Dear Family,
If you would have asked me five years ago whether I planned to show up for Grace’s “clap-out” ceremony – that thing where underclassmen line the the halls and clap in recognition of the seniors as they parade around the school and out the front door on their last day of class1 — I likely would have rolled my eyes and scoffed.
Actually that’s not true. There is no “likely” about it. I definitely would have rolled my eyes and scoffed. I probably roll my eyes too much and I almost certainly scoff too much. I have noticed recently that this has become almost my default reaction not just to things that genuinely annoy me (which, let’s face it, is an absurdly large number of things) but also to more benign things that are simply unexpected. I have many bad habits. For the next little while I’ll be trying to break this one. Feel free to remind me of this the next time you see/hear me do it.
The senior clap-out (and copycat ceremonies for younger students finishing middle and elementary school) is one of a growing number of things in the culture that I once dismissed as pointless wastes of time but have since come to find charming. Parents weren’t allowed to follow their “children” (most of whom are now legally adults) around the school, but a large number of us gathered just outside the main entrance to cheer and applaud as they exited the building. It was really quite lovely. I was particularly taken by the mom standing next to me holding two balloons, one of which contained a celebratory message that prominently featured the f-word.2
It was awesome.
The skies were bright and sunny, and a palpably warm sense of community descended over the scene of jubilant, sometimes dancing seniors and proud parents outside the school. It was enough to make me forget (momentarily) that many of these same lovely people will be the source of great irritation to me during next month’s graduation ceremony — when a widespread inability to refrain from bursting into exuberant applause every time a speaker pauses to breathe will be on display — thus making an already interminable meeting even longer.
But it’s going to be okay. As Sophie’s encouraging text message reminded me while last Tuesday night’s Senior Awards Ceremony dragged deeper into a second hour, “You got this!”
I feel fortunate to have attended the clap-out because it turned out to have been my only chance to see Grace this weekend. Within an hour of being clapped out, she and her fellow (and now I suppose former) members of Girl Scout Troop 5016 were on the road to somebody’s lake house “somewhere in Virginia.”3 I guess I’ve been assuming she will get back Monday night, but as I think about it, there isn’t really anywhere she needs to be, so I’m really not sure when I’ll see her again.
Grace (and the rest of us) attended her final Girl Scout meeting this month — an awards ceremony sandwiched among a barbecue, a retrospective slide show, and s’mores cooked over a fire in the troop leader’s backyard. It’s strange to think that all of these things that have been part of my children’s lives (and by extension, my life) for so many years are suddenly ending, seemingly all at once. The last Girl Scout meeting, the last prom, the last piano recital, the last school play, the last seminary class. Twenty-two years after Hannah started elementary school and 13 years after she entered high school (the same year Grace began kindergarten) they’re all done.
Where did all that time go? Shortly after Grace was born, I recall realizing that I would be 51 years old when she graduated from high school and thinking that sounded awfully old. I don’t think that anymore. Assuming my lifespan is not curtailed by some idiot driving a car, I expect there will come a day when I begin to feel old. I imagine I will deal with that day in the same measured and graceful manner in which I confront life’s other challenges…[hold for laughter]. But that day is not today.
I mentioned prom, and so, in case you do not follow Grace on Instagram, here are a couple of photos of her with a very nice boy who is kind enough to sometimes bring me treats and smart enough to always laugh at my jokes:
Closets and suits
Back in February, Crystal and I undertook the daunting task of decluttering and organizing our shared closet. It’s a reasonably sized walk-in with more than enough space for two normal people’s wardrobes. But a shared pathology of not being able to get rid of stuff4 had led to a borderline untenable situation, and we finally had to do something about it.
We picked up a couple of those elaborate closet-organizing systems they sell at Home Depot and dedicated the bulk of Presidents’ Day weekend to the project. There were some hiccups and snags, as there always are whenever decidedly unhandy people try to be handy for one weekend. But three days (and three large trash bags stuffed with donations whose stated value on next year’s tax return I am hoping will attract no IRS scrutiny) later, we had built ourselves a pretty darn fine looking closet, if I do say so myself.
Over the ensuing two months, we conveniently overlooked that a key component of our closet organization solution involved transferring large quantities of unwanted junk into Sophie’s bedroom (a fact easily ignored by keeping her door closed and never going in there, except to make occasional new deposits).
This strategy held up pretty well until Sophie came home from BYU for the summer earlier this month. We somehow managed to shovel everything out of there in the hours before her flight arrived. I honestly can’t remember what became of it all — at least some of it probably found its way down to Hannah’s room. I can’t imagine we threw any of it away.
It’s been great having Sophie home and we’re looking forward to having her around in the coming months. I’ll report more on her exploits next month (probably).
But for now, back to our closet.
The great closet overhaul revealed that I have somehow managed to accumulate over the years no fewer than 25 suits. (I would have guessed no more than 10, which should give you a clue about the previous state of our closet.)
Grace sometimes points out that most of these suits do not fit me very well, and she is right. I obtained many of them during my “dad-bod phase” that happened to coincide with my 6½-year stint as the bishop of the White Oak Ward (May 2006 – Nov. 2012).
