Happy Fourth of July!

I'd like to take a time-out from cake to wish you a happy Fourth of July. I really like this holiday for many reasons.

I should probably be celebrating by saying something meaningful or at least posting pictures of my handsome Marine brother. But there are celebrations calling and buttermilk syrup to be made. (Why do I have buttermilk on hand, you ask? It has less to do with syrup and more to do with me finally having ingredients for Super's cake!)

So, I give you three of my favorite Fourth videos. The first, one my co-worker and I used to sing at work.
The second, from the musical 1776, which I love deeply. Mr. Feeny is my John Adams. And this man is so much my Ben Franklin, I can't even remember the actor's name.

And the third from the West Wing, which is self-explanatory and makes me cry every time.

God bless America; my brother, who stands up for it; Mrs. Thompson, who taught me to love it; and Aaron Sorkin, who made me less worried about how it all runs.

Press Forward, Saints

The Madonna of the Praire
by William H.D. Koerner

Recently, someone I love told me that I am a pioneer woman. I think this may be the greatest compliment I have ever received, and I'm liking that this disclosure happened right around the time of Utah's Pioneer Day holiday. It has given me lots of time to reflect on just what this means.

We often talk about how our modern struggles are just as hard as those of our pioneer ancestors, except they look really different. What is the same? Read more.

For want of rain

To the north of me, a beautiful storm is brewing over that portion of the valley. I wish it would blow in my way, drench my parking lot till the low spots are puddles, and pour and pour until everything is washed and new again.

That would be nice. That could cleanse things again. And I could stop waiting out on my porch for such things.

The storm never came, so I instead made the greatest decision I've made in a while: I moved the couch to the balcony of my apartment building. Though I sometimes feel I'm somehow invading the privacy of my neighbors by bringing myself so permanently into the open, they're outdoorsy people too, so I'm sure they'll be okay with it.

It's awkward for me too, this being so exposed to the world, but since this couch isn't exactly a scrumping couch—as the great Marcie Glad would call it (scrumping actually refers to a whole host of activities, including menial tasks such as walking along at a slow pace and more intense tasks such as punching someone with all the force of your soul. It's a versatile word, really.)—I think spending my time reading and writing out here will be good exposure for my soul.

My friend came to help me move the couch. When he asked if there was anything else he could do, I told him that since we've been struggling with similar things as of late, he could come and talk to me more, since it makes me feel less alone and crazy. His response cheered me greatly: "You're not alone. There are at least 3 of us crazy people out there in the world." Bless your heart, good sir, bless your heart.

My balcony, pre-couch

If it were raining, I'd use this:

Miracle of friendship

Sometimes the definitions of words escape me, or vice versa. Recently though, it came to my attention that what I've been seeking and asking for is a "miracle."

A miracle in the sense that I'm asking for a change of heart—in myself and others. I'm asking for a deep outpouring of love and forgiveness and wholeness. In someways, it is both daunting and comforting to be asking for a miracle. Daunting because it's a big change and miracles don't happen every day. Comforting because I know miracles are exactly what God deals in.

On Friday, a miracle happened, not the one I'd been requesting but one in the same vein. An old friend from study abroad Kris sent me an email with some writing she'd done recently. Her piece was prompted by another friend in our group Christine who'd just happened to send her something she'd been writing.

When I call these people "friends" I mean it of course, but it is fair to say that we are not all very close these days. Our lives have gone off in different directions, and even to begin with, we weren't all evenly close to one another. There were gaps, not subgroups, just gaps—people you knew but had yet to really connect with. We did pretty well overall though.

 But when I read Kris's essay, I knew something wonderful had taken place in my heart. So I wrote back. Not a reply but a response from my heart about all her concerns and thoughts that in the writing exposed my own concerns and thoughts. The words made us friends in a deeper way.

Now, we're playing a sort of written Telephone game with everyone in our group. We are each writing a piece prompted by the one we received from a friend. The idea is making me so happy. I love seeing connections happen between two people, however unlikely they may be.

Those are my kinds of miracles, and really, they're the kinds I've always been seeking and treasuring in my life. I believe they are possible between any two people, born at that moment when someone finally says, "Me too."

It's a moment I live for, and one that I'm willing to keep living for always. My God is a God who brings people together and heals all the differences between them. 

In other good news, my oatmeal today tasted awesome. It's good to taste awesomeness.

When depression hides your smile

You can read about my favorite movie moment, depression, and anxiety in my latest post for BYU Women's Services.

Here's the link.

And the corresponding background video. You should watch this, but don't forget to read my post afterwards.

[JACOB]

I tend to abuse the word "favorite," but when it comes to Book of Mormon prophets, I truly do have just one favorite above all others: Jacob, the brother of Nephi.

