On my way through Maine- Part 2

Although I haven’t been traveling near as long as I would like to, I’ve already come to the realization that smaller towns are much easier to manage than big ones. When I enter a temple in a large city, where the church is established and strong, it’s hard to attract much attention at all. People seemed unconcerned and uninterested with your life story, and like I had said about Manhattan; hard to impress. The members are fantastic, and I don’t intend to bash upon any of them in any way, but there is a clear difference between those in larger towns and those in smaller ones. My arrival to the small Southern Maine town of Sanford was met with smiles, meals, and arms wide open.  

Because Brother Shaw’s home was home to more than just his own family, he quickly found me a place to stay with an elderly couple right in town. He led me from the interstate all the way up the highway to his home, where he put more food in front of me than I thought I could eat. After I was too top heavy to safely operate my vehicle, I hopped onto the bike and followed him once again to that elderly couple’s home in town. Right from the beginning, I could tell I was going to love it there. The Coombs were quiet loving people devoted to their faith and always willing to help out in any way that they could. They instantly were my adopted grandparents, and I spent the first night enjoying an episode of “noodling” on the discovery channel with Brother Coombs (the process of catching a catfish by sticking ones hand into the water and into the mouth of said catfish and pulling the fish out in that manner).

It didn’t take long to realize that Brother Coombs was an artistic and talented man. His house was flooded with art projects and different work, as well as his beloved piano that not even a stroke, arthritis, or broken finger could keep him away from. It didn’t take much to convince him to fight through the pain and play a few songs for me- he played miraculously. I felt not only honored and blessed to see what I was seeing, but humbled as well.

The weekend I spent in Maine during my wait from Hurricane Irene to pass was a short one. By the time I was leaving Monday morning I was sad to see that it had gone by so quickly! I spent Saturday visiting the ocean between Wells and Kennebunk Beaches, unfortunately the haze kept me from any photography opportunities. My knack for getting lost followed me throughout my travels that day, and didn’t give me directions back to Sanford. By the time I had finished my way around southern Maine I was ready for bed. Sunday was an entirely different sort of day.

The hurricane had already begun to come in early that morning, but came with more force during sacrament meeting. Everything after sacrament meeting was canceled for the day- Church closed on account of Hurricane. I hadn’t seen that before. From the moment I walked into that ward, I was greeted with smiles, handshakes, questions, and conversations. I was pleasantly surprised to hear on several occasions in Maine that some people were proud of what I was doing. It’s strange to hear a recent acquaintance tell you they are proud of you- pleasantly strange.

I was invited to eat with a young family in the ward after church that just so happened to live right next door to the Coombs. By the time I had gotten back from church the storm was in full fury. I made my way hurriedly through the storm and too the next door neighbors home. If it weren’t for the fact that this family had a daughter mixed in with their three sons, I would have been thoroughly convinced I was looking at my own family. Their sons had personalities just like me and my brothers, and it made me think back to my own life and memories with my family. I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say I was blessed with one of the most amazing families in the world. Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days when my brothers and I would spend hours building elaborate forts in the basement with the hopes of a slumber party. We usually couldn’t make it through the night without getting scared and returning to our beds.

Near the end of lunch, the phone rang and to the disappointment of the kids, their dad was asked to help out with a couple trees that had fallen over onto the bishop’s house from the storm. They had been planning on having a Wii party sometime after lunch, and this news came as a blow on that plan. Me and their dad and the oldest son left during the storm and made our way to the bishop’s house. Within an hour what appeared to be the whole elders quorum had arrived to help. 

Two chainsaw wielding backcountry Maine guys began hacking at those trees like they were butter, and I couldn’t help but think- one of these guys is going to cut his legs off. There were several instances when I thought they were going to die for sure, especially when one was on the steep wet roof with the wind steadily roaring as he cut through the tree with his chainsaw. If I learned one thing that afternoon, it’s that people are nuts in Maine! 

By the time we had finished hours later, we were all damp and sticky with pine sap. That’s one way to get experience the wild land of Maine! We got back to the house, where the kids were eagerly waiting for the Wii party to begin. The next couple hours were spent hounding cookies and playing the Wii. I thought I couldn’t get any worse at bowling than I already am in real life- I stood corrected. My skills at baseball, bowling, and tennis all grew even worse in the virtual world. My spirits were crushed.

By that night the storm was cooling down, and I was sure I would be on my way to Acadia National Park on my way to Halifax that next morning. Although I didn’t want to leave all the amazing people I had just met, the beauty of Acadia seemed all too enticing.

A Stop in Boston on my way to Maine

His weathered hands shakily lift the books from the bench and placed them unsteadily on the table- clearing himself a seat. He edged his way delicately between the seat and the instrument; “I can’t play like I used to anymore,” his voice informed in a soft deep tone, “now I’ve got arthritis in my hand, and I broke my finger a while back. I can play for a little while, but if I play too long my hands begin to hurt.” Although many years and experiences had brought the course of life upon his appearance, he had a young man’s spirit. His eyes were the clever clue of his youthful nature, and I could tell that no matter how many years would wear him down and pass him by, his eyes would remain as unchanged as they did in this moment.

Youthful eyes made their way to his hands, arranging them carefully on each key. Without a moment’s hesitation his hands danced freely across the keys, flooding the room with personally composed music from the 40s, 50s, and 60s. I felt not only honored and blessed to see what I was seeing, but humbled as well. In the midst of my astonishment I wondered quietly how I had managed to end up here of all places.

It was nine-thirty at night and still I hadn’t found a place to stay. My mind bounced between possibilities. Maybe I had received an email from the bishop I had called the night before inquiring about a place I could lay my sleeping bag. The wary and cautious tone that had been in his voice didn’t do much to calm my nerves. He seemed hesitant to help me out, and could I blame him? I was a total stranger, and for all he knew, one that had intentions to take advantage of the caring and charitable nature of the church and its members. I took his side, didn’t blame him for suspicion, and moved on to other possibilities. Only a couple days earlier I had been pursuing a lead during my stay in Ballston Lake, New York. In the beginning it seemed promising- a sure place to stay for a couple nights- but in time didn’t manage to hold my hope. It’s hard to keep focused on anything for too long when you haven’t received the comforting reassurance that you’ll have a place to lay your head for the night. Tonight wasn’t any different.

