Infinite Love

Last night was a hard night. I ran headlong into the dreaded 3 AMs. You know about those? When something-a dream or a subconscious thought-triggers serious anxiety, and doubt tries to consume you. It's been happening to me more often than usual lately. I've felt a little like I was under a spiritual assault for the past 3 or so months, and I'm not a good warrior. I opened the scriptures, prayed, got out of bed to try to calm myself down, and couldn't fall back to sleep until after 6 in the morning.

It left me a bit awash on the stormy sea at church today. I slept for a couple of hours, then got up and got ready for Sacrament meeting. I was still feeling heavy and dark and weak, in desperate need of redemption. But I was also feeling unworthy and unloved. How could one so filled with doubt, so weak to temptation, be worth the sacrifice of God's only begotten son? And He must be tired of this already. He must be tired of me, weak as water, impatient, lazy, so easily distracted, a hopeless case.

I looked at the hymns we were singing. "How Great Thou Art" for the intermediate hymn. Can't we sing something else? I thought. We always sing the same 25 hymns. Can't we sing "O, Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown?" Ungrateful, little soul of mine. I tried to focus as the sacrament was administered, listened closely to the talks. Then we sang. I really do like "How Great Thou Art", and as we sang the third verse, I was overcome by the lyrics: And when I think, that God his son not sparing, sent him to die, I scarce can take it in. That on the cross, my burden gladly bearing, He bled and died to take away my sin.

My burden gladly bearing. He's not tired of me. He doesn't think I'm unworthy of his sacrifice. Good God, He loves me! How is that possible?

He must know something about me that I don't.

Just in case I was tempted to doubt, He planted little reminders through the rest of church--a comment about the power of hymns to teach and inspire us, an opportunity to pray where I could express my gratitude for his blessings.

I am lucky to have friends and family who gladly bear burdens for my sake. A mother who has been a rock at my lowest points, who demanded that I get the help I needed. Sweet, strong brothers whose ears, hearts, and priesthood power are always open to me. Countless prayers from my sisters, supplication to God, on my behalf. Kindness and patience when I'm silly or sad. And I am lucky, blessed, to be touched by my Savior's infinite love, even as I'm trying to grasp what infinite love really means.

I hope for you, believer or not, a friend who gladly bears your burdens--the chance to have your soul filled with the knowledge that someone thinks you are worth bearing that load. I wish for you infinite love.

We're not going to Hell in a handbasket, and we're not going to Heaven on anyone's coattails, either.

President Obama is projected to have won a second term tonight. My Facebook feed is overwhelmed by a collective lament from many of my fellow Saints. I've already unsubscribed from several people because I just can't take the tribalism. Pretty much anyone who used the phrase "hell in a handbasket" was out.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't really celebrate an Obama win tonight, and I wouldn't have lauded a President Romney either. I have faith in God, and I know He loves me and all his children, here and around the world, just as much today as He did yesterday. He expects us to get up tomorrow and do so much better than we have been doing during this campaign. He expects us to be kinder, more compassionate, more careful not to cause harm to anyone, especially the people you value the least, be it the "soulless corporate pigs" or the "lazy,mooching 47%." He expects us to figure out His will and submit to it, stop being so damn sure of our own narrow perspective, and try-at least try!-to see the world from someone else's eyes. Kind of like Christ. When He suffered willingly for my sins. For yours.

I'm intrigued to see where we're going. I hope this will lead to less tribalism--less leaders and followers wielding metaphorical clubs in some clan war with their fellow citizens. I hope we all stop drawing lines in the sand, borders in our minds and our hearts, and instead take positive steps toward real friendship and connection with people who are different from us. In a day or two, when my heart heals a bit, I'll go and re-subscribe to those Facebook friends. It's a little thing, but one worth doing, I think.

I love my country. I'm grateful for it. I love this world; I love it's diversity, the inherent difference in land and life that makes it so lovely and intriguing. I love the One who created it, and I trust Him to see us safely through whatever the future holds. No president can solve our problems or lead us into exaltation. That belongs to One so much greater than Mitt Romney or Barack Obama. And His power will elevate the sun tomorrow morning when we wake.

Helaman 5: 12

And now, my sons, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.

Nearly perfect songs, vol. 1

I am grateful for many modern conveniences. Indoor plumbing. Education and economic opportunity for women. Electricity. Among them, I count the opportunity to listen to so many amazing musicians as a tremendous blessing. In addition to the genius of the ages--the Bachs and Handels and Chopins--modern technology has introduced me to many a songwriter I never would have known in another time and place. So I thought I'd start a series of blog posts highlighting some of the songs that delight my ear and my spirit. Tonight, a few from a long-time favorite of mine, the inimitable Ray LaMontagne.