For as long as I can remember, I tend to turn to his writings for comfort and guidance. The Spirit often uses his words to teach me because Jacob the prophet and I share some ways of thinking. That's a bold comparison, putting myself with a cannonized prophet, but I say this because his personality comes through so strongly in his writings that I can see how it matches my own.

Jacob was also a writer. Nephi commanded him to write—to write of great prophecies and revelations, to write of what he knew, to write of truth—all for a people who only sometimes listened. "Wherefore, we would . . . that all men would believe in Christ, and view his death, and suffer his cross and bear the shame of the world; wherefore, I, Jacob, take it upon me to fulfill the commandment of my brother Nephi" (Jacob 1:8).

Jacob speaks often of responsibility, at times with a certain resignation. He accepts his calling to invite his people unto repentance, but he seems so sad about it. The cruelty and unfeelingness of his people is directly opposite to the soft heart he bears to them. You can see that he feels personal sadness for those he teaches. He  cannot bear seeing them suffer and hurt each other. In this respect, he is a man after my own heart. He is anxious about people and eager to heal them. He keeps fighting a battle he may be losing with faith that good will always come of it.

I'm grateful to him for his writings, for every letter engraven in a plate of brass in the hopes of bringing someone unto Christ. I respect his courage to keep writing and to remain unshaken.

Before I say adieu, I would highly recommend this article on Jacob, which brings out the story of a man who was also a prophet.

The very first snow

I have never written a blog post about snow before now. If I had written one last year, this is probably what it would say: Today it snowed. I walked out the door—late per usual—and wondered what was so wrong with the world that it would decide to pour down cold, dangerous, icy, gross snow. Ugh.

(And that's the nicer version of the anger that would have been going on in my head over snow.)

A switch has flipped since then though. Last Friday, I donned Super's red snow hat and walked out the door. The sky was light in that pre-snow shade of grey, and it was warm outside. I knew this would mean the first snow was about to show itself in some format. And snow it did. Nothing major—just a white dust for the cars and roofs tops that left the grass still yellowed green. At some point, it turned more to rain than anything fluffy or white.

The concept of snow hasn't changed; it still makes me cold, still makes the roads icy, still turns the sidewalks into freezing rivers, still makes my socks wet, still makes my world look different. But it no longer makes me sad.

This year it's beautiful, and I'm going to welcome it—and try not to let my welcome wear out by January.

In our church meeting last week, one of the speakers asked why life seems so hard, why our trials seem to outnumber our blessings. Then he answered his own question, "Because we have ungrateful hearts." Could it in fact be true that by being grateful life could be easier, richer, happier?

The snow proves it true for me. It drifts in and recolors my world, bringing its warm front before the downpour, but this time, it's calm and bright.

Raising tabernacles

 Last December, a cultural landmark from my town caught fire and burned down. The Provo Tabernacle was built by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It functioned as an assembly hall for performances of many types and at types as a hall of religious worship. I have only one memory of being it in as a little girl and looking up at the high ceilings that stretched on forever.

And then one day, it was burning down before I had ever really known much about it. I thought about this as I stood next to its remains earlier this week. As part of my job, I cover the news in the geology department of my university. In conjunction with the Church, professors and students were there using ground penetrating radar to find the foundations of the first tabernacle built there.

So, there I was, closer to the burnt brick and shattered glass that I ever imagined I would be. A woman from the Church History Department stood next to me ready to answer my questions, but I had none—only overwhelmed feelings of glory and awe and sorrow.

That happens when we look at ruins that didn't come about as we expected—suddenly, rather than the wear and tear of time, as if something was stolen from us. I wish I'd seen it in all its glory more often, that I had more than one memory there I can barely place.

Sometimes in the scriptures, God refers to our bodies as our tabernacles. These bodies house spirits that move and drive us to living, to loving. Some religions see the body as something to be discarded, as something driven by evil urges, or as something that holds us back from being closer to God. In my church, we believe that having a body is essential to progressing and growing in the way God would have us grow. And that after we die, our spirits will be reunited with our bodies in a perfect form, much like the Savior who took His body up after three days in the grave.

Sometimes, friends die unexpectedly. They are gone quickly, as if they had gone up in flames before we had the chance to stop it. And here I am, looking up at the holes that were once windows to the heavens filled with magnificent light and life. Instead of a ceiling catching the earthly music that sings heavenly tones, there is a blue sky above me catching the music of angels who sound close enough to me that they are almost earthly.

The Provo Tabernacle still stands, which is marvelous to me. I can see the nails that held it together and the framework that made it rise upward. It is empty now, but not gone. Not any less wonderful because it burnt down. How beautiful its body still is.

Now, the Church will build a temple there—a celestial, perfect House of God that will teach about light, life, and love that lasts forever beyond the time of an earthly tabernacle.

Photos by my amazing friend, Marshall Comstock.