The sun was gone, and with it all tranquility that I could manage to keep a grip on. Not to say I was in a panicked frenzy, but I was a bit worried about where I could put up a tent in Belmont just outside of Boston. Even with a mind buzzing with worry, I was calm and cool next to my bike in the temple parking lot. I assured myself that it couldn’t get much worse than a tent in the woods, and I had bought and packed the tent for a reason. Maybe I had just been spoiled too much from the nurturing care of those I had met throughout New England. Now anything less than my own bed within the home of a local member seemed like a dangerous endeavor.

Even though I housed a worried mind, I was thankful to be at the temple of all places. I’ve noticed throughout the past couple weeks that the time I spend between temples strongly contrasts to the time I spend at them. The harmony and calm I feel looking at His House even from a distance is what provides me with the peace to continue on each day. Many have asked me how I can be doing this entirely alone, questions all backed with their own personal fears of being on their own. One cannot feel alone at the temple. Empty the parking lots and lock the doors, take every form of life from that plot of land, and you will still never feel alone. The Spirit that surrounds the temples is undeniable. Boston was no different. I thought back to my casual stroll through the temple grounds earlier in the day. As the 100^th temple in service for the church, President Hinckley made sure to make this a special one. Those that have had the blessing to see the Boston Temple will know he succeeded in that attempt.

I came back from my thoughts and made a call home to a once again worried mother. “I’ll just put up a tent in the woods behind the stake center,” I said as calmly and collectively as I could. “I don’t like it Josh,” repeated my mom for the eighteenth time. I assured her I would be okay, and that I was bound to spend a few nights outside on the trip anyways. Tonight was the night for that. I told her it was a lovely night and it would be just fine. I didn’t lie, but I could tell it would soon stray from being a nice night. A thick humidity and quiet stillness made my eyes wonder from horizon to horizon. Distant flashes of light signaled warning of the storm that was soon to come.

I tapped my phone to check the time. It was 9:43 PM and the missionaries I had met as I made my way into Boston still hadn’t found a place for me to stay, not that I demanded such a request. I appreciated their willingness to help me out, no matter what that help may be. I watched as everyone began to make their way out of the last temple session and peacefully to their cars. I envied them. They didn’t have a worry in their head about where they’d be sleeping that night.

Didn’t my aunt know someone in Boston? I thought back to an earlier text I had received that day; they were out of town. Three strikes and you’re out. I did what I could. After a short evening of looking at the temple grounds and a quick endowment session I had even made small talk with some of the temple workers about what I was doing with the hopes they would be able to shed some light on my lodging worries. It also proved ineffective. So that put me at four strikes. That doesn’t work in baseball; I figured I would have to choose a new sport to stay in the game- I opted for ten strike kickball. I couldn’t leave the temple just yet. Logic failed me, but hope held on.

My neighbor parked to my left had already come and left with not as much as a hello as I sat there with puppy eyes and an arm over my jenga tower of bags packed on the rear of my bike. Maybe my neighbor on the right would provide another opportunity.

 Here he came now. They were obviously a father and son. He nodded to me. I returned the favor. They got in their truck after his son ran off to speak with another gentleman in the parking lot once more. They pulled away. Why hadn’t I said anything to them? My mind slapped my arm and convinced it to put out a hand at the next opportunity. I watched the taillights pull away from me, then the flash of brakes. Was he stopping? The car sat there leaving the parking lot for a moment, then began to slowly reverse. “Really?” I thought.  His gentle trip in reverse slowly put his rolled down window right in front of me and my bike.

“Are you driving your bike home tonight,” He asked with a loving inquisitive voice.

“Well, no…not really. I’m from St. George, Utah.” I said shocked at the conversation I had gotten a second chance to have. After a few more words shared, he jumped out of his truck excited and interested about the trip I was pursuing.

“I’m Stephen Shaw,” He said with his hand outstretched.

“Josh Redmon.”

 “I wish I had a place for you to stay,” he said, “but I live two hours north of here in a town called Sanford, Maine.” Sanford would become a place I hold close to heart. I feel the same spirit of love and charity as I felt when I was there every time I think of Sanford.

“I’ll be okay,” I told him halfheartedly, “I can just put up a tent somewhere behind the church over there if worse comes to worse.”

Without even a request or plead Brother Shaw was off towards the temple. A couple minutes later he came back, “Hey I got you a place to stay- two senior missionaries, the Metcalfs. They are temple workers- they’re great people.”

I couldn’t believe it. After all my work to find a place to stay, a process I had carried over several days, this member had found me a place to stay within three minutes. I wanted to cry and shout for joy all at once. I knew this man loved me and I loved him right back- not because he had helped me, but because I could feel in that moment, we were brothers. Brother Shaw’s Christ-like love humbled me. I saw a miracle that night.

I came to find out a couple nights later when I pulled up in front of Brother Shaw’s house, that he had felt prompted to go back and talk to me. He told me the thought came to his mind but he pushed it away not wanting to bother me. He had just figured I was a local single with some buddies or something of the sort. I will always be thankful for him and that night he heeded a small prompting and showed a young boy the tender mercies of our Heavenly Father. Brother Shaw was a tool in His hands that night. Even when all we do, or attempt to do fails; God can show us that he is the miracle at the end of our faith.   

Minutes after I had met Brother Shaw, he was gone. But the impact his service had left would remain permanently etched in my mind. Soon I was following the Metcalf’s car through small winding Massachusetts streets up the hillside to the east of the temple. Apparently I had come right at the perfect time, because just days before my arrival they had bought a blow up mattress for their cozy third-floor apartment. I told them I would be happy to break it in for them.  They were amazing people, instantly adopting me as their son. Plates full of food and glasses of milk pushed my way soon made that evident. They are a loving and humble couple from Alaska. A picture of a fifty-three pound salmon caught on his boat soon made me realize they would be a perfect stop on my way to the Anchorage Alaska Temple next year. They were a double blessing.

