There’s that old precept taught by somebody worth listening to (Spencer W. Kimball? Gordon B. Hinckley? I cannot remember) that if you don’t like the talk you’re hearing, then write your own in your head. I sometimes resent that line, candidly, because it seems to transfer a burden for the quality of the meeting onto the heads of the congregation, instead of holding the speakers – who have been called to that assignment, and given time to prepare – responsible for their own teaching, but, well, I’ll give it a shot.

Our ward’s theme is “Making My Home a Heaven on Earth.” This follows last week’s theme of “Strengthening Relationships.” In both cases, “home” and “relationship” was interpreted as “family.” This week’s talks were virtually indistinguishable from last week’s talks – lots of “I married an angel” and “parents should teach X, Y, and Z to their children” … which is fine, I suppose, although I’m struggling with how anybody can make spiritual or temporal use out of the knowledge that so many men in the ward married angels …

Anyway. This is what I would have liked to have heard:

“Home” does not refer primarily to four walls and a roof, although obviously a safe (in all the aspects of that word) and healthful space in which to live is obviously of great importance. I see pictures of the houseless in Salt Lake City, and of refugees around the world who have no houses, who may in most cases count themselves fortunate to have the use of a tent, and I recognize the importance of physical surroundings. But a “house” is not a “home.” It’s not much more than an ancillary item, interchangeable with virtually any other shelter.

Neither is “home” equivalent to “family.” If it were equivalent, I would be homeless no matter how luxurious my house might be. I believe God intends everyone to be a part of a family, and that life is almost certainly better in countless ways when you do have a family. (Somewhere, probably just about here, I would work into my talk a reference to something that rubs me the wrong way every time I hear it: Someone in my ward likes to remind us regularly, in such a manner as to put an end to any discussion, that “Everybody has a family! You had parents. You probably have cousins. You have a family!” True enough, but irrelevant. Deceased parents may be inspirational but are seldom of any practical help; and nobody ever said, “Heaven won’t be heaven if my third cousins aren’t there with me.” So please file “Everybody has a family!” with all the rest of those things that are true but not useful.)

I don’t have a family. I have three rooms in an old subdivided house with scarred wooden floors and an alcove with appliances instead of a real kitchen. But I have a home. A home that, in its way, is as fine as any other home known to any other Latter-day Saint. Late yesterday afternoon, as I walked through the bedroom and the light hit my blanket just right, I felt a sudden burst of gladness for this peaceful place and gratitude for that window and that bed and that blanket. I often feel a sudden and unexpected feeling of contentment when I am safely at home. That peace and satisfaction mean home to me.

In a prayer spoken by Joseph Smith, who claimed the words were given to him by revelation, the Lord instructed the people to “organize yourselves, prepare every needful thing, and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God” (D&C 109:8). This admonition was directed to those building the Kirtland Temple, but it makes a useful checklist for our own homes. (It’s a trite way to organize a talk on home, I realize, but remember, I’m sitting in the pews without any preparation time.)

“A house of order” – We heard a lot in our ward today about keeping order in the home in the sense of cleanliness. That is important, and I can think better with the dishes washed and even feel calmer with the bed made. But in my home, “order” has an added, larger meaning.

When I get up in the morning, I get up. I don’t lie around halfway between sleep and wakefulness, wondering if I can get away with another 20 minutes of sleep. I don’t wonder what I should do with the day. I get up, and get going, because there is a certain order to my day. I have planned ahead of time how best to use my day. On Sunday morning, I don’t wonder whether I should go to Church; I get up and go. I don’t have to decide whether to make my bed, or whether to feed the cats, or to keep an appointment with a client. I’ve already made those decisions. (That’s why, incidentally, it was so easy to keep Keepa going for so many years, and so difficult to again make it a part of my routine now that I have let it slide for so many weeks.) There is an order, a rhythm, to my day and my surroundings that reduces chaos, that preserves mental effort for more important tasks. It’s flexible – order is not a straitjacket – but I never have to make every little option into one that saps my energy, and I don’t waste time in front of the TV or doing any of the other mindless things that eat into the day like a cavity in a molar.

“A house of faith” – Mine is a house of faith, so basic to my personal nature that I’m sometimes not aware of that faith – I take it for granted. From the order of the day to the topic of my work to the tone I usually try to establish in Keepa posts (even, like this one, making it a positive list of things I wish I’d heard, or appealing aspects of my own home, rather than an invitation for you all to gripe about the bad talks you might have heard today), faith in God and Jesus Christ are simply foundational. This is in no measure any particular goodness in me – it is a gift I was born with, apparently. My home is a house of faith – certain ideas are present everywhere, certain ideas are banished forever.

“A house of prayer” – Okay, I confess. My prayers are unconventional. One of the benefits, and there are many, to living alone is that I can pray aloud whenever and wherever and however the mood strikes me. I talk to God. I just do. And I sing aloud, too. I don’t know what my neighbors think of my occasional hymn singing (or if they can even distinguish it from my occasional rounds of “On Top of Old Smokey” or “The Challenger Ballad.” But if my upstairs neighbor feels free to do her step aerobics wearing lead-soled diving boots (at least that’s what they sound like), then I should feel free to pray how and when and where I want to.

“A house of learning” – My home is where I do most of my work, which is a constant stream of learning, not just of mere facts but of attitudes and motivations and emotions and anything else. I read a primary document that nobody else has yet extracted, or I read a book that everybody else read last year, and I have the quiet to think about it, the time to mull it over as I continue work that doesn’t demand much focus. I imagine myself in the story. I Google for pictures of the person whose words I am reading, I search my databases for relevant parallels. People can learn anywhere, and home may not be quiet enough for some people, but home is where I learn. “Out there” I’m a hunter/gatherer; at home I learn.

“A house of fasting”? Yes, I suppose so. If by “fasting” we mean godly sorrow, repentance, humility, and not merely going without food, then where better than home to withdraw from the busyness of the world and focus on the things of God? I’m freer to act – to pray, to cry, to feel – at home than I am outside.

“A house of glory”? I don’t know about that one. I often associate “glory” with splendor and magnificence, which doesn’t apply. The Temple is in fact a house of another kind of glory, with God the recipient of our worship and honor and praise and thanksgiving – elements of that could belong to my own home; I’ll have to think more about that one.

“A house of God” – I think so. Not that my mind is on God and his work all the time – you and I both know it isn’t. But home is my refuge from “out there” – I don’t allow people or words or activities in my home that anger or stress me. The work I do there, the things I enjoy thinking about and doing, are, I think, oriented toward God. Or at least I’m getting better at that.

Home is a repository of memories, of hopes, of dreams that almost certainly won’t come to pass but that I have not yet given up entirely. Home is a place of peace, even when it isn’t entirely a place of security. Home is a place of love, even if the love is mostly directed toward a couple of cats and to people who don’t even know I’m thinking of them. Home may be enhanced by family – but it is not dependent upon family. I have a home, and in many ways it can be a heaven on earth – even if my home, and the ways in which it is heaven, have no resemblance to the talks I heard in Church today.

If you need to tell about the inappropriateness or insufficiency of what you heard in your ward’s talks today, go ahead and tell us – but please, rather than just complaining, perhaps you could outline a little of how you would have liked to hear your ward’s topic addressed. Let’s not make this too negative, please.