LaMontagne is a poet--his songs work musically, but his lyrics often could stand alone. They are rich in imagery, lush with emotion. A favorite of mine, Winter Birds:



"a many-petaled kiss I place upon her brow"
"it's green to gold, and gold to brown, the leaves will fall to feed the ground"
"the kettle sings its tortured songs"

Exquisite. He juxtaposes beauty and suffering, life and decay.

Oh, and he does all right with that guitar, too.

Here's another, Empty:



"she lifts her skirt up to her knees, walks through the garden rows in her bare feet laughing." Geez, where do I sign up to be that girl? Such a lovely, peaceful image, followed up by "Never learned to count my blessings, I choose instead to dwell in my disasters."

"If through my cracked and dusty dime store lips I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me?" is followed by this tender line--"lay your blouse across the chair, let fall the flowers from your hair and kiss me with that country mouth so plain. Outside the rain is tapping on the leaves. To me it sounds like they're applauding us, the quiet love we've made."

This song demonstrates something central, I think, to both LaMontagne's music and my own life. Joy and pain are inseperable in this sphere. You love and you hurt. You will lose what is most precious, after all, even if only temporarily. "I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit you kind of bore me...It's the hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me." Joy and pain, life and loss, growth and decay. You hear it in his voice, in the melancholy wail of the pedal steel, even in the most upbeat of his songs.

Trouble, or at least the memory of it, stalks the shadows, but never overcomes. I never get tired of Ray LaMontagne

Things you maybe don't want to have up on your screen during a grad school team meeting...

So, this morning, I was doing a little online shopping for bras. Brassieres. Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You get the picture. So I found what I needed, put them in my shopping cart, then promptly got distracted and didn't finish the order. Tonight, I put the laptop on hibernate and hustled on down to the Lee Library to meet with my grad school team. When I got there, I turned on the laptop, and promptly realized that there were three lovely white bras modeled by three lovely headless torsos prominently displayed on my screen. Ack! Minimize! Quick, minimize!

I don't think anyone noticed. Phew. But that brings up two important questions about bra shopping. A. Which is creepier? Cropping the bra model's head out of the picture? or not cropping the model's head out of the picture? I wonder if bra models recognize their own body in the headless pictures. Could you pick your own boobs out of a bra ad lineup? And B. Why is it that the more expensive a bra is, the less satisfied I am with it? Maybe the uber-expensive ones are also uber-awesome, but I will never know because I refuse to pay $100 for a bra. But anytime I've paid more than about 15 bucks for one, I've been massively dissappointed.

Being a woman is complicated.

Speaking of Shakespeare...

A Sonnet for a Wednesday, when things get a little disheartening.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
and look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing myself like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate.

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Out, damned spot?

I got my November issue of Real Simple in the mail tonight. As I was perusing the pages, I noticed in the beauty section an article about minimizing discoloration in your skin--freckles, age spots, that sort of thing. There was a sidebar highlighting products with the title "Out, out darn spot." Hmmm, I thought. Really, a Macbeth reference? In an article about freckles? I wonder if anyone at Real Simple has ever seen or read Macbeth?

Fleeting thought--moved on to the home section, where they were advising how to clean spills from furniture, carpet, etc. And, what do you know! Right there in bold letters on the last page, suspended under a scoop of chocolate ice cream with a precariously melty drop escaping the spoon: OUT DAMN SPOT.

I have several objections. A, it's "damned", damn it. Not darn, not damn. DAMNED. Get it right, or don't do it at all. B, twice in less than six pages? No one noticed and nixed that? Weird. And C, and really, most importantly, did they just compare skin discoloration and stains on your couch to the guilty ravings of a heartless, delusional, suicidal madwoman who ruined multiple lives with her unbridled ambition?

Then I remembered that this is the magazine that thinks a $1200 acrylic coat makes life more "simple." And I thought Martha Stewart was a total nutjob. Ha, ha, ha. Still, I like the pretty pictures.

A Poem for a Sunday

By Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me

Well crap. Covetousness, too?

Do you ever have those periods of your life when day after day, moment to moment even, you seem to get a clearer view of all the ways you stink at everything you want to be? Yep, I'm right in the middle of one. I think it may be the genesis of progress, or it may just be further evidence of my inability to progress. I'm not sure which. Let me write about a couple of disturbing things going on in my head and see if I can tie them all together at the end.

So, first, the covetousness. My dear sister and her husband just bought a new house. They and their six little kidlets will soon be moving into a spacious but not ostentatious house with a nearly perfect lot. In fact, the whole thing seems so stinking perfect for them that it appears almost miraculous. It's not new, and they will be doing a lot of renovating over the next few years, but it's got good bones, it was a deal, and it just fits them.

And I am jealous.

Yes, once again I am envious of my sister. Which, I know if she read this she would tell me how silly I am, and I am. But I envy her--her good husband, her beautiful children, her house big enough for company and yard big enough for everything, her lovely, chaotic, stay-at-home mother life. When I was 7 I envied her perfectly arranged closet shelves and canopy bed. When I was 12 I envied her bra and nylons, when I was on my mission I envied the breathless, falling-in-love accounts sent in letters. And now, as I'm heading toward 40, I realized today I'm still a silly, jealous mess of a little sister.

