Day 5: Glitter in the Storm
Thursday, April 2, 2026
Sunrise: Too cloudy
I usually arrive at Deer Creek Reservoir about thirty minutes before sunrise. Today, I was running a fw minutes late. Light rain fell, the sky heavy with clouds, and the wetlands promised mud, so I parked a few hundred meters down at Tate Barn and stayed on the north side of the reservoir. Crossing the fields, I kept an eye on the Heber Creeper’s railroad tracks lining the west side of the lake. They would become important later. 🙂
Wearing my trusty rain boots, I thought I knew these wetlands. I was wrong. One step into what looked like a shallow puddle, and the ground betrayed me. Whoosh. My left leg sank up to my hip, and suddenly I was wrestling with the mud like it had a personal vendetta. I grabbed clumps of grass, pulled, flailed, and somehow, finally, freed myself. Boot half full of mud, jacket smeared, phone buzzing madly in my pocket, I stood soaked, muddy, and smelling faintly of wetlands mystery foam.
Cold, wet and ridiculous, I laughed at the mess as I continued walking across the waterlogged pasture to the wetlands.
Slosh, slosh, slosh.
The entire sky was dark, heavy with rain and clouds, except for one narrow sliver above the eastern mountains. Pelicans floated at the far end of the lake, while a small group of birds gathered closer, oblivious to my soggy, shivering self. Rain fell all around, yet that tiny corner of sky held its ground.
And then it happened. Pure gold. Electric. Glittering. The sunlight forced its way through the navy-blue clouds, illuminating everything directly beneath it. A deliberate, impossible ray—a glitter bomb in the storm. I stopped, soaked and muddy, boots squelching, and just breathed it in. Even in the chaos, there was this miraculous, golden light.
Eager to avoid the Mordor sinkhole, I wandered the wet pasturelands for what felt like forever, boots sloshing with every step, scanning for an escape route. I knew if I could just make it to the railroad tracks, I’d be home free. A deep irrigation stream blocked the way, but eventually I spotted a narrow drainage pipe under the tracks. Not exactly the grand exit, but I scrambled up the steep, muddy embankment tangled in bushes, feeling victorious—and very, very muddy—on my way back to the car.
At first glance, the day could have seemed a total bust: rain, mud, and many misadventures. And yet, that narrow corner of gold piercing the navy-blue clouds reminded me that light can appear in the most impossible places.
Maundy Thursday carries its own weight. On that day, the Savior shared the Last Supper, washed the Apostles’ feet, and gave the new commandment to love one another. Betrayal shadowed the evening, and His Atonement began in Gethsemane. I felt those final hours deeply when studying at the BYU Jerusalem Center, tracing His path from the Mount of Olives, through Jerusalem, to the trial, and finally the Garden of Gethsemane. Love and fear, devotion and sorrow—they were all there, intertwined. Easter morning brings light, hope, and healing, but Maundy Thursday is a quiet reminder of the weight carried before the dawn.
That evening, I volunteered at the Lindon Temple open house. My four-hour shift started on the second floor, greeting and guiding people as they reached the top of the stairs and directing them along the tour. From that landing, I had a glimpse into the Celestial Room and, just behind me, a painting of the Savior holding a lamb, a few sheep gathered around Him. It was hard not to keep looking back at it between groups.
In front of me, rising up the stairwell, was a four-story stained-glass linden tree. Its branches wound upward like a trellis, blossoms opening with each floor until they formed an arch of flowers at the top. I was told the design reflected a helix, like DNA, the human family intertwined. It felt fitting. All of us moving upward, connected in ways we don’t always see.
Outside, the storm was still holding on. And then, at sunset, something unexpected. Light broke through just enough to catch the linden berries in the glass, turning them a soft, glowing gold. Not dramatic. Just enough to notice if you were paying attention. My second gold moment of the day.
Photo: Celestial Room, Lindon Temple. Credit: Church Newsroom
After a couple of hours, I jockied my supervisor for a shift inside the Celestial Room. It’s one of the most sacred rooms in the temple. A place that represents the presence of God, where everything invites stillness, reverence, and a chance to simply sit and feel close to Him.
She placed me just inside the entrance right next to a crystal bowl. At perfect toddler height.
So there I stood, trying to feel reverent while also internally committing to a new mission. No one is breaking anything in the Celestial Room on my watch. Not today. Not ever. It wasn’t exactly the spiritual moment I had imagined as I gently redirected a steady stream of very determined, very mischievous children.
But then I moved to block the bowl from view. And everything changed.
I began to notice people.
Not just that they were entering the room, but what happened as they did. Just before, they were themselves. Talking. Looking around. Carrying whatever they had brought in with them. And then they crossed the threshold. And something softened. It wasn’t just what they saw. It was what they felt.
Reverence settled in. Shoulders dropped. Voices hushed. Most people looked up at the chandelier and the two-story stained-glass window of linden trestles—different from the one in the stairwell, but climbing blossoms reached skyward in a similar, graceful pattern.
A few paused, as if they weren’t quite sure what had just happened, only that something had. I could tell who had never been in a Celestial Room before. There was a kind of wonder that couldn’t be rehearsed.
One little boy couldn’t stop smiling. A baby pointed at everything in delighted confusion. “Dat… dat… dat.” And one young girl leaned in and whispered to me, “This is so pretty. This is my favorite part.”
And I realized I wasn’t there to manage a room. I was there to witness something sacred unfold in real time.
The day had started in mud. Literally. Rain, cold, a sinkhole that nearly took me out, and a long, wandering path just trying to find my way back. It felt messy. Disjointed. A little absurd.
And yet, right in the middle of that chaos, there had been that narrow, impossible corner of gold breaking through the clouds. Not enough to change the whole sky. Just enough to remind me it was there.
And here it was again. Different setting. Same quiet truth.
Light doesn’t always arrive all at once. It doesn’t always clear the storm or resolve the mess. Sometimes it simply meets you where you are. Small. deliberate. Enough. Grace.
This week, I thought I was waiting for sunrises, just like I’m waiting through these big question marks I can’t control. But maybe what I’ve been learning is how to recognize light before everything clears. To trust it, even when it feels partial. To stay, even when the outcome isn’t obvious.
Because whether in a storm-soaked wetland or a quiet, sacred room, He is there. Not always changing everything at once.
But always, quietly, enough.