Only a week or so after the night I stayed with Elder and Sister Metcalf, I went numb to the news of a close friend of mine’s death in Argentina. Most elders have the blessing to grow close to many families throughout the course of their missions, often times to one in particular. I had “my family”. The Arduvino family quickly became “my family” in Argentina as we were blessed to watch a single mother, her three kids, and three adopted nephews return to church and partake of the blessings that it offers us in this troubled world. To hear that a member of that family had passed away hit a big part of my heart and had me wondering why. I prayed for that family as they were surely passing through a difficult moment and I realized deep down that the reassurance they needed most was that that the distance between Heaven and Earth isn’t that far at all.

There I sat in the Metcalf’s home and the details of our lives began to come out as we shared a quick dinner together before bed. The faith that emanated from them like light as they told me about a sudden and unexpected death within their own family was spectacular. They knew that that distance between Heaven and Earth was so small, and they were able to help me learn it at such an ideal time. The comfort they had received from the knowledge of eternal families that the temple provides could not be overseen. They were peaceful, hopeful, and patiently waiting for the day they would once again see their own loved one.

The temple cannot take away the pain of death, but only mend the wound and provide hope. As members of the church, we do not fear death so much as others may. We see it as the threshold between a mortal and immortal life- a doorway to eternity. Life does not end here, it begins. Life ends when we make ourselves slaves to the world and take a step on its dead end path. In a world of dead-ends, we must make sure to keep to the path that leads to true happiness. The world may lead you to momentary pleasures, some of which may last the entire course of your life on Earth, but realize that nothing but your experiences and loved ones will leave this world with you. A misplaced heart is one buried in the things of this world. The temple helps us to realize where true happiness lies.

The incoming threats of Hurricane Irene soon had me to the conclusion that my stay in Boston would be a quick one. I needed a good place to wait out the storm, and Boston seemed to lie directly within its path. Brother Shaw offered me a place to stay in Sanford, and I took it eagerly. I wasn’t in Boston for much longer than 24 hours, but the impression that temple and those I met left on me will last forever.

I spent that next day getting what few pictures I could in the morning light, having breakfast with the Metcalfs, failing in an attempt to explore downtown Boston, doing one last session in one of the most beautiful temples I have ever seen, and packing up and leaving frantically. The sun was already beginning to hide behind the temple spire as I made my way out of my last session and to my bike to pack up and leave. The sky was too beautiful and the photography opportunity too good to pass by. I sacrificed driving in the daylight for photographs in the evening. By the time I had finished taking a few pictures and was packed and ready to go the sun was sagging its way down towards the horizon. I spent the next hour in daylight, enjoying the beautiful New England landscapes that flew past me to the loud growl of my motorcycle. I had to try my best to hold back from stopping and taking pictures of the glowing sunset clouds and beautiful sporadic ponds and lakes that dotted the countryside. I felt like I was letting the beauty fall through my fingers. The kiss of the oncoming night cold helped keep me positioned atop my bike. I took some mental snapshots and continued on. Those that ride bikes know that jacket weather off of a bike, becomes Antarctic temperatures when you’re riding. By the time the sun had set I half expected to see flurries. It was still sixty degrees outside. I was being a baby. Despite my rattling shivers and numb fingers, I was in Maine and on my way to meet up with Brother Shaw.

Manhattan- The city and boy that never sleep.

I hadn’t seen anything like it before. Tucked neatly within a small bend of the lake was an area where the choppy water had turned to glass, speckled with small lily pads and large white flowers. Only the soft slosh of water could be heard as my paddle lightly pushed me along. The lily pads made a perfect anchor- holding me tightly in that tranquil glassy scene. I opted to rest for a moment. Seldom do we cross paths with a scene such as this, and often we are quick to pass by without a second glance. I thought I’d stop for not only a second glance- but a third, fourth, and fifth one as well. I leaned back and propped by legs up over the front of the kayak, leaning back into the backrest. I couldn’t help but think, if there’s beauty like this here on Earth, I cannot even fathom what heaven will be like.

Somewhere between thoughts of heaven and that beautiful scene I was blessed to be a part of, I couldn’t help but think of the intense contrast between tranquility and chaos that I had experienced within the past couple days. This small peaceful lake was as far of an opposite as I could conjure in my mind to the hectic lifestyle of Manhattan. Only hours before I was buried deep within that concrete forest, with the constant blare of horns and shuffle of feet that surrounded me, and now nothing more than the occasional sound of wind brushing the tops of the trees was heard. The contrast between black and white that was so thick in my thoughts seemed to lead me to think about that temple I had spent the last couple days visiting.

Those that have had the opportunity to visit the Manhattan temple have surely felt the stunning contrast between the world and heaven as they make their way into that building. Heaven and Earth stand only several feet apart in Manhattan.

From the minute you enter into the temple on Columbus Avenue, you can no longer hear the frustrated horns and sirens on the street. You cannot hear the busy shuffle of feet. The world instantly disappears and you walk into silence and peace. In order to effectively block the sound of the city from the interior of the temple, they had to become somewhat creative. A wall alone would not retain the sound, just as twelve stories and thick cement could not hide the sounds of urbanity from the apartment where I stayed the nights while I was there. The temple was constructed with two walls, one placed about a foot inside the other. The gap between the two walls was packed with insulation in order to help block the sound waves from making their way from outside to the temple. It proved effective. The Manhattan temple is a live model of the life we can make for ourselves.

Do we have a way to block the world from ourselves? Do we justify the little sound that makes its way from the world into our hearts, or do we strive to block it out entirely? Have we built our two walls? We cannot change the fact that we are buried deep within the world, and unless we resort to spend the rest of our days reclined in a kayak on a small New England lake, the world will be all around us. It is up to us to acquire the means to block the sound from our interior. One wall alone will do nothing but block the view, but the sound still pours in.

