "Don't be a brawler!"

1 Thessalonians 5:11 -- Wherefore comfort yourselves together, and edify one another, even as also ye do.

Mosiah 18:9 -- Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first resurrection, that ye may have eternal life—

Doctrine and Covenants 25:5 -- And the office of thy calling shall be for a comfort unto my servant, Joseph Smith, Jun., thy husband, in his afflictions, with consoling words, in the spirit of meekness.

"I'm Trying to Be like Jesus" song by Janice Kapp Perry -- "Be gentle and loving in deed and in thought, for these are the things Jesus taught."

101 Greatest Hits: MoTab Tour 2016

One week ago today, my MoTab crew and I were on planes, flying back home from a 20-day musical mission to western Europe, which was a fabulous, unforgettable, and very humbling and moving experience. And so so so much fun.

Here are 101 of my memories that I wanted to highlight:

1. Sharing the first leg of the journey to the Europalands with like a dozen brand new mission presidents and their wives, including two of the best people I know, President and Sister Bangerter!

2. The #AmDam30.

3. 8-hour layover in Amsterdam, with the lunchtime canal cruise (cheese and cucumber sandwiches?). #RightYouAreRon #RightYouAreNell

#AndItWasSoWindyItBlewHerWeddingVeilRightOff #ThatIsSoSilly!

4. The first time I ever heard the legendary synchronized clapping that Europeans occasionally do when they really like what they heard. That first time was in Berlin, at our first concert. None of us were fully expecting it would happen. But it did. And it sent shivers. Incredible.

5. Tasting non-alcoholic beer. It was a little bit gross…

6. …but it was at dinner in a cellar in a Munich biergarten that is 688 years old, so that’s really something!

7. Discovering and delightedly downing the delicious life-altering properties of spezi with Stan.

8. The turquoise on turquoise in the Meistersingerhalle in Nuremberg. Maybe we shoulda worn the turquoise dresses for that concert? Nah, that probs woulda been overkill.

9. Zip-lining in a gorgeous park that once was the grounds where the Nazi party held their rallies. Sobering.

10. Hysterical syllable-by-syllable impromptu take on “Betelehemu” with my girls on the top of the rope tower in the playground where that zip-line was.

11. One word: VIENNA!

12. The moving statue of a giant man hammering. I still think it’s a little creepy.

13. Bentley with the Bentley at Eltz Castle.

14. Sacrament meeting in the hotel ballroom with Elder Patrick Kearon of the Seventy and his lovely wife Jennifer.

15. “Apfel?” “It’s gooooood……”

16. Relentlessly asking Maria what the name is of practically every plant we walked past ever . . . and she loved it! Bahahah!

17. Deciding, while exploring the Palmengarten in Frankfurt, that a moderate-to-major bucket list item of mine now is to go to Japan, place my hand on top of a bamboo plant, keep my hand there all day, and see how many centimeters it grows in that one day. It could get crazy. Someone would have to bring me food.

18. Talking to an insanely colorful gorgeous parrot for literally five full minutes straight, and my friends are so understanding of my cute-bird quirk that they just let me be and judged me not. #TrueFriends :)

19. The Amsterdammers tying up their purple inflatable crocodilians so they don’t cause a ruckus…

20. Me wanta ALL your Fantas.

21. THE BEST PANCAKES IN ALL THE UNIVERSE.

22. Fireworks zooming out of the Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day.

23. Many much humans on the Parisian metro. Many many muy mucho of them.

24. Shooting a music video with everybody at the Paris France Temple construction site. #OnTheCountOfThree #LookUpAtTheDrone

25. Nightly regroupings with tour roommate Nancy, and joking and laughing uber-heartily literally every five seconds.

26. Patrick, the classic storybook Frenchman, who was our waiter on our last night on tour, in Paris. This was when I ordered duck for myself for the first time in my life. Patrick loved us so much, probably because he could tell we loved him so much!

27. Attempting to pack my large suitcase the night before it was due (it’s not called procrastination; it’s called “life got crazy”) . . . and – for months and months and months – not ever realizing until that crunch-time moment: “. . . . . . I don’t own a suitcase . . .”