The thing is, I don't, and never have, wanted any of those things at her expense. I wouldn't take any of it away from her even if it would magically supply me with everything I feel I so sorely lack. I love her. But why can't I have any of it, too?

See, it's not the kind of covetousness that would move me to take anything from someone else, which is, I think, the least dangerous form of covetousness for most of us. It seems very childish to me to think that you could somehow gain happiness at someone else's expense. I don't want any one else's husband or kids or house or happiness. I just have no idea why I can't have mine.

That, the stealing of someone else's blessings is not the danger in covetousness for me. The danger in my wicked jealousy is not recognizing the abundance in my own life. There's a scripture that I have long both loved and struggled mightily with. In Paul's epistle to the Phillipians, he writes:

"For I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased and I know how to abound: Everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need."

I stink at being content. I hold out desires (righteous but dangerous ones) that keep me in this constant state of abasement, hunger and need. And yes, I abound too, but in ways that matter but don't comfort.

I am not ambitious. I'm grateful to have a job because it delivers me from a kind of desperation that has afflicted women for thousands of years. I'm grateful to have opportunities for education because my mind needs to think and work and push. But the daily work of a career and an education doesn't bring me much joy. I dream of cleaning the house everyday, taking care of my babies, and going grocery shopping regularly. With a list. And coupons. I'd rather live an obscure life as a wife and a mother than win awards, prestige or respect in the workplace. Not that I'm winning any awards, prestige or respect in the workplace, but those are the rewards that are available to me, that I am allowed to strive for, and I don't care about any of it. The abundance of my career, and I have been lucky in it, abases me as much or more than it energizes me. What I pour into it leaves me feeling hollow and hungry rather than abundant.

And then I look at my peers--nearly all my friends and colleagues and acquaintances in their thirties who are raising kids and living in a family and I'm both raging jealous and self-loathing that my life resembles them not at all. Horrible, aren't I? Shall I tell you my deepest, darkest secret? When I look at my sister and all that she has and I don't, the only thing I can come up with is that she is far more worthy, and therefore more deserving than I am. She's always been thinner, smarter, prettier, more talented, harder-working, just better. She makes better decisions. She's more obedient. She is what I want to be. And so is pretty much everybody else. And I am not.

Ugh. I know this is not a good way to think, but no matter how hard I try it lurks in the back of my mind and the back of my throat. God's grace does not rest upon me in the form of a family and a home and abundance because I cannot make myself deserving of any of it.

Now, I know that the Atonement of Christ should overcome all of that. Paul continues that passage in Phillipians with this statement: "I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me." But how does that work for me? I can't change my circumstances, nor can I change how I feel about it, and I've spent most of my adult life shuttling between unsuccessful attempts to do those two things. So, at the center of my unworthiness is this: I still don't trust my Savior. How is this possible?

Luke chapter 12 has an interesting treatise on covetousness and faith. A man asks Jesus to settle an inheritance dispute between him and his brother. Jesus replies with "Take heed and beware of covetousness, for a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things which he possesseth." He goes on and tells a parable, then launches into a well-known passage:

And he said unto his disciples, Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat; neither for the body, what ye shall put on.

The life is more than meat, and the body is more than raiment.

Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much more are ye better than the fowls?

And which of you with taking thought can add to his stature one cubit?

If ye then be not able to do that thing which is least, why take ye thought for the rest?

Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith?

My jealousy of my sister and everybody else is just a symptom of this much larger problem--my lack of faith.

Help, anyone? I'm stuck here. I don't know how to fix this. How do I let go?

P.S. I have lovely single friends in their thirties, and I don't think they are unworthy. I am constantly baffled that they aren't blessed with the husbands and and families and homes that they so richly deserve and so righteously want. Because they are lovely, and obedient and beautiful and overwhelmingly talented and hard working. I don't know how to fix that either, nor do I understand why. For my own sake, knowing my own soul, I could not indict God for what I lack. But, and I know this is blasphemous so I don't actually succumb to the impulse, I am regularly tempted to indict him for their sakes. It is not fair, and there certainly better be some serious, serious compensation for what has been withheld at some point in the future. The sooner the better.

Don't worry. I'll totally understand if you don't want to stand very close to me. I wouldn't want to be next to me when the lightning strikes me down either.

Bum and Peanuts

So, sidewalk chalk can be dangerous. I was just reminded of that by a friend's facebook post, which reminded me of this story, which happened years ago. My sister sent her little girls out with sidewalk chalk to play with the neighbors. About an hour or so later, she heard her daughters and their little friends loudly chanting "Bum and peanuts!"