Remembering: Part two

Last night, Super brought me a piece of pumpkin pie that was thoroughly covered in whipping cream on ALL THREE SIDES! I love whipping cream, practically as much as I love him for bringing me pie. Sometimes, I forget how wonderful he is.

I tend to forget a lot of important things. Lately, I've been working on remembering what divine potential I have because I am a daughter of God. It's easy to forget that I can do hard things and I can do them well. It's easy to forget that I know what is right and I can do it. It's easy to forget that I am capable, lovely, and bright.

In addition to remembering these things, I love to remember that even when I forget these truths they are still true. My heart may freeze over and my potential may go dormant for a season, but the is still a seed of light in me. If I choose to stay like that for too long, I won't be the wonderful person I am, but if I do remember and start living these truths, God is more than willing to pick up where we left off and continue making me even more wonderful and divine. He never forgets what I can do.

He also sent me a man named Super who remembers that I am beautiful and wonderful and who helps me to remember that by treating me with respect and patience.

I still forget things sometimes. (I forgot how long my pigtails were and accidentally got part of that whipping cream in my hair. My friend Sarah tells me there's a place for me in the retirement home she works at.) But there are deep truths that will always be true. My potential is one of God's great truths. I am never forgotten.

The French may disagree, but I believe in capitalizing Tuesday

Today is Tuesday. Let's think about that, since I keep thinking about what it means to be in a Tuesday.

Even the word itself sounds curious, like the possessive form of the infinitive verb, "To's day." Who would a Tuesday belong to?

Or a better question: who wants to own a Tuesday? Does anyone ever rejoice in the promise Tuesday holds? Could Tuesday ever approximate the way we wake up on a Saturday and relish the possibility of free time? Can we jump out of bed on a Tuesday as if it were a Monday and we are well prepared for the week? Is there a sense of relief to be found in Tuesday like the relief that comes with the dawning of Friday?

I think the answer to these questions is no. Tuesdays simply aren't like other days.

Could Tuesday really be the plainest day of the week? If nothing exciting were allowed to happen on a Tuesday, that would amount to one-seventh of our lives being spent in more nothingness that we previously imagined we were spending. 

But, I doubt Tuesday is a day for nothing. Rather, Tuesday is a day for the unexpected, a day to be filled, a day to change everything, and a day to become something different. Extraordinary events need ordinary days to come up during. What a great space Tuesday is for that kind of thing.

Surely God did not make the days to be just arbitrary divisions. He purposed them for wise things. I like to think that Elder Wirthlin would agree that our days mean something, and Tuesdays come in all degrees.

Chomping at the past

Today, I am wearing the most awesome shirt from my entire wardrobe. I use the word awesome very intentionally. There are shirts that I like better than this one in terms of fit, style, and comfort, but truly, no other shirt could exude awesomeness as this one does. 

Why? Well, because there are dinosaurs on it.

Yes, folks. It's covered in little doodles of dinosaurs, clouds, unidentified femur bones, and those little stars we draw without picking our pens up off of the paper. It's also yellow, which I like.

Sometimes I wear it just because of the reactions I get. People—friends and strangers—tend to appreciate a little bit of dinosaur in their day. One time, my coworker said, "I like your shirt." Then, she whipped back around from her computer and exclaimed, "There are dinosaurs on it! I love your shirt!" I was surprised to hear someone say that they liked it for any other reason beyond the dinosaurs. Really, what else is there to love about it? 

Sadly, it's been a while since the dinosaur shirt has seen the light outside of my closet.

Maybe it's just a girl thing, but for many of us, there are moments of life that we cannot stop associating with particular clothing. This can be a beautiful thing. For example, I love knowing that on an April day that felt like the first day of my life—in the sense that Bright Eyes sings about it—I was wearing my Irish ferry sweater, my Pocahontas shoes, and the only floral print shirt I own.

When I think about the dinosaur shirt, it's still connected to this one day when the world turned upside down on me and left me looking at my feet, when words I didn't really understand entered into my vocab, when every muscle in my body went stiff and refused to bend.

When I sit anxiously in class, I'm pretty sure the dinosaur doodles are feeling just as restless as I am. I feel as if every time I look down, one of them sounds the warning call of "Freeze!" And they would all stand still again, pretending to have gotten away with their changes.

This makes me love them and the shirt again. Besides, everything seems to be changing. I believe that God rewrites things for us. It is so necessary to seek constant revelation and to be acting on what He tells us to do now. For me, this includes God giving me new perspectives on and new feelings about what has already happened.

The days in my dinosaur shirt appear bright to me, like the yellow stars scribbled on my shirt. They mean new things: love, forgiveness, trust, faith, and a perfect brightness of hope.

And I'm pretty sure I caught Mr. T-Rex nibbling on a cloud while the triceratops and the stegosaurus played ring-around-the-rosy and all fell down.