seagulls and notary publics

This morning Ellie and I went to the temple. We smelled just about every flower, floated a blossom down the cascading waterway running west to the temple, stood by the OC Tanner fountain and let the wind blow water in our faces, ate cookies and carrots on a bench near the old meeting house, learned about pioneers, priesthoods, handcarts, Samaritans, tribes, angels, patriarchal blessings, Jerusalem, tabernacles, swirling wind patterns, baptisms for the dead, Spanish, and seagulls. Six or seven times she said, "This is my favorite place on earth." And after circling and circling and circling around the miniature cutaway model of the temple in the visitors center, she finally stopped, squeezed my arm, and said, "I can't wait til I can go inside one day." Then she stared a few minutes longer into a miniaturized world of crown molding, garden murals, and tiny golden lights. And it struck me that that is all I want in this life. For my sweet inquisitor to one day be inside. And right there my religion was decided upon, stamped, notarized, solemnized, and defined for good. For good.