She found this a little odd, of course, and decided to investigate. Out on her driveway she discovered crude drawings of body parts, one like a curvy w and the other decidedly phallic. There was one little boy in the neighborhood, and in what I can only imagine was a clumsy attempt at asserting his maleness, he began to draw self portraits that the girls didn't understand. When they questioned him about what he had drawn, they misheard his reply, and finding the phrase delightfully absurd, began chanting "bum and peanuts."

Ah, sidewalk chalk. It can be a window to the soul.

And, if you are ever in need of a faux swear word, may I suggest "bum and peanuts."

What would make the world better today? Foursquare!

I read over the last three post titles and realized they betrayed my current state of confusion and insecurity. I don't like to feel confused and insecure, certainly, but more importantly, I don't want to appear confused and insecure. So I'm totally going to pretend I'm over it and change the subject in hopes of deflecting your attention from my woesome failings.

I've been keeping a list in my head of all the abandoned practices from elementary school that I think we should consider employing in adult life. Here's what I've come up with so far:

A. Four square

Admit it, you miss this game. Four square was the best game ever. You could make up utterly stupid rules, and as long as you were winning and called rules fair and square, you were good--double hits, slams, around-the-world. I love that red rubber ball. I think every workplace should have a hallway big enough for a four square and a red bouncy ball tucked away. Then, when everybody's stressed out and sick of each other and nothing is budging no matter how hard we try, everybody gets in line and we play four square and everybody gangs up and slams the boss. Or maybe if we scheduled 15 minutes in the morning and fifteen minutes in the afternoon. I might suggest this at our next staff meeting.

B. On a related note: Tetherball

C. Art projects: When was the last time you shaved crayons between two sheets of waxed paper, applied a hot iron to melt it, allowed it to cool, and cut shapes out the hang in your window? If you are anything like me, it's been too long. Too damn long.

D. Chorus. Did you have a chorus at your elementary school? Did you join in the early morning shout of patriotic jubilation? I totally did. And we were always singing something like "I'm Proud to Be an American" or "The Candy Man" or "The World is a Rainbow."

Sidenote: When was the last time you saw a rainbow made up of yellow, black and white and brown? That would be the worst rainbow in the history of the light spectrum.

I'm pretty sure my mom just liked getting us out the door a half hour earlier than usual. We also had a children's choir in my ward when I was a kid, and we were delightful, singing such classics as "Where is Heaven?" I'm fairly certain, though, that we all attended practice after Primary anxiously awaiting the strains of "Sing your way home" followed by a treat on the way out the door. Still, I will say this, a resounding declarative statement: We do not sing nearly enough as adults.

E. Carnival/Field day: Every fall and every spring, someone should throw a big party where all we have to do is show up, square dance, and eat at the bake sale. Foot races are optional. I call I'm not in charge of planning anything.

F. Reading time: After lunch, every day, someone should read to us for fifteen minutes. It should be a law of nature, like gravity or the water cycle. It just should happen.

G. Summer break: Totally self-explanatory.

Now, don't think I'm glossing over the indignities of childhood--I remember cafeteria lunches and mean girls and not having control over anything from my wardrobe to my schedule. I just don't know why we threw the baby out with the bathwater. There was some good stuff there that perhaps we should have held on to.

Update: Also, I want to make one of those Valentine's Day mailboxes out out of a shoe box. I don't care about the Valentines, I just want to decoupage a shoe box. Yellow conversation hearts, though, will be happily accepted anytime.

I think I just got adopted by a cat?

She snuck right in and made herself at home, and now she's snoozing on the barstool next to me. Huh. Do I want a cat? Can I handle a cat? Can I possibly turn away this warm little thing who apparently thinks I'm fairly cool in a month during which every other event has nearly convinced me that I'm a rat who perhaps should go dig a hole and pull the dirt in over me? Huh.

I'm pretty sure I just firmly established myself as the token bitter feminist b---- in my graduate school class.

Will I be ridden out of Utah county by an angry mob with torches and pitchforks if I write a blog post containing my true feelings about the Republican National Convention?

I hate politics. I tend to mistrust the motives of pretty much anyone who would want to be president. I'm neither a Democrat or a Republican, and honestly, that is because both parties have ideas with which I fundamentally disagree. When I both search my soul and apply all of my critical thinking skills (which, I freely admit are not stellar, but it's what I got) to the communication on both sides of the political divide, I find myself deeply uneasy. I may have mentioned this before. I preface what I'm about to write with this because I don't want anyone to assume that because I'm criticizing the Republican National Convention, I am casting my lot with the Democrats. I have no doubt I'll have some problems with their pep rally in Charlotte, as well. I just wanted to air out the discomfort I felt this week.