The temple sits on 125 Columbus Avenue- right the intersection with Broadway- just a block west of Central Park. If you don’t know what you’re looking for, you will find yourself walking right past the temple. It blends in quietly to the city scene, thousands walk past it each day, never even suspecting it to be a Mormon temple. Without attentive eyes, and a chin up- you may never see the temple. How often do we pass up something good because we weren’t paying attention?

After my time spent in Palmyra I made my way back to Alex’s house in Syracuse to spend the night so I could say goodbye one last time to Alex and my mom before heading to Ballston Lake, New York to spend a couple days with the McClaws. I was amazed to see the massive contrast that Alex’s house had took on from its previous condition. Suddenly I no longer feared zombies in the basement- it had become a home.

The drive to Ballston Lake was much smoother than the ride to Palmyra. I’ve learned that you need to write down the directions to your destination on paper beforehand, and place them in the camelback that sits over the gas tank to have as a reference. Trying to balance the GPS on the camelback and drive at the same time wouldn’t necessarily be considered safe, so I’ve decided to stray from that. From the minute I met the McClaws, I felt like I was home. So at home in fact, that I decided to bleed all over the place upon arriving after a nasty collision of toe on metal while making the bed they gave me. They took me in, fed me, and housed me without even knowing who I was. I will always be thankful to the home away from home that they provided me. I felt, like Jenny said, as if I were their “adopted nephew”.  I could certainly see the relationship and similarities shared between the two sisters Carrie Heaton and Jenny McClaws.

When I arrived to their home, they were busy preparing to leave to a wedding reception nearby. They invited me along, and curious to meet some New Yorkers and their way of life- I rode along. I love the “Mormon connection” as I call it. It’s the connection we all share as brothers and sisters within this great gospel throughout the world. You could meet a member from South America and not have anything in common but your faith and could still instantly be the greatest friends. Due to that connection, I haven’t felt uncomfortable even for a moment in all the places I’ve traveled. These loving members have taken me in and treated me just like their own brother- which I cherish and will appreciate forever.

The wedding reception was positioned on the shore of a large beautiful lake right at sunset. I never knew how gorgeous New York could be. Often times when we think of New York we think of that concrete forest I previously mentioned, but in reality that’s just a small portion of that state.

I came to find out a few days later, that the town I was staying in and the chapel I had attended the next day was the same places my parents had lived and had had Alex years earlier. It was a strange feeling to know that some years earlier my parents were stationed there for the military, walking those streets and seeing those same things I was seeing- except they were proudly sporting their 80s hairstyles and clothes most likely.

One of the things I enjoy most about traveling from ward to ward, is to see that the church is true no matter where you go. Sunday morning I sat among a large ward filled with members that had all received their own testimonies about the church. Each one had their own story. Each one knew it was true.

I was particularly touched by the story a recently baptized member shared about his conversion and life. He seemed nervous and a bit hesitant as he shared that he had stopped attending church years earlier when his parents had divorced. Since that time he never went to church. He joined the Navy young, and after an interview with one of his superiors he was asked, “When was the last time you attended church?” He felt the desires to go back to church, and with the invitation of a friend he had made, he returned to church. Since the day he came back he has made his best effort to attend every single week that it was possible. The girl that had invited him to church became the girl he was going to marry. After weeks of searching for his records within the church, the word came back that his records were gone and he would have to be baptized again. He did so, and was married shortly afterwards.

 I couldn’t help but think of the impact this man’s decision to return to church would make on the rest of his life. Because of that simple decision his own family is returning to church, and his children will be raised in an entirely different lifestyle than if he hadn’t made that choice.

I got to thinking about my grandparents, and the decision they made to follow their hearts and be baptized many years ago, and the impact it has had on so many lives. Their six children were baptized. Many of them were married in the temple and continue to raise their families in the church. Because of my grandparents’ decision one of their sons served a mission, three of their grandchildren are serving missions, and one is currently on his mission. Many more will leave within the next decade.

After church the family invited me along to visit a unique place in Saratoga Springs where they have constant fountains of mineral water. People from all over town have been going there for years to fill up their bottles with that healthy water. A square block of cement sits underneath a pavilion, and two streams of water come from each side- on one side however is an unfiltered, unchanged, ever-so “delicious” faucet with actual mineral water streaming out. I don’t recommend it to anyone. Although they may say it’s healthy for you, it takes like some form of carbonated sulfur in liquid form. Disgusting.

Word got out during church that the McClaws would be holding a family night that evening where I would talk a bit about what I would be doing and why. Several families mentioned they would be coming, so the pressure was on. I had to have something good prepared. The McClaws seem to constantly have their hands on the doorknob, ready to open up for anyone in need. They hosted that family night perfectly, and gave me a wonderful opportunity to talk about this trip. A few families came, and I was able to share the who, what, when, where, why, and how’s of the trip and show off a few pictures from Palmyra. The excitement the member’s shared with me for this endeavor gave me the fuel to go on, as well as a couple more places to stay in different cities that they had offered.

After that wonderful experience, we decided to continue on with our own family night. Earlier in sacrament one of the missionaries in the ward had quoted Yoda in his talk. One of the girls didn’t know who Yoda was or anything about Star Wars, so Brother McClaws figured it a good idea to educate his daughters in the way of the force. We popped in the old VHS and started the trilogy that night.

Monday morning was the scheduled day of departure for Manhattan. Up until Sunday night I didn’t have any place to stay. I had tried asking around, and even had a couple leads on places where I might have a floor or couch to sleep on, but in the end nothing came through. I had already bought my bus ticket, and even without a place to stay, I was going to head into Manhattan. As if on cue, the guy I met in Palmyra with his family a few days earlier offered up his couch in his apartment for me to sleep on for the days I was there. I was so thankful that I was able to run into him in Palmyra and have a place to stay in the Big Apple.

Jenny had explained to me that you would feel an actual energy in New York City that you’d feel leave you as you left it- well I can say I definitely felt that energy as I entered. If I had to choose a city that could be considered the cultural center of the world, New York would be that city. It seems that rather than traveling the world to see those cultures, all you need to do is walk the entire course of Broadway Street.  

