Christmas Mandarin Oranges

This post is dedicated to my wonderful parents, Doug & Cindy Simmons

I want to share a story that is rooted in tradition.

I fear I live in a society that does not value tradition or a continuing pattern of beliefs and practices.  Instead, we have live in a fast-paced, ever changing, disposable world.  Now, I don't want to throw the baby out with the bath water, or in this case, the disposable water bottle out with the recycle bin.  I have, however, come to crave the traditions of my childhood as I continue my own path into adulthood. And I recognize that my peers and the future generations are in danger of being short changed. Short-changed from the joy and strength of cultural, religious and community tradition.

The story.

In the backyard of my childhood home is a mandarin orange tree.  As most children, I used to love to pick the oranges because I knew that they were a tasty treat! It was often one of my "chores" to go out and pick a bowl of them for the family.

There was another secret to my love of the mandarin oranges.  I knew that when it was time to pick them, it was also time to go to the Oakland, CA LDS temple to see the Christmas lights.  You see, in California, mandarin oranges are ripe in December; citrus season.

Each December, my parents would load all us kids into the van (first "blue," then "darth vadar") and drive us to Oakland.  Because it was a long drive, they would bribe us with a bowl of mandarin oranges.  This served to keep us fairly calm and made sure our hands were busy peeling and not picking fights.  By the time the big, industrial sized bowl of mandarines were gone, we generally were rounding the corner to the Oakland temple.  I remember how my eyes would light up everytime as I walked around the temple grounds in child-like awe of its beauty.

I didnt recognize then that my parents were diligently molding tradition. A tradition of family.  A tradition of love.  A tradition of God.  A Christmas tradition of the temple.

I am almost 30 now, and those sweet days of childhood are much in the past.  But, every year, when I peel back the skin of a mandarin orange, and the scent of orange oil wafts to my nose, my mind is flooded with memories and images.  And I know its time to go to the temple.  My heart and soul are called there.

So, I am grateful for tradition.  For good traditions.  For traditions that bind me to my family, and to God.  These are the things that shape a soul and give courage and strength to a rising generation.  I hope that my peers and those that come behind me have the blessing of roots grown in righteous tradition.

Washington DC Temple Christmas 2009 (and yes, I sat in the parking lot and ate my mandarin orange)