I only watched Ann Romney's speech. I did read Mitt's speech after the fact, and was disappointed. He made a lot of promises (some of which I didn't like at all--his stance on energy concerns me) but not a lot of ideas on how he would accomplish them. That's a problem, I think. He also insinuated that because I have spent my career in public education and a municipal library I am unfit for government. My experience in small business, the realm that apparently is more important than any other human pursuit (except maybe parenthood--gee, I'm SOL on that one too. Do I even have a right to exist?), was demoralizing. Greed and status was the motivating factor in everything my employers did, and I withered while I worked there. Many small businesses do wonderful, productive things for our society. Others don't. Private v. public does not equal good v. evil, and the fact that current Republicans are unable to have a more nuanced conversation about it is more than a little disappointing.

I watched so little of the RNC because I didn't have all that much time to devote to something I find so pointless, especially since every one of Utah's electoral votes will always go to whomever the Republican nominee is. I'd much rather devote my political attention to local government, where it might actually matter. But I made a point of listening to Ann Romney. I didn't love Mrs. Romney's speech. Pretty much everyone I know will disown me for admitting that, but it's absolutely the truth. The part that bothered me the most(at least the one I'm willing to write about publicly) was this: She said "Mitt doesn't like to talk about how he has helped others because he sees it as a privilege, not a political talking point." That sentence stopped me in my tracks. 'Dear Sister Romney,' I thought, 'he may not like to make his service and generosity a political talking point, but you just did.' I don't doubt that Mitt Romney has helped people, and served and given of his abundance. But you don't get to have it both ways. It was a boast, and a boast used strategically to boost a political career. Do it or don't, I don't care. But call a spade a spade.

Here's the other thing, and I might just be infected by "class warfare" that the Republicans like to accuse their opponents of fomenting, but every time it comes up how generous the Romneys are, I can't help but think of the New Testament, in Luke, when Christ explains to his disciples how He interprets the scene they are watching at the temple:

1 And he looked up, and saw the rich men casting their gifts into the treasury.

2 And he saw also a certain poor widow casting in thither two mites.

3 And he said, Of a truth I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast in more than they all:

4 For all these have of their abundance cast in unto the offerings of God: but she of her penury hath cast in all the living that she had. (Luke 21, KJV)

It just comes to mind over and over again during this entire campaign, on both sides of the aisle.

And don't even get me started on Paul Ryan. I don't care how smart your are or how knowledgeable about the budget. Anyone who has ever listed Ayn Rand as a serious philosophical influence is dangerous.

Ugh. I may be writing another critical post soon decrying the Democrats. I may not, though, but only because I don't know if my heart can take it anymore. Today was a bad day in my personal life, and I'm tempted to just dig a hole and pull the dirt over me for good. And the wider world--at least the political one--well, I hold out little hope there for increasing peace and happiness. Here I am again: All that's left for me is on my knees, pleading for something that may not even be within my grasp in this mortal spere.

My mission president's favorite hymn was "Come O Thou King of Kings." I didn't get it then. I do now.

Hope your week was better than mine. Peace.

I am the anti-cupid

As I was working today, I came across two frisky little adolescent squirrels (this is not a metaphor, people--I'm talking about the furry little rodentish creatures) playing in a park up the canyon. One of the squirrels, we'll call him Boris, was playfully but persistently pursuing the other, we'll call her Natasha. While observing Boris and Natasha, I was on a mule, driving on an upwardly sloped trail, parallel to our fluffy tailed amours. I was driving slowly and carefully observing so as not to take my eye off, have them suddenly swerve into my path, and die a gruesomely passionate death in each other's tiny, tiny arms.

Natasha, though, was a bit reticent. She didn't want to be caught and may have been a bit annoyed with Boris. I find squirrel flirting very difficult to interpret. Suddenly, she darted out in front of my wheels, crossed the road, and didn't look back. Boris was just far enough behind to have to stop in order to save his own lusty life. He sat up on his hind legs, looked longingly toward Natasha bounding up the stream then, I kid you not, gave me the stink eye.

I got news for him, though. Natasha was having none of it. He needs to slow his roll and let her really get to know him, stop pressuring her and let the relationship develop organically.

I may be anthropomorphizing here.

They were awfully cute squirrels, though. And although winter is coming, there's still plenty of time for Boris to make a solid case for love. I may have thwarted his clumsy pursuit today, but if he has the heart and the will to court his lady squirrel, love will surely triumph. Good luck, Boris. And Natasha, heaven help ya, girl.

Last, sort of related thing. As I was searching for illustrations to accompany this post (which, by the way, I think probably actually show squirrels fighting or something, but whatever), I found this little dollop of awesomeness:

I also found pictures of squirrels copulating, but I won't post those. Not that there's anything wrong with squirrel intercourse. It just seems a little soon for Boris and Natasha and I don't want them getting any ideas.

And now, it is time for me to go to sleep because I have to be to work in 6 and a half hours. And I'm so tired, I just wrote a short paragraph about squirrel porn. Blurgh. 'Night.

A Haiku

Skin peels off in sheets
so thin they are transparent.
Sun does not like me.