28. AND THEN YOUR REAL-LIFE ROOMMATES SAVE YOUR LIFE IN THE NICK OF TIME BY OFFERING YOU THEIRS! Angels. Angels, I say. #TimeToBuyMyOwn

29. Mere moments before the very first leg of the journey – The airport security lady patting the top-knot atop my head, feeling for metal objects in the hairdo with her fingers. Ummm . . . hi? #SheFoundNothingDangerous

30. Sarah and I watching “The Intern” in perfect synchronization side-by-side on our individual screens, on the first long-haul plane ride to the European continent.

31. Performing on the same stage Bob Dylan performed on! (Plus zillions of other big favs of mine!)

32. Turkey impersonations (imturkeyations?) at the Berlin hotel breakfast table. The Rons know they loved it.

33. Shimmying lessons at the same breakfast table. Yeah…oh my.

34. Me n’ Maria showing off our astounding calf muscles after the hike up the hill from the castle!

35. Me n’ Becky negotiating whose future castle homes will be whose :)

36. Speaking of Becky: Becky workin’ the Munich luggage pull in her new cute green dirndl. I possibly never saw any other gal so adorbsible before in my life!

37. Eating gelato and sorbet basically every day.

38. The crowds’ squeals every single time (without fail) we completed “Betelehemu.” #AndItCameToPassThatAlisonGiggledRightThen… #Again…

39. All tour participants were divided into multiple travel groups. Several flights out, several flights back. I was in the group that was always the last to arrive to the continent. Our group got home to the SLC airport late, late at night. When I came down the escalator into the baggage claim area, I saw that Barry and President Jarrett were standing there, welcoming us home, making sure every last tour participant made it home to Utah safely. Yes, every last one of us hundreds and hundreds. They must have been so wiped out, but they were so devoted to all of us. They have so much love for us, which I already knew was true, but this instance really illustrated that love so incredibly well. I am in awe. I am so thankful for these leaders of ours.

40. The mystifying way the lighting always transformed from bright red to deep blue between “Battle of Jericho” and “Deep River.” Funny how that gave me goosebumps each time.

41. Clanging my F#6 and F#7 only twice (as in, two individual strokes – not for two individual entire songs) in the entire concert, but knowing I was important anyway!

42. The Brussels concert, when I was actually in the front row (the balcony part), and the railing/wall in front of my body was so short that I could’ve toppled forwards at any moment and crush Rick Elliott down below.

43. In contrast, the Vienna concert, when I was one of those several ladies who actually NEVER could see Mack or Ryan EVER, at ANY millisecond of the show, and so the exciting challenge (it really was actually kind of positively thrilling) was to sing the songs blindly, and rely heavily on what your mind and inner ingrained clockwork know about how the songs need to be sung. (A major majorly-thankful shoutout to Margo for conducting with her right hand behind her back for us who stood behind her!)

44. The way “Requiem Aeternam” sounded in that Musikverein.

45. The 26 missionaries who were at the Vienna concert, all of whom brought investigators with them. My cousins’ son being one of those missionaries.

46. Zipping now back over to the Berlin concert… The adorable hunched-over little old lady who, backstage after the concert let out, walked up to me, said not a word, but leaned toward me, grabbed my F#6, smirked, squinted, eyed the bell, said “Humph!” and walked away. And that was that!

47. Wandering in the direction towards home after the concert at the Berlin Philharmonie, in search of post-outlandishly- successful-concert ice cream, when we happened upon the sight of Andy Unsworth and crew across the street. When we saw him, we knew where he and his people were heading. We followed and, sure enough, ice cream was soon ours. A neat outdoor Indian place. Well, it seemed to be kinda half-and- half outdoor AND indoor. It was like the wall just . . . ended, and we were sitting at a table where the wall would have existed. I’m trying to hindsightedly figure out the restaurant configuration . . .

48. What is now definitely in the Top 3 Deliciousest Foods My Taste Buds Have Ever Known. #VeggieLasagna #YouKnowItHasToBeGoodCuzINeverTakePixOfMyFood

49. Riding a double-decker tour bus much of the time. At first I liked it, and then I loathed it . . . then I liked it again, then loathed it, and finally I grew to be okay with it, and we’ll leave it at that. #VerticallyChallengedCeiling

50. While on the upper level of the double-decker: successfully convincing Sarah to join me in my upcoming half marathon – for her FIRST half marathon! SO stoked for her!