Manhattan is a place where you can be whoever you want to be. It’s a city found on the belief that this country is a land of opportunity. I was surprised however to see that with so much energy and diversity, it’s also the land of tunnel vision. People move about the city like ants, each one with their own specific agenda and plan. I felt, in a weird sort of way, that it would be hard to please a New Yorker. It’s as if they’ve seen it all already, and are impossible to impress. But it was a wonderful place, where you could live your dream and become who you wanted to become. In fact, after my arrival I soon found that it’s also a place where you’ve got to get permission and assistance to use the restroom. Now if that isn’t magical then I don’t know what is.

By the time I had gotten to Manhattan on the bus, I had worked up quite the need to visit a local restroom, but soon found that bathrooms didn’t seem to exist in the city. New York isn’t just the “City that never sleeps”, but also the “City that never goes to the bathroom”. After several blocks of walking around with a large backpack on my back and my camera bag on my front, I had finally located McDonalds, where I was required to purchase something in order to pee. I tried to open the door myself, but it was locked. Even after asking permission to use the bathroom, I had a much needed fifteen minute wait before someone could take the time to come out and open the door for me as if I were a royal king. I found that throughout the trip, all my littlest tasks were like my first adventure to use the restroom. Doing so in any normal situation would take no more than a couple minutes, where in Manhattan it was magnified by 5x the amount of time. I found that this concept of magnifying the time was the theme of my stay. A simple task such as walking from point A to point B soon transformed from a casual stroll, into a heart wrenching desperate journey as I was trapped and lost in the Labyrinth.

On my first day in the city, I made my way to the temple to get some pictures and meet some people. In the very front of the temple right as you enter is the church security desk, always staffed with a local guard. After talking for a while with the guard, I came to find out he was from the Dominican Republic. I told him where I was staying on 175^th in Uptown and while laughing he said, “Dude, you’re not in the city anymore. You are in the Dominican Republic!” It all made sense now. When I had gotten to Nikoli’s apartment I couldn’t help but notice that everyone around me looked like a very dark skinned type of Latin, but all speaking some language I couldn’t understand. It seemed Spanish based, but I could only understand one or two works of an entire sentence. I figured it was something besides from Spanish, but now realized it was in fact the same language I spoke! I’ll tell you, as much as I tried, I never could fully understand the strange version they seemed to speak though.

After some time exploring the temple building with the chapel on the third floor, I made my way outside to see the city. I started in central park, and slowly began to make my way towards time square and all the way down Broadway Street to the bottom of the island. I couldn’t believe how far it was, and how tired I soon became. I should’ve taken a couple subways, but figured I’d save a couple bucks instead. I think those few dollars saved went to buy me some extra food to replenish my tired and worn body. 

The subway was a strange place to say in the least. It’s the crossroads for every social class- the one place where every religion, ethnicity, color, gender, and type of person meet. The interaction is all but boring. The relationship you share with those aboard is something similar to the moment you spend with a stranger on an elevator. You don’t speak unless you know someone. If you do- keep it short. Be sure to keep all questions limited to those that start with- “do you know where…” and “Does this subway…” being ever watchful to ensure that it can be answered with a yes or no. People’s eyes bounce around the train casually and yet ever so cautious to prevent eye contact. At times you have room to spread out across a few seats, and others you are uncomfortably wedged between Muhammad and Carlos doing the subway surf with only one sleeping hand and arm held tight to the rail above you. It’s a magical place where you can do it all, be it all, and wear it all. If you’re sweaty and gross, still wrapped tightly in your workout spandex- feel right at home on the subway. Most people however tend to bury their faces in books and papers, or block out the world with their music. To those eager to study human behavior- the subway would be your best location.

At one point in my trip throughout the city I ran across a small church that sits right in front of the World Trade Center site- the Trinity Church. The actual church that George Washington himself visited after his inauguration as president of this country now sits nestled tightly in between massive modern monsters and buildings. It’s strange to see such an icon of history and its elegant architecture buried within the city life. This beautiful old chapel was used as a place of rest and appreciation for the firefighters of New York City during the cleanup of September 11^th. Banners sharing love and support still hang on the walls as a beacon of hope for all those firefighters. 

I couldn’t help but notice that large deal of commotion that was going on at the site where the World Trade Centers used to stand. Construction was in a frenzy there, massive cranes towered high about the site. I was happy and excited to see our country moving on from such a devastating event that had happened there nearly ten years earlier. We keep our chins up, but we will always remember.

At one point in the city near the New York Stock Exchange I came across a memorial of George Washington looking out into the street. I couldn’t help but feel an enormous amount of respect and admiration for the man that helped liberate and lead this country. He will forever stand as an icon of freedom and the American spirit for this country’s people. I wondered what he would think of what this nation has become now, and what he would think looking out into the heavy packed streets of Manhattan. Would he be impressed? Or, would he be ashamed? No matter where we stand as a country, we will always feel a sense of pride in that great God-fearing man.

After a long day of walking and sightseeing I decided to check on some local single’s wards and see if there would be any family nights going on that night. After my first call I found out here would be one (with free waffles) in a local member’s apartment about ten blocks from the church. I couldn’t help but think how strange it would be to show up randomly and uninvited to a family night for the Manhattan YSA, but then again, I had been alone in a big city all day long- I was ready to talk to somebody.

Around 8:00 I made my way to the address given to me by the bishop’s wife. I just hoped I hadn’t received the wrong directions. Knocking on a door asking for waffles and having the wrong address would be a hard one to walk your way out of. Luckily I had no problems there. I got to the address and rang for the apartment several floors up. I thought maybe I’d be able to introduce myself over the intercom, but they just buzzed me up. Once I got up and off the elevator I made my way to the room where the door was already propped open. I thought maybe I would have been able to introduce myself at the front door, but apparently I had to walk straight into the family night in their own home before I could even let them know who I was. I’ll say, it was pretty awkward at first. “Hey, you guys don’t know me, I’m not from here or anything but I’m passing by- would you mind if I join you?” Well, members tend to be accepting no matter what, so it didn’t end up being an issue. After a little while I was able to meet several of the kids in that ward, and soon came to be amazed at their levels of ambition and drive. These kids didn’t sit around and wait for life to happen, they made it happen. They were pursuing ambitious goals in education and career, becoming everything they were able to become. I respected them for that ambition.

