I have a tiny painting of Jesus on my wall. It’s by J. Kirk Richards and is reminiscent of the shroud of Turin. There are no distinct features — no piercing eyes, no contoured lips that spoke “Our Father, who art in heaven. . .” or “Blessed are the poor in Spirit. . .” or “It is finished.” I walk past it many times a day. These fleeting, peripheral glimpses linger with me, settle into me, are becoming integrated into my soul. Constant exposure feels like the wisps of a breeze or a tune. They are gracious nudges toward something too real to be adequately conveyed. There is nothing sternly…

This past week, I had the opportunity to clean the temple. For four hours on Monday morning, I vacuumed and disinfected sealing rooms and one endowment room in the Mt. Timpanogos Temple, just seven minutes from my home in Pleasant Grove, Utah. I’ve always loved vacuuming. There’s something about the rhythmic back and forth of the motion, the steady whir of the motor, and those lovely lines left in the carpet that bespeak order, cleanliness, and a job well done. I often have my best thoughts and receive my clearest inspiration while vacuuming. In fact, my husband and kids sometimes ask: “Have you had any vacuum epiphanies lately?” And so,…