51. Halfway point of the million-hour bus ride from Berlin to Munich: the rest stop where we trekked up a hundred stairs, crossed the freeway from up above, and formed a really, really long line of female choir humans for to await our turns for the toilettes. The men’s line had zero people in it (HOW???), and so a small few of us throwed our hands up in the air and said, “Ah who cares! There are 90 ladies in this line and 0 men in that line. Let’s just go use the men’s room!” The first couple of us made it into the WC without the worker lady catching it with her eye . . . but then I attempted to go in, and just in the nick of unfortunate timing, the worker lady shooed me away, and so I went back into the zillion-humans- long women’s line. HUMBUG. Oh well. Nobody’s bladder actually exploded, and we made it to Munich at a good hour.

52. The “green walking guys” at every single crosswalk/traffic light we saw throughout the whole trip! Berlin’s guys are the cutest, while Paris’s are the neato-est because they have chartreuse ones.

53. The single-file line of sweet tiny German schoolchildren Nancy and I saw when walking back towards home from the Brandenburg Gate. The cute German jibberjabbering melted me like dribbling icicle in the sun.

54. Visiting the Berlin Wall, and standing in East Germany and West Germany at the same time.

55. Accidentally loitering in the bike lane across the street from the Berlin Wall (it was basically my first day on the continent; give me a break, will ya?), and I turned around and noticed there was a young blond German man sitting on his bike . . . in my belly . . . literally. He hadn’t said anything, nor made any noise, nor tapped me on the arm, nuthin’. Just silence. He was waiting for me to turn around and realize I had a bicyclist in my belly. My lesson was officially learned, and from then on out, I treated the European bike lanes with much more enormous respect than ever before.

56. Tracy coming to the Brussels concert!!! And I hadn’t realized I had lost a chunk of finger in the process of rushing off the bus to greet him, until after I had greeted him, and I hope I didn’t get his shirt all bloody!

57. Coming in contact with actual Romani people – who many refer to as “gypsies.” They didn’t plunder, but they did try to sneakily swindle. I got two of them in under two minutes. Be careful when you’re out and about in the city – especially in the extra-touristy areas – and somebody comes up to you (usually without uttering a single word) and pushily puts a petition in front of your face with pen-in- hand. Just smile and shake your head and they’ll probably just go away. Very interesting experience. We were warned about this type of activity prior to us embarking on the trip. Ever-so- slightly exhilarating when it was actually happening to me.

58. Watching the Glockenspiel characters dance.

59. My life changed somehow, when I saw real van Gogh works for the first time. Got misty-eyed. Thought of one of my most favorite songs by Don McLean.

60. Singing a surprise “happy birthday” song to the other Nancy in the choir! Nancy H! In the yummy Mediterranean restaurant in the Munich hotel!

61. Biking in Amsterdam! Crazier and more challenging than you might think, but it was SO much fun! Also, a Dutchman shouted out his van window, “I LOVE YOU!” and me n' Sarah were like ehhhhh…

62. The morning after the Vienna concert. We had gotten home around 4:00am (#barf). I woke up at 10:00 to run downstairs and eat some food real quick, before going back to bed. In a zombie-like state, I was chatting with Lloyd Newell at one moment, then about 90 seconds later, he walked past me again, noted the chocolate cereal in the bowl in my hand, and said, “Mmmm. Cocoa Puffs.”

63. Speaking of Lloyd: how happy Lloyd got when I told him I loved his name because it starts and ends with double-L. It was kind of the best moment. Two minutes prior to lining up backstage for the Brussels concert.

64. Family photo with Rachel and our greeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaat-great-grandfather Charlemagne at the Notre Dame cathedral.