I occupy somewhat less space nowadays and consequently sometimes resemble a boy wearing one of his dad’s suits to church — a truth driven home to me by an experience three months ago. I had just given a sacrament meeting talk and a young boy approached me afterward with the following picture he had drawn of me while I was speaking.
While it may not capture all of my features and proportions exactly right, its depiction of my smallish head perched atop a giant, boxy suit is pretty spot on.
Just so you know, I am aware that I look ridiculous. I could choose to blame it on the fact that I came of age during a period in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s when oversized, baggy clothes were popular. But the real reason is that it feels a lot like wearing sweatpants and a giant hoodie to church. Looking like an idiot is a small price to pay for that level of comfort.
I mention my suits because, for the first time in years, I added a new one to the collection this month. My new suit differs from all the others in that a) it more or less fits (still a little on the baggy side), b) it’s machine washable, and c) it’s white.
And you’ll only get to see me wear it if you come worship at the Washington D.C. Temple during my new weekly shift — Saturdays from 4:15 to 9:00 p.m. (And since you’re wondering, on top of my white jacket, white shirt, white pants, white belt, white shoes, white socks, and white name badge, yes, they let me wear my white bow tie.)
I really enjoy my new job playing the piano in Primary, and I sincerely hope they let me do that forever. But it leaves me with considerably more free time than some (all) of my previous church positions have. Feeling it perhaps unwise to devote all of this newfound bandwidth to watching TV, I suggested to the powers that be that they consider asking me to serve as a temple worker.
To say that our temple is desperate for ordinance workers would not be a huge overstatement.5 I spoke to the bishop about it on Sunday, April 30th. He promptly forwarded the recommendation to the stake president (my little brother Grant) who presumably rubber stamped it because the temple phoned me on Tuesday. I met with the temple president on Wednesday evening and on Saturday (May 5th) I was working my first shift.
It’s a fast-moving church when it wants to be.
In the Washington D.C. Temple, the Saturday evening shift is known as “Shift 11.” At the risk of overly generalizing based on having worked just four times, I would say my colleagues on Shift 11 fall into one of two broad categories: 1) Those who are willing to take one for the team and sign up for a shift that is historically difficult to keep staffed — most people are reluctant to commit to something that ties them up every Saturday night, and 2) Those who relish having a perpetual excuse to politely decline invitations to Saturday evening social gatherings.
There’s probably a special place in heaven for the folks in Category 1. Category 2 is what I like to call “my kind of people.” Both groups are wonderful to work with.
So far I love everything about it. I now have to shave every Saturday for the first time since, I don’t know, puberty, but it’s worth it. Memorizing the temple ceremonies6 and administering them to each successive patron as they come through has enabled me to understand their meaning in new ways. I am noticing new things and gaining new insights. I’ll never be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m finally starting to get it: In the Temple resides the purest essence of the Gospel — everything I love about the Church stripped bare of all the pointless meetings-that-could’ve-been-emails and other administrative nonsense that drives me nuts. It is a truly marvelous place. I’ll let you know if that changes, but I suspect it will only get better.
May 13th
I have only been late to my temple shift once so far, and it was not (entirely) my fault.
On Saturday, May 13th, I had my seventh go at the annual Kinetic Half-Iron Triathlon at Lake Anna in Virginia, about a hundred miles from here. The race started at 7:00 a.m. which presented two options: 1) Drive down the afternoon/evening before and spend 5 hours stuck in traffic on I-95, or 2) Wake up in my own bed at 3:30 a.m. on the morning of the race and drive down there in a smooth hour and 45 minutes.
The first time I did the race (in 2013) I chose Option 1 and vowed never to do that again. The next five times (in 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2021) I went with Option 2 and it worked out perfectly.
I expected it to work this year until I got into my car at 4:15 a.m. and was informed by the familiar disembodied voice of Google Maps:
There is a crash on I-95 South causing a 22-minute delay. You are still on the fastest route.
Traffic congestion at 4:15 a.m. on a Saturday.
Only in Virginia.
I squeezed past the incident on 95 (my mind overflowing with uncharitable thoughts toward whoever had caused it — thoughts very much not befitting a temple worker) and drove like a maniac trying to make up the lost time.
Packet pick-up closed at 6:30, seconds after I arrived. I somehow managed to get my bike and running gear set up in the transition area by 6:45. Getting into my wetsuit takes me a good 5 – 10 minutes, and I was still pulling it on when I had to stop and stand for the national anthem at 6:55. At 6:58 I was still fumbling with my swim cap and goggles.
I hadn’t had so much as a minute to warm up but my heart rate was already over 100 beats per minute.
The horn sounded at 7:00 and we were off.
I finished the 1.2-mile swim in 36 minutes, which is a good time for me and about average for the field (8th out of 18 my age group). I rode the 56-mile bike course in 2 hours and 42 minutes, which was also good for me and 3rd fastest in the age group (18 seconds behind the second-fastest guy). I then proceeded to run the half-marathon in 2:09, which, even on legs that had just pedaled 56 miles, is a horrible time for me — only 3 guys in the age group ran it slower. Everybody I overtook on the bike streamed past me on the run and I finished 9th, right smack dab in the middle of the field.