The next day I made my way back over to the temple relatively early so I could get some more pictures before leaving the next day. I was in front of Julliard (which sits right across the street from the temple), when all of a sudden two people confronted me with a few questions about my camera. After a couple minutes they introduced themselves as employees for ABC, and they were on a quest to find a couple people willing to help rehearse for a new cooking show called The Chew that they would be putting on live everyday starting in late September. I didn’t have a whole lot better to do, so I thought what the heck- there’s free food. Within minutes I was back walking down small hallways and basements rooms right into the set for this show. They set us down, and ran us through some questions they wanted us to ask the chefs during the show. I apparently had to talk about how my vegan girlfriend and I couldn’t coexist with all the meat I enjoyed eating, and I asked them how I could make that relationship work out- corny, but it was fun. It was amazing to see how many people it takes to run a four person cooking show. That room was packing with cameramen and all sorts of people. After a delicious bowl of fancy macaroni and cheese and a discussion about my apparently vegan girlfriend, I was back on the street.

I did a session that morning and realized that despite its small size, the Manhattan temple is gorgeous. It’s a wonderful thing that even those buried within the depths of that city can still manage to find a slice of heaven if they look in the right place. 

Later that morning I tried to see if I could get myself up in some surrounding buildings to get some pictures of the temple from a higher angle, but I soon realized that no one really cared. I tried talking with the NYPD that was standing watch on a street corner nearby, he relayed to me however the city’s concern for tripods on rooftops. I guess that just sounds like assassinations and shootings to them. I figured it sounded like good pictures was all. While I was talking with the officer, his radio crackled and then spoke- “…if anyone is asking about the ground shaking, let them know we just experienced an earthquake.” Me and the officer looked at each other confused- was the Earth even shaking? I’ve always wanted to feel an Earthquake, and the one time I get my chance, I couldn’t even feel it. If you were high up in the buildings you could feel it apparently (it was the talk of the streets that day), but on ground level you couldn’t feel anything shake.

After my disappointment of missing an Earthquake, and the spiritual drain of doing a temple session I made my way back to the apartment to get a little nap. I spent a couple hrs editing pictures and falling in and out of sleep on the pullout couch. Around six that evening me and Nikoli met up for dinner at a famous burger joint in town before I made my way out onto the city at night. Nikoli was an interesting and extremely easy going kid. I found it most interesting to hear that although he was studying music and pursuing a career as an opera singer, his favorite kind of music was heavy metal. He is a motivated kid on a path to make his dream a reality- I love the opportunity I get to meet such wonderful members throughout the world.

After several hours of getting lost over and over again in the Labyrinth of streets and buildings, I decided to make my way back to the apartment and rest up before my early morning ride back to Ballston Lake.

Photography was a whole new adventure in Manhattan, but I found many times I had no idea what to take pictures of, or how to do it. I have hardly ever taken pictures of temples before, let alone massive skyscrapers. Within all that I saw there, I hope I was able to get a few interesting shots! The temple was, to say in the least, near impossible to get pictures of- but I made a solid attempt.

I still can’t even believe how kind and openhearted the McClaws were to me during my stay there before and after my trip to Manhattan. They gave me a bed to sleep on, took me sightseeing, let me join them in their fun activities throughout the day, gave me food to eat, gave me a kayak to explore the lake on, let me park my bike at their house while I was away, and even drove me to and from the bus station all the way in Albany. I will always appreciate their service and friendship- and will always love my new adopted little sisters- the crazy, fun, and cute Megan, Camille, and Lydia.

Palmyra- Where it all began.

Alma 37

6 Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me: but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass: and small means in many instances doth confound the wise.

7 And the Lord God doth work by means to bring about his great and eternal purposes: and by very small means the Lord doth confound the wise and bringeth about the salvation of many souls.

Joseph Smith was the prophet of the Restoration. All my experiences these past several days in Palmyra have further strengthened that testimony. Joseph Smith was that “means” that confounded the wise. The Lord brought about His “great and eternal purposes” through him in a remote corner of Northern New York hundreds of years ago. Those that visit those sacred grounds where the church was brought back in its entirety on the Earth have surely felt just as I did- both inspired and humbled. There’s an amazing spirit there that dates back to the 1800s. That ancient, sacred grove holds deep in its heart a soft gentle peace that testifies of Joseph Smith and the First Vision from nearly 150 years ago.

Just as he could not deny that experience that changed the world forever, I could not deny the validity of his story that the spirit bore throughout the small town of Palmyra. It’s an entirely unique experience to walk where he walked throughout his life, to see what he saw, to pray where he prayed, and at some points- to feel what he felt. He was born a normal boy, in an ordinary small town in a newly developed country, son to a wonderful mother and father- however that which occurred there, the man he was called to become, and that which he accomplished was nothing ordinary. A “small and simple” young fourteen year old farm boy in upstate New York saw God the Father and His son Jesus Christ- and the world was never the same.

Wednesday morning I ran frantically through Alex’s box filled rooms in his new house trying to gather everything that was mine before I made the first trip on the bike to Palmyra. In a way, that is where it all began, so I figured what better place to start the trip than Palmyra and the Sacred Grove? I will admit that as ridiculous as it may sound, I never actually packed up all my gear on my bike before; all I had was a picture and plan mapped out in my head that hadn’t made its way to the test tracks. So Wednesday morning as a got it all packed up my heart sank. The bike had to have been four times my size! It looked as though I was stacking a skyscraper of bags on the back of my bike that would fly off once I hit 23 mph. Although I confidently assured my worried mom that it would be okay, I wasn’t too sure if I’d even make it to Palmyra with all that gear on the back. I was nervous, but my high level of excitement seemed to throw some equilibrium in there.