65. How every single WC was completely different in look and design from all others I saw. Each toilet and each sink was perfectly unique. I’m not super sure why I think that’s so cool…

66. Tour guide Sonja in her hometown of Frankfurt!

67. How happy Sonja was to be home, and especially to be with her parents and other family and friends.

68. I was also extremely happy, too, to see Sonja’s parents! I sure do like them. Lots.

69. Flat peaches! Yermy.

70. Walking the Neuswchanstein grounds with Ivalani, and running across Kay, the Hurdy-Gurdy Man, who was playing his hurdy-gurdy on a bench, wearing his brown leather. I can’t be quite sure I had ever tipped a street performer in my life, but this was the man who would break that streak. Ended up giving him 1.5 euro. The setting and the instrument were just so cool. Ivalani asked if I’d like a picture with him. I said yep (what a concept). He liked the picture idea. Then he asked me if I played any instruments. I told him, “Yes, I play saxophone and piano.” Then he said, “Ah! Piano! Would you like to play this instrument?” (His hurdy-gurdy.) And I started getting giddy wit it a little bit and I said that I would LOVE to. He had me sit on the bench, and he helped me tie the hurdy-gurdy around my waist, and I played a sorry version of “Cindy” and then a not-so- sorry rendition of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” At the sound of “Come Thou Fount,” Kay asked, “Is that a religious song?” I smiled and nodded, then he continued, “What’s it called?” Then I told him the name, and it was just a really nice few moments. The Spirit was there, and everything was 100% awesome at that time.

71. Neuschwanstein day was on Danny’s birthday. He cheerfully said, on our hike up the big hill, “It’s my castle birthday! You’re all invited to my castle birthday party!”

72. Playing Frisbee on the Meistersingerhalle (Nuremberg) as we waited for sound check start time to approach.

73. We were at a rest stop on the way to Paris, and the Woodburys and I (and most of our bus peeps) were standing in line for the WC. I was at a machine to submit my loo money. I put in the coins. Then a very Scott Woodburian voice chimed in my ear: "Alison, that's the men's room!" Then I probably did some frazzly spazzy move with my shoulders prior to composing myself and declaring, "Welp! Looks like I just paid for your admission!" Bahahaha. I hearted that moment so much!

74. Simply just making music in the same room that Brahms made legendary music in, and was the boss of.

75. Finding out, before the start of the Zurich concert, that 200 Church-members from Serbia drove nearly a full 24-hour journey just so they could come to our concert. Amazing. That set such a tender tone in my heart, and I was thankful for it. Numerous times during the tour (up even till now), I was thinking a lot about how miraculous the technology of flight actually is (airplanes, specifically). Airlines have been a thing for officially over 100 years. Over time we’ve become so used to travel-by- air. It is now commonplace and I think a lot of us have become desensitized to how remarkable the innovation is. Anyway, I was just thinking how special and fun and miraculous it is that we were able to make a journey that used to be many-months-long into a journey that was – in total – only about a day long, and meet up with 200 dear and determined Serbians who used the great technology of automobile to come enjoy a night with us.

76. Morning runs with some more of my gurls!

77. Singing a sweet fireside in a nice air-conditioned chapel in Offenbach, Germany. I love that feeling you get whenever you first-handedly witness how the Church is the same everywhere you go on the globe.

78. After said fireside was done – Walking down the aisle (whoa, not a wedding) and meeting the eyes of a darlingly freckled little redheaded German girl and exchanging smiles with her.

79. Kristin G wrapping up her fireside talk by sharing her testimony in German.

80. Sitting next to Clay Christiansen on the bus ride home from the fireside, discussing the goodnesses of Wurlitzers, Blaine Gale, songwriting, and favorite memories.

81. Day-after- concert hair.

82. Zurich concert. Hurried up and changed into concert dress. Hurried up and ran down to where we were supposed to line up backstage. Realized I FORGOT MY NECKLACE. (I had only done that one other time in my 3.5 years of MoTab life – my first General Conference in the “pepto dress.”) I was telling people I wasn’t fretting too badly about it, but secretly in my heart I actually kinda was… And then…suddenly…my favorite “exit buddy” in the history of all MoTab exit buddies – Luana – appeared almost literally out of nowhere, right next to me, with an extra necklace right there in her hands! The story goes that she had simply seen an extra necklace hanging around, as she was leaving the dressing room to come line up, and she just felt she should grab it! You know those nifty little magical moments where something happens and it makes you stop hard in your tracks and go like, I’m preeeetty sure a miracle just happened here… Yeah, this was that kind of moment. LUANA I LOVE YOU.