Never, never, ever give up, or why JP has taught me more about Christ than anyone else.

Part II of why my sibs are pretty dang amazing.

When I was thirteen months and ten days old, my parents gave Gina and I a long-awaited little brother. Okay, so Gina and I hadn't waited all that long, but I'm fairly certain I heard my Poppy's sigh of relief when they told him it was a boy, even all the way back at my grandma's house. JP was a skinny little thing, I've been told, the littlest of us babies at 6lbs and some change. He was a cutie, in his mini football uniform he got nearly every Christmas, out in the back running patterns with his imaginary BYU teammates. Did you know my brother played with Glen Kozlowski? Neither does Kozlowski, but he was an integral part of the imaginative football play in our backyard all those years JP was waiting for Moe to grow up a little bit.

I love JP, but that didn't happen naturally when we were young. He and I could butt heads with the best of them. The boys knew exactly how to push my buttons, and I was very bad at patiently controlling my anger at their hijinks. I recall a meltdown on a camping trip with our cousins when I discovered a cache of snails they had deposited in my sleeping bag. And that one time when they rubbed a clove of garlic on my pillowcase when I was a teenager. Aaargh.

Luckily, we get older, and in the case of JP and I, wiser. There were a few years where we didn't see a lot of each other. JP left for his mission about a year or so before I left for Detroit, and by the time I was home he had made his way to college. Then I went to Logan. And we both struggled.

While I was dealing with depression and anxiety, JP had his own bag of troubles to figure out. By the time he and I were out of school again and sharing an apartment, I rapidly became really worried about him. He was drowning, and none of us could figure out how to help him back to the shore.

I remember a dream I had around that time. After we gave up that apartment and went our separate ways, we were somewhat disconnected, but my heart was constantly drawn towards him. If you've ever loved someone you couldn't help, you'll know what I was feeling. One night I had a very vivid dream where JP was in the back of a pickup truck, wounded and bleeding and just barely breathing. I bolted awake that night in tears, so worried about my brother that I couldn't go back to sleep. My anxieties for his health and well-being were working their way into my subconscious mind, and I was sincerely afraid for a short time that I was going to get one of those awful late night phone calls.

It was a nightmare. I didn't know how long I could take it. I was always afraid for him, always worried about his physical, emotional and spiritual state. It was exhausting. But at the center of all this was a simply profound truth: I would rather suffer with him for all of eternity than lose him for even one moment. I would give my own life in teaspoons or buckets full of worry and stress and tears if it would give him any little moment of relief or redemption.

Of course, I cannot give JP, or anyone really, relief or redemption. That honor and burden is reserved for the One who gave his own life in our behalf. I feel like I was graced for just a moment to feel for my brother what his Savior feels for him, what He feels for me and for you. My testimony of Christ is rooted firmly in that knowledge.

Through the grace of God (and let's be honest, the strong and devoted heart of his beautiful wife) he found his way out of darkness and into a great light. Like me and all of us, he still has struggles--but they are accompanied by joys as big as the world. When I dream of him now, I see miracles--ones manifest already and so many to come. A few months ago, I was struggling again: scared, anxious, bleeding at the mouth over disappointed hopes, frustrated desires, and general confusion. I called him late at night in tears, sheepishly asking him to leave his little family to administer a priesthood blessing to me. In fifteen minutes he was on my doorstep, white shirt and tie, with a big hug and wiped tears. We talked for a few minutes--he kindly listened to my unhappiness, then he laid his hands on my head and with power and authority called on the powers of heaven to provide me comfort, peace and direction. I testify that he was the conduit for revelation. It's been a very long time since I felt the spirit of God the way I felt it in my little house that night because my brother, my dear JP, was willing and worthy.

Christ is real. His love is infinite and sufficient to overcome anything. No matter what you've done, no matter how the world has beaten you and been unfair, no matter how broken and bleeding you might feel, he bids us to come to Him. To never, never, ever give up. My brother taught me that, and I love him dearly for the lesson.

What scares me today

I used to be a teacher. My first real, albeit short-lived, grown-up career was as a high school English teacher at Alta High School. I wasn't very good at it (although I had some moments of brilliance), and after three years I realized it just wasn't going to work. As I was speeding to a sophomore softball tournament that last April with blurry, teared-up eyes, crying to my sister about how utterly and completely miserable I was, I realized I could not continue my teaching career.

Sidenote: Right after I turned in my resignation, I got the results from my Praxis exam (a standardized test that teachers have to take in order to move from a provisionary license to the real thing). I paid a lot of money to take it, stressed about it, finally took it, and promptly realized that I couldn't continue teaching and survive. So, they sent me my results with a big old certificate honoring the fact that I scored in the 90th percentile or something. I may or may not have cursed the Praxis and that stupid certificate with some particularly colorful language. Back to the main event...