The route to Palmyra that should’ve been no more than an hour and a half turned out to be twice that. First lesson learned- just stick to the toll roads. Although I got to pass through some of the prettiest back country highways that I’ve ever been on, I found myself staring at maps and the GPS a bit more than I had hoped. That bike was quite a sight to see as I pulled into the Joseph Smith Home visitor center. It seemed that some of the senior missionaries had caught sight of that bike and they greeted me at the door with smiles and questions. What are the chances that the first person I would meet in Palmyra would be from St. George? Elder Whipple was not only from St. George, but a descendant of one of the founders of that town! I spent this last summer working for the Forest Service, where one of our most popular trails in Pine Valley is the Whipple Trail. It was nice to feel right at home so far away from it.

Elder Whipple took me under his wing and immediately took me on a tour of the entire area including the Smith Log Home and the farm. The tour had such a spirit about it, especially after hearing the wonderful story of Joseph Smith’s search for the truth, and they open the back door of the Smith Log Home and show the short walk young Joseph must had from his home that early April morning on his way to the woods behind his house. It was a sight to see.

It was hard to shake my fear of not finding a place to stay for the night there throughout the tour. By the end I asked Elder Whipple if he knew of anywhere I could put up a tent, or anyone who had a floor I could sleep on. It still amazes me how much a family we all are, especially within the church. He quickly began to think of anywhere I could stay. He offered up his backyard, but later declined because there were sister missionaries that stayed there with him. He told me I could probably stay at Zion’s Camp (an area where senior missionaries and temple workers park their RV’s). He suggested I talk more with the temple president who I told him I would be visiting. I found out later that his questioning for a place to stay had made its way to the Hill Cumorah visitor center where the senior missionaries there the next day recognized me as the kid on a bike looking for a place to put up a tent.

I quickly changed into my church clothes in the visitor’s center and made my way up to the temple across the street with the hopes to do a session and talk with the temple president for a little while. Once I got in the temple I was set down in the waiting room as they hunted down the president. The first thing I noticed about the temple was the beautiful stained glass of the sacred grove each window had. It was my favorite part of the temple. The really interesting part was the West side of the temple faces the Sacred Grove, where President Hinckley had them put in normal clear windows that look straight to the grove rather than be covered by stained glass. It’s the only temple in the world where you can look out from the inside. President Hinckley asked them to do that so they could look from the temple to another sacred temple (The grove).

My meeting with President Sherwood in the temple was a quick conversation where we both shared his dinner in a small kitchen by the waiting room. He is a wise, loving and intelligent man that didn’t want to talk much of his own self at all. I figured I would be able to hear some great stories from a temple president as I’ve never previously spoken with one, but as he told me- “I put my pants on the same way as everyone else, one leg at a time.” He was witty. “What can I do for you,” he asked. I tried to tell him I just wanted to hear how it was to be a temple president and what he liked best about it. He told me that his favorite part is that he gets to work with the best people in the world- those that work there and those that are guests. He shared with me as well the joy he finds as he gets to help create eternal families. “What can I do for you,” he asked again. It seemed he knew more than I was willing to admit. “Do you have a place to stay?” He asked. President and Sister Sherwood kindly opened their doors for me and gave me a room to put all my gear and a bed to sleep on for the two nights I was there. I will always be thankful for their kind gesture.

I’m beginning to live every photographer’s dream. Mornings and nights filled with opportunities to take pictures in the best and most stunning light when God paints the sky, and days filled with sightseeing and exploring. A travel photographer’s nights are short in the summer and long in the winter. You sleep from light down to light up. If you pass up a sunrise or sunset, you pass up your best opportunities. My first morning in Palmyra was spent at the temple and then the Smith farm while the light was still soft. I managed to walk right into some breathtaking scenes and was so lucky to have found them.

I was planning on making it to a session at the temple at 9:45, but fell asleep editing some of my morning pictures. I woke up, and opted for the 11:00 session instead. I had time to run to the sacred grove and get some pictures now that the light was shining straight into the grove. On my way there I stopped back into the visitor’s center to get a quick drink of water. I realized as I opened the door that I had walked right into a tour- the sister missionary talking to the family quickly invited me to join their tour- the same I had done the evening before. For some reason I decided to join. Not even a full day earlier I had done the same exact tour, and here I was sitting down doing it again with no clue as to why I had said yes. Maybe it was because the sister missionary was pretty, or maybe I had nothing better to do. Regardless, I think there was a reason why I stayed. I found out quickly that the family that I was on the tour with was out visiting their son who a year earlier had moved to Manhattan to pursue a career in music. After a quick conversation and an exchange of numbers, I had found one person to meet up with in Manhattan! At the moment I have no where to stay, and no one I know- and I’ll be there within a few days! It was such a relief to at least make acquaintances with a member there.

I had to break away from the tour a little early and run up to the temple for the session I was about to once again miss. On my way out of the parking lot a nice local girl from the singles ward in Rochester quickly struck up a conversation with me about my bike and offered to show me around sometime while I was in Palmyra. How I appreciated a friendly face to talk to! I gave her a card, asked her to text me, and was off! I changed into my church clothes at the speed of light. If there was an ESPN special on speed dressing, I would take the title undefeated.

Four things amazed me in the temple. The peacefulness was stunning. The beauty was miraculous. The workers and guests were like family to me instantly. And lastly, I was amazed at how everyone thought I was either on a mission, going on a mission, or just getting home from a mission. According to the way things seem to work with my family, I won’t start looking my age until I’m lying in my coffin.

We all know that we are a family, but somewhere in between road rage and daily stress we tend to forget that. That temple parking lot was speckled with out of state license plates, and despite our differences of lifestyle, interests, experience, age, or race- in the temple we were a family. I imagine that’s what led President Sherwood to say that he works with the best people. They are our literal brothers and sisters. Heaven will be something like that one day I imagine.

I went to Hill Cumorah to see the visitor center there and was, just as previously, welcomed lovingly. I asked a sister missionary to play the audio demonstration in front of Christ’s statue there in Spanish- the spirit of your mission language never dies. What would it have been like to be there with Christ? How would it have felt to walk with Him and the Disciples? What did his voice sound like? We can only wait eagerly for the day we will meet our older brother again.

