The summer of 1969, my mother, my father, my brother, and I headed west in our baby blue camper van. After driving across the plains, it struggled mightily to make it up high mountain passes. It took some coaxing and a little extra water for the radiator, but we did make it to our destination: an LDS temple in Logan, Utah, where we were sealed together as a family for eternity. I still hold in my mind an image of my mother, my father, my brother, and me kneeling around the altar together, hands clasped.
The summer of 1990 in the Salt Lake City temple, Roger and I were married and sealed, kneeling across the altar from each other, hands clasped. There were a few glitches. Roger had underestimated the Tuesday morning rush hour traffic and was late. Everyone else was worried, but I wasn't. And then I was held hostage after the ceremony by a conscientious temple worker who insisted we had to leave the temple together even though I knew Roger had already left. There was no way he had taken as long as I had to freshen up for pictures. I was right; he'd slipped out the door unnoticed while the temple workers were changing shifts. The glitches just made our wedding day more perfect, though, because now we have stories to tell.
The week of Thanksgiving 1999, we took Jack to the Provo temple to have him sealed to us. Roger and I knelt at the altar with Jack in our arms, hands clasped. I don't know whether the ritual has inherent power or if its power is derived from what is in our hearts and minds. I do know this: his adoption had been finalized a few days before in a court of law, but it was the sealing ceremony that clinched the feeling Jack would always be a part of our family. A true blessing.