I was exhausted, I felt persecuted, and I constantly berated myself for not living up to the importance of preparing young minds for their future. I had over 40 students in most of my classes. They were seniors who opted out of every other possibility to earn their last Language Arts credit-the major road block to graduation and their ticket out of there. Most of them were ticked off at me before we even met, and possibly more pissy about it upon realizing that I actually expected them to do something in order to pass. I was also helping with the softball team, which meant after Christmas, most days I left my house at about 6:30 and came home somewhere around 10, usually with a pile of papers to grade. And, I couldn't make ends meet on my $24,000 annual salary.

So I quit. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I had paychecks coming through the summer and decided that I had enough time to figure it out. And I did. I got a part-time job at the Library that quickly (and mercifully) became a full-time gig, and I've been there ever since.

What does that have to do with the sense of fear I'm experiencing today? Well, after six years, my career at the Library feels stalled. I've been talking and thinking about going back to school for several years. After much stress, anxiety, and more bleary, tear-filled eyes this spring, I decided now was the time. I'm starting the EMPA program at BYU this fall. (That's a master's of public administration--sort of similar to an MBA for people who would like to focus on the public and non-profit sector.) I have no idea where this is leading me. That's been the strangest part. I thought I knew where I was going with it, but since I've actually been accepted to the program, I've had this niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach and a little voice in the recesses of my mind that says "you have no idea yet where this will lead. But it's going, so buckle your seat belt and enjoy the ride." Who knows, maybe in ten years I'll still be in my flourescently lighted cave at the library, planning (and surviving) summer reading. But maybe I won't.

Anyway, you're probably wondering why this scares me. I've been at Math Camp this week--a refresher course for those of us who haven't been in a math, stats, or econ class in many years. So, we're talking about math and graphs, and what they mean and how to read them, and it's all becoming real. That I'm really doing this, spending a massive amount of time, money and energy on a master's degree. And I better make it worthwhile. There are only two things that I am genuinely passionate about in my life. The first is my family--the mortal one I so enjoy now, the mortal one that I very much hope to enjoy at some point in the future (maybe? my faith is weak on that admittedly), and the heavenly one that is at the core of my identity. Important, but only marginally related to my career and education. #2 on the list? Public education. I've been reading a new Georgetown study on the Great Recession and unemployment today that is fascinating, and feels a little like a call to arms to me. I've barely scratched the surface of the study, so who knows what I'll think after I've really looked at it, but if you're interested, here's the link

I won't go into it now, except to say this: In the future, our kids will need more than a high school diploma to enter the middle class. In a time when some legislators are suggesting deep cuts to education, especially to post-secondary programs like Pell grants, we have to face reality. All those students who are unable to complete a post-secondary education because they don't have the cash, the skills, or the direction out of high school to manage it, will be economically crippled throughout their lives. They will form a poverty class that we will all pay for in the long run. We need reform, not to make it harder for young people to afford school, but to make sure that they have all the resources they need to succeed. Sifting through all the ideas on how to do that will take longer than this post can sustain. Suffice it to say, that I could get very, very fired up about this.

Which is what scares me today. Fire burns things, right down to ashes if you're not careful. If you were to ask me what I'd really like to do with an MPA, the answer might just be working toward a better, fairer and more effective education system. But I was singed around the edges the last time I fought the education fire in the classroom. And from this angle, it wouldn't just be about the classroom--it would be about public policy, and politics, and all the stuff that simultaneously makes me want to roll my eyes, scream like a banshee, and projectile vomit.

So there it is. The second deepest fear of my life. All this is mighty premature, I admit. I haven't even been to orientation for the program yet. Maybe it will all work itself out. All I know is I need a master's degree and a passport.

Two more, totally unrelated things: A. I'm very proud of myself tonight because I ate a real dinner that I made my own self, with vegetables and everything. I'm a little ashamed that it makes me proud, though. Grown-ups do that regularly. B. I should never announce what my next blog post will be, because I NEVER follow through with whatever topic I announce! LAME! I'm just so easily distracted. It might be the thing I don't like most about myself. That, or my belly. Or maybe my terrible sleep habits. Or...Anyway, I am going to finish writing about my siblings, and soon. I'm finding it hard to write about my brothers though. My words will never do them justice.

Okay, one last unrelated thing. I think we should declare a moratorium on all political campaigning for 6 of the 7 days of the week. Every Tuesday for 24 hours, candidates can campaign, but for the rest of the week they have to shut the H up and do something productive. That way we can avoid all the extraneous BS they engage in while they pare their communication down to actual policy discussion, and I might actually find a good reason to vote FOR someone for a change. God help us until the 7th of November.

Cheers! I'm out.

Citius, Altius, Funny-us.

