From Paintbrush to Pen: Generations of Creation
As my mother gathered up her paint palette and brushes, the familiar scent of oils and turpentine hung in the air. I admired her handiwork—a meadow full of flowers on a canvas that seemed monstrous to me as a six-year-old. Mama screwed the lid on a tube of earthy golden-yellow paint, set it down, and began cleaning her brushes. Curious, I reached for the tube she had used to paint the golden flower patterns in the green meadow.
I tried to read the tube: “Yellow ochre.” I asked my mother how to pronounce it.
“Yellow oaker,” she enunciated.
This was no crayon-box yellow. It made her star-like brushstrokes look like real flowers in her green meadow.
I don’t recall any other names of paints my mother used, even though there were many. For some reason—which I did not fully understand until today—the name Yellow Ochre stayed with me. And now, decades later, it returned with new meaning.
This afternoon, I stood gazing at our field. Goldenrod fountains and white bunches of boneset blossoms celebrated their triumph before autumn turns the grasses brown. There, amidst the flowers, bees, and birds, I spoke two words aloud—not to any other human, but to myself: “Yellow Ochre.”
In that moment of recognition, I stood inside a living, breathing painting my mother could have created some 53 years ago. I used my camera to zoom in on bees sipping nectar from tiny goldenrod flowerets. I watched a pair of canary-yellow butterflies circle each other in an energetic dance—twirling, spinning, flitting too swiftly for my telephoto to capture. I lowered my camera and saw two monarch butterflies join them, apparently dancing to the same rhythm I could not hear. I sighed, watching the butterflies climb higher above the sea of yellow ochre and white caps that rolled against the serene blue sky and cotton-candy clouds.
Suddenly, I remembered a sentence that came to me last weekend as I sat in the Celestial Room of the Atlanta Georgia LDS Temple. I had felt my mother’s presence sitting beside me in the cushioned chairs that day, advising me: “Write the world you want with your pen.” She repeated it a few times. When I finally opened my eyes, I realized temples are here to teach us that—even amidst a chaotic and angry world—we can create our own peaceful world. A place untouchable by man. Protected. Safe. It is as if God is telling us we can lift our frequency to a higher realm—a world parallel to the mortal one, yet filled with peace.
Today, I wondered: Did my mother create this world for me with her paintbrush those many years ago? Now, as I stand in this meadow surrounded by yellow ochre flowers—a safe haven for birds, bees, butterflies, and native plants—is this the result of a wish, a prayer, a painting my mother set in motion so long ago?
Could I, with my pen, write the world I wish for my children and grandchildren? How much power does a faithful mother have? Mothers, above all else, are co-creators with God. Through us, He creates the vessels in which His children reside—the temples where God Himself longs to dwell, if we let Him.
Why stop there as mothers? Why not use our love to paint a canvas of peace, love, and beauty for our children—a world within a world… a safe haven for future generations? My mother used her paints. I use my pen.
How will your love manifest God’s love and beauty to create a safe haven, a higher-frequency world to protect your future generations?
What will be your Yellow Ochre?