I have some hypotheses about what caused my run meltdown, but I don’t want to talk about it.
My cumulative time of 5 hours and 35 minutes (including transitions) was 3 minutes faster than my previous personal best on this particular course (14 minutes slower than my best Half-Iron elsewhere). But I still can’t make myself feel happy about it. Oddly, I think I’d be happier had I biked 20 minutes slower and run 20 minutes faster, even though it would have resulted in the same overall time. Don’t ask me why that is. It just is.
On the plus side, my poor finish meant I didn’t have to stick around for the awards ceremony. I crossed the finish line, jumped back in the lake to rinse off and cool down, threw my bike onto the back of the car, and, having already stashed the bag containing my temple clothes in the back seat, drove directly toward the temple.
My shift starts at 4:15. Google Maps initially gave me an ETA of 3:55. Then, because Northern Virginia is just one giant never-ending traffic catastrophe, the ETA crept later. To 4:00, then 4:05, then 4:10, 4:12…
I pulled into the temple parking lot at 4:15, still wearing what I had on when I finished the race. I grabbed my temple bag and dashed inside, dressed as I was, silently praying that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. The annex was full of teenagers, obviously there for baptisms. I didn’t know any of them but one of the moms was a woman who sings with me in the Washington DC Temple Choir. She gave me a bemused look. I said something like, “I can explain…” and quickly ducked into that small men’s room next to the recommend desk. I used the handicap stall to change into my white suit, came out of the bathroom, scanned my recommend, came as close as I have ever come to running inside the temple as I crossed the bridge, went downstairs and walked into my 4:15 preparation meeting at a little after 4:25.
No one gave me any grief for being late.
No one ever gives you grief at the temple. The temple’s great.
I finished my shift at 9:00 p.m. and drove home. The day that had begun at 3:30 a.m. and included more than 200 miles of driving, a 70.3-mile triathlon, and a 4+ hour temple shift was over.
I never showered.
Tales from the autism program
The curriculum that Crystal teaches her middle school boys includes a daily social skills lesson — “think it, don’t say it,” “let the other person talk sometimes,” “the fact that someone does not share your view does not (necessarily) make them an idiot,” — that sort of thing.
Certain recent behavior prompted a social skills lesson last week on not calling people fat. As you might expect, it needed to be explicitly stated that this injunction also covered various synonyms and euphemisms, including “puffy,” “fluffy,” “looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy,” etc.
The lesson generated a fair bit of confusion in the boys’ minds. One could almost see the gears turning. It was as though Mrs. Willis had given them an insolvable problem. How can we refer to this person without calling them “fat” (or any other word that means fat)? Certainly this particular physical trait needs to be acknowledged somehow.
An eighth grader (“in honest consternation,” to use Crystal’s phrasing) with a bewildered look on his face simply said, “Flat? Is it okay to call them flat? This reportedly kicked off a separate extended conversation about why it is not appropriate to call somebody flat, either. I still can’t think about how this conversation with a group of eighth-grade boys must have gone without laughing.
I gather the point of the lesson was that it is actually humanly possible, under just the right conditions, if you really put your mind to it, to have a conversation with or about somebody without referring to their outward physical characteristics at all. I wasn’t there, but I am not entirely convinced that this point made it all the way home.
Ari news
For the latest on Ari’s life, check out the latest issue of the EPISTOLARIUS — find it near the top of the feed at famlet.org (They plan to post something new in the next day or two.)
China visit
We didn’t actually make it to China this month, but we did visit the embassy.
It looks like a nice enough country, but I am grateful to live in this one.
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
- The last of class for seniors this year was May 26th. For everybody else, including middle school teachers like Crystal, school continues until June 16th.
- Say what you will about it, it’s probably the most versatile word in the English language.
- I have come to accept “somewhere in [State]” as acceptably precise geography when asking my teenage daughters where they’re going. Thanks to the miracle of the “FindMy” app, I have subsequently been able to ascertain that they are at Smith Mountain Lake, tucked away deep in the southwestern corner of Virginia, about 200 miles from here.
- Crystal and I each owns a large storage bin labeled — I swear this is true — “clothes with sentimental value” containing various t-shirts and junk we will never, ever wear again but for some reason can’t bring ourselves to part with.
- Among other factors, the dedication of the Richmond Temple earlier this month has a lot to do with this. Even with the loss of so many Virginia people, the distance many temple workers still drive to work their weekly (and sometimes more frequent) shifts at our temple astounds me. When the temple president (who lives in Potomac—not far from the temple, but somewhat further than I live from it) asked me where I lived and I told him, he responded, “Well, that is almost embarrassingly close.” Indeed it is. I read his unstated implication to mean, “Then why don’t I see you here more often?” Regardless of whether he intended it that way, it’s a fair question and something I plan to rectify in part by accepting a regular weekly shift.
- Workers are not technically required to memorize the temple ceremonies, but many of them are considerably easier to administer when you don’t have to read them. Also, I enjoy the challenge of memorizing things.