I asked the sister missionary there if they had many foreign visitors come by. She said they do, and began to tell me that a few weeks earlier they had a family of Muslims interested in different religions stop by the visitor’s center. She sat them down with her companion after nearly giving them the whole first lesson, and played that same audio for them as they sat in front of that magnificent statue of Christ. After it played the man stood up and said, “I’ve never seen anything like this before. The way you portray Christ is different than any other Christian religion.” He went on to explain that he is used to a more sad, suffering and dark Christ than the kind and warm Savior we know and love.  

I am so thankful for the knowledge we have of our Savior. The love He offers is overwhelming. He truly is our older brother, friend, example, and our Savior. He is the light of the world.

With only a little more time before the sunset and a much needed pizza dinner with my new local friend, I hurried over to the Book of Mormon publication site. The church recently remade the shop where E.B. Grandin printed and published the Book of Mormon for Joseph Smith. Throughout the entire course of the tour I began to piece together all the feelings I had had over the past 36 hours as I visited the Smith Farm, the temple and the Sacred Grove. I began to realize something I had never realized before- that Joseph Smith was someone just like you and I.

I was told that the night before Joseph Smith had prayed for the first time in the grove behind his home that he purposely left an axe back there so that if anyone asked him where he was going so early, he would have an excuse. My first thoughts that came to mind were- Well I would want an excuse too if I was planning on going to say a prayer in the woods. I put myself in his shoes and realized that my brother’s would have made fun of me if I woke up one morning and told them I was just going to go pray in the woods. I don’t know if that’s how it was for Joseph Smith, but I imagine it had something to do with that. It helped me to realize that as amazing of a man that he became, he was a boy just like I was.

In my first tour Elder Whipple showed me a spot of the Smith Home where they still had the original whitewash from the Smith family on the inside walls. There was a spot that if you looked closely you could see behind a dresser where it hadn’t been whitewashed in a perfect square against the wall. The elder told me that although they don’t know why exactly that was, the man the refurbished the home for the church told them that he thought Lucy Mack Smith had probably asked her boys to whitewash the walls, and as any boy would, instead of painting behind the dresser, they just painted around it.

It took three years after the first vision before Joseph Smith heard another word from the Lord. Three entire years! He mentions briefly that he had felt badly about the way he had behaved in his childhood and on one night while praying to ask forgiveness and see if he would still have a role to play in God’s plan, Moroni appeared to him. Joseph Smith wasn’t born the man he became. He was a boy. He was a good kid, but ornery and childish as are all boys! For years after the first vision he behaved most likely in a way that many of us have in those turbulent teenage years.

Joseph was preordained to do a great work. But just because he was so, doesn’t mean he was born ready. He had to go through life just as we do. In fact, as a result of the magnificent blessing that he had to see Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ he had to pass through trials and temptations we will never be required to go through. There are those that criticize Joseph for his mistakes and faults- and in all honesty, I don’t know what is true and not true according to the things people say about him. What I do know however is that he was an amazing man. He was no God. He was not perfect. He did change the world. He did see God the Father and Jesus Christ. He did restore the gospel. To expect perfection from a man is nothing short of insanity. The only one we may ever expect perfection from is our Lord Jesus Christ. My time in Palmyra confirmed my testimony of Joseph Smith. He was a boy like I was. He became an amazing man through the caring moldings of God throughout his trials and blessings. He was a prophet. My testimony does not depend on what he did wrong if it is that he did anything wrong. That testimony lies within everything he did right for every single one of us. Think of the trials he had to pass through. What would make a man continue on through that fire if it weren’t for good?

He was fourteen when he had the first vision and the tormenting and teasing about what he claimed to have seen began then until the day that he died. How many fourteen year old boys do you know that could handle such ridicule for so many years? Why didn’t he just give up at some point?

“Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation.”  -Joseph Smith

The opposition Joseph Smith had to face would be a testimony to the validity of this gospel on its own. From the moment of the first vision to the day he was martyred- his life was in constant ridicule. What led other’s to violently oppose him? There are other religions in this world that maintain beliefs that I don’t share or don’t agree with, but nothing in me has ever hoped to destroy their faith and dedication to their religion. In fact, I have deep respect for anyone that holds true to their beliefs- be them true or not.  

I love that God loves us all to such a degree that he will bless us individually with an answer to our prayers about the truthfulness of this gospel. Each member of the church holds dear to their hearts an entirely unique conversion story. We all can do just as Joseph did, and get on our knees, humble ourselves, have faith, and pray to know the truth. Although we may not see the Lord as he did, we will be blessed to receive an answer by the soft feeling of love that that same Spirit that lingers in the grove bears to us as an answer to our prayers.

It was never easy for our Savior. We will never be required to go through the trials and fire that He had to go through. Not nearly on the level of our Savior, but still on a great level did Joseph Smith pass through things we will never have to experience. It was not easy for him either. It was never easy for anyone, so why do we often expect it to be that way for us? Life will not just be handed to us on a silver platter. Life is meant to be lived. It’s the soil that’s meant to be worked and turned, so that eventually our hard daily labors can provide us with the fruit of eternal life. Never give up in the process of such a great cause. At times life is beautiful and others it’s a disaster- we must realize that our trials often times build and shape us even more than our blessings.

When we give all that we can- God puts in the rest of the work we cannot do. Joseph Smith was called to be a prophet; but that doesn’t mean God made his life easy and glamorous- anything but that. Instead he passed through horrible things, which eventually shaped him into an amazing man that millions still respect many years after his death. The pioneers were asked to leave their homes and move hundreds and hundreds of miles through rough conditions to the West where they would have their new colony. God never made it easy for them, he only made it possible. Likewise life will happen with us if we keep a chin up and push through the good times and bad.

We don’t need to see God to know He is there. We don’t need to meet Joseph Smith to know he was a prophet. We don’t need to hold the golden plates to know that they contain the record that the Book of Mormon was translated from. All we need is an doubtless humble faith and hope. It’s the recipe to the truth that Joseph Smith restored God’s church once again and for the final time upon the face of the Earth.