83. Finding and sharing finds of exquisite European Engrish signs, with Maria!

84. Having sung “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” so many gosh darn times in Deutsch and Dutch, that singing it in English for a concert towards the end of the tour was actually quite mentally stretching.

85. Finding the Dixi strain. I love to listen to that Dixie strain, oo-woo- ooooo.

86. Rachel being so kind and willing to style not only my hair into stylishness for concerts, but many ladies’ heads of hair! That’s charity right there!

87. Paddleboating with Maria on the swelteringest day of tour, in Frankfurt! It was an interesting undertaking to paddle while keeping our dresses modest…

88. TRYING ESCARGOT FOR THE FIRST TIME! Verdict: I lurve it. “Alison, your tongue is touching a snail!”

89. At the dinner between sound check and concert (Brussels): tossing table manners out the window for a minute to play ethereal and probably-slightly-obnoxious dissonant chords on water goblets with new friends I had just officially met!

90. Speaking of new friends, one reason I love MoTab tours so much is because they are absolutely perfect opportunities to meet and get to know a host of good folks you technically “see” all the time in your Temple Square world, but somehow never seem to get the chance to socialize with there (because the Utah rehearsals and concerts are “come, sing, leave” format).

91. The strangest Pinocchio book I have ever seen.

92. The sound of Hailey’s delightsome laugh behind me as soon as I rode my Amsterdam bike past her with my black-and-white polkadot dress flapping in the wind.

93. How thrown-for- a-loop Eric M was when he heard my bike horn noise for the first time. (Yes, I did ignore the provided bell apparatus to utilize my own innate gift of sound effect production when riding that beautiful blue bicycle.)

94. Speaking of beautiful: that beautiful, purely delightful family whose young seminary-aged sons grooved to tons of the songs, and were probably the most genuinely enthusiastic audience members we had there that night. The boys’ bright spirits brightened my spirit, and the mom had such a terrific smile and joyfully tear-filled eyes. I could never put a price on the heartwarming joy I felt when she hugged me.

95. Feeling utterly exhausted albeit oh-so- happy on the journey back home to the hotel after the fireworks show. Bajillions (yes, literally) of peeps on the crammed subway trains. Arrived at the hotel around 1:20am. Just had to wash my hair upon getting home (no, but really, I needed it), so I didn’t actually get into my bed until 1:45 or so, and I was still too excited to fall asleep, that I didn’t zonk out until 2:00. Had to wake up three hours later to start the crack-of-dawn workmorning. Got the official MoTab business accomplished. Crashed for about 20 minutes on my phreekishly comfy bed, still wearing my purple choir dress (I couldn’t move! #tuckeredbeyonddescription). Got up and went downstairs to meet with my pals and we pushed through the 120-minutes-of-sleep-the-night-before weariness and played hard the rest of the day. BOOM. Best day evah.

96. The plane ride back home to the Beehive State: from Paris to Atlanta – the darling and compassionate little old Muslim lady in the pretty forest-green dress who did not speak any English, who kept fretting that I wasn’t going to get any food (her special preordered meals always came a few minutes early), and kept on offering her leftover coffee and food that she couldn’t finish; from Atlanta to SLC – the out-of-control charming 6-almost-7-year-old boy who sat in the very back row, in the middle seat between me and Ryan B . . . who handed over to me his video game because he wanted me to have a turn with it and to have fun . . . he wanted me to play his demolition derby racing game . . . I thought I was crap at it, because I only got 3 rd place out of 5 . . . but surprisingly it was good enough to unlock FIVE new levels for the little boy to play later . . . when he saw that I have unlocked five new levels, he exclaimed, “You’re COOL!” and it was the BEST.

97. There was just something so special about seeing the elderly in our audiences, and their radiant countenances, spirits, and smiles. One of my favorite sights, in particular, was at the Belgium concert, where smack-dab front-center sat a little boy right next to who I imagine were his grandparents – perhaps even great-grandparents. Everybody in that family was beaming. I saw the little boy pretend conduct with his hands during at least one of the songs. What beautiful people.

98. I told probably only two or three friends on tour about this, but one of my good friends from my old singles ward passed away the day before we flew out to Europe. I found out mere minutes after waking up on Monday the 27th, when I was just about to hop out of bed to tie some loose ends prior to departure for the SLC airport. The news turned my heart blue, and I ache for my friend’s family. I decided to dedicate my every tour concert to him and his family. During many of the concerts, I consciously wondered if he could tell from where he was – someplace on the other side of the veil – that I was thinking about him. Like, were the beginnings of my thoughts of him possibly serving as a type of “phone call” to him? Whenever I started to think about him during a concert – when I was singing for him and his family – was it metaphorically as though he felt a phone vibrate in his pocket, and saw that it was my name coming up on the caller ID? I hope it worked out kind of like that. I wanted him to know I was there, giving my best to him, in loving memory of him.

99. I had similar questions while in Berlin, in my heart. When strolling the city and especially inside the Philharmonie, I was constantly asking: Do my ancestors know who I am? Do they know I am here, in the very area in which they lived? Do they know what I am doing here? I know they are very busy, with whatever it is they are doing. How far away are they from me right now? The equivalent of many miles? Right in the audience seats five feet behind me? Is one of them standing to my immediate left? There’s a space – an aisle – between me and Katie, and so is a soprano ancestress standing right there next to me, singing along? Am I incognito, or is this angel family of mine fully aware? When I felt a certain special fire burn inside me as I was singing the pioneer hymns at the conclusion of the presentation, I knew what my answer was. The feeling was too good for the answer to be in the negative.

100. In a way, it was little rough to not be able to attend a sacramental church service on Sunday, July 3rd. That was the big Vienna day. All of that day was dedicated to two very long bus rides, and a hefty time period in between the bus rides devoted to two things, and two things only: music-making, and digestive system sustenance intended solely to help healthily propel the music-making. No official church service was possible, but our bus on the way to Vienna had an Eric Huntsman on it, and he gave a totally wonderful spiritual thought that really helped bring the Spirit into our souls. Anyway, so the following Sunday, however, we did have sacrament meeting – in our hotel ballroom. It was really great. Greater than great. I had come to realize that my heart had been yearning so much to finally be able to receive the sacrament again (two weeks is too far in between!). There were heavy things weighing upon my mind, upon my spirit’s shoulders. I’ll never forget the amazing, sweet release I felt sweep over me, immediately upon partaking of the bread and water. To me, it really felt as though Jesus Himself walked right in, walked right over to my table, and said to me, “Here. I can carry that for you.” I’ll never forget that.

101. Pointillism. At the Musée d'Orsay in Paris, when I saw the Vincent van Gogh paintings, I also saw some pointillism paintings for the first time in real life. I had heard about these before. Each pointillism painting is made up solely of teeny, tiny individual dots of painted color. Look at the painting close up, and the dots are obvious. Look at the painting from farther back, and it’s just . . . wow! That’s how being in this choir is, for me. I’m just an itty bitty dot. If you’re looking close enough, you can tell I’m there. But anytime you do look that closely, I fear you are missing the point of what our choir/orchestra organization is. The point is that we are a splendid union – with each component of the union possessing an incredible gift – and we fuse our discipline and individual gifts together to create something that is, in all honesty, exquisite, in the very best sense. Our creation – the sound – it is huge. It is divine. It is definitely something that pretty much immediately calls down the powers of heavenly musicians to help us shine all the brighter. In a kinda sorta “big bang” way, it sparks up the existence of a truly majestic atmosphere that is so gall darn superbly thick that you could just slice a butter knife through it and swipe it right on top of your delectable baguette. When we combine our talents together, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Orchestra at Temple Square (and the Bells at Temple Square, whenever we get to have them with us) is an awe-inspiring pointillism painting. I, personally, am so grateful to Mack Wilberg, Ryan Murphy, our organists, and all of those who aid us with their skill and goodness behind the scenes. They play such important roles in helping this marvelous portion of the Lord’s work to roll along. I feel blessed to be part of that work. All my thanks go to friends and family here on earth who helped me get to this point in my life; to loved ones on the other side who may also have helped me get here without me knowing it; and most of all to my Heavenly Father – He’s pretty much the best. :)