I finally got a chance to catch a little of the Olympics while I was with my family in Bear Lake this week. I loved the sprinters. If I could see myself run, I'm fairly certain I'd look like a Jell-O salad hucked across the Sunday dinner table. These Olympians have precise control that I covet (but not enough to sprint ever, for any reason). I watched the gymnasts, but I can't do that for very long. I'm always clutching the chair, white-knuckled, worried that someone's going to break their neck. I had to leave the room when they showed that weightlifter drop the bar on his neck. And how in the name of all that is holy do those synchronized swimmers breathe! It's all so stressful and serious (and sappy, if you are unfortunate enough to watch it un-muted. Yes, Bob Costas, I'm looking at you).

So, I was overjoyed when I found this:



Now that's a gymnastics routine I can fully enjoy. Well, enjoy, and cringe a tiny bit about. The moment he goes up in a handstand and his skirt flips over, I feel a strong impulse to avert my eyes. This happens whenever I see a man with his boy parts cloaked in spandex. Makes watching the swimmers a little uncomfortable. I just don't know any of them well enough to be that familiar with the size and shape of their twig and berries, or branch and pinecones, or whatever variation on that theme they happen to posess. Just for the record, I don't like the women's swimsuits either. That cannot be comfortable for the boobs, to be smooshed so thoroughly. Yikes. Drag, be damned, I say. And how do the gymnasts avoid wedgies? These are the distractions that keep me from fully enjoying the world's greatest athletic spectacle every four years.

But back to Paul Hunt. Here's his uneven bars.




Bwah, ha, ha, ha, ha. He even successfully executes what I consider to be the most difficult of the physical comedy tropes--the crotch shot. Strength, balance, grace, and a willingness to be unrestrainedly goofy-what more can you ask for?

One more. It won't let me embed it, so you're going to have to click on the link to watch it, but it's worth it. Especially if you take special notice of his back hair in his patriotic leotard. You're welcome.

Enjoy!

And one little rant about street ettiquette...

I know, the next post was supposed to be sibs, part deux. And here I've gone and let myself be distracted by two totally unrelated topics. I don't care. I'm driving this bus, dangit!

So, tonight I was riding my (new) bike to work, and as I was stopped at an intersection waiting for a green light, some guy in one of those ginormous 3000-passenger vans poked his head out the passenger side window and yelled "wear a helmet" at me.

Admittedly he's right. I should be wearing a helmet. I don't deny that. But I haven't had a bike in 15 years, which means I haven't had a helmet, and I just haven't purchased one yet. I will. Soon. I concede the point. But that's not what this post is about.

Can I propose that it's bad form, disrespectful, and entirely unmannered to ever yell out the window of your car at anyone for any reason? And can we all just stop it? This is not the first time this has happened to me. When I used to run on the street, it was not infrequent that someone would scream at me as they passed. What is the purpose of that other than to make someone else anxious and unsettled? And why would anyone want to create those feelings in others for the terribly small reward of...what exactly? Don't yell at pedestrians or cyclists or anyone else. Just because you are swiftly receding into the horizon and you will not have to face your victim does not make it okay.

And to the man who hollered at me to wear a helmet, and anyone who might consider themselves doing something similar thinking they are being virtuous and kind by saving us unhelmet-ed masses from ourselves: The tone and delivery of the message often becomes the message. By shouting at me as you sped by, young man, the message you perhaps hoped to deliver was reduced to "I disrespect you," and everything you said was entirely lost. By the way, you shouldn't throw things at anyone or anything from a moving car either, and the fact that this needs to be explained to anyone over the age of about four disturbs me. And yet it seems to continue to be necessary. Thank God there is such beauty and joy in the world; without it all the meanness and stupidity would be unbearable.

In happier news, my inaugural eggplants are thriving, and they've put on their first blossoms, which indicates fruit, which makes me so happy. I love my funny little garden so much. And, the lovely hummingbird who visits my garden flew right up to me at the window today. I stood entirely still, and she just hovered facing me, right at eye level, only a foot from me. So lovely. Sometimes I think if I couldn't grow things I would wither away and die. May I never have to find out.

Art, entertainment, and the lowest common denominator

I was at work tonight, thinking about art. Yes, I got all philosophical and stuff. What precipitated this reverie was my work assignment tonight. As part of my job, I regularly host performances at the new stage at our City Center Park. We have a summer concert series that stretches from the end of May almost to September. It's a great addition to our city, and I enjoy hosting these programs. Getting paid to enjoy music on beautiful summer evenings? Admittedly a sweet gig, even if I do have to fake being a sound operator from time to time.

Tonight, a new band was playing. This was their first gig outside of a house show they did recently. Originally, the young woman's other band, a wedding band that plays covers of Etta James, Elvis, Coldplay, etc., was scheduled to play. It was posted on the website, and several of the groups that came tonight were expecting to rock out to "Yellow" and "At Last." The keyboardist for the wedding band was unexpectedly out of the country, so the woman brought her other band instead. This was a trio that performed original songs, and had an indie folk/alt pop feel with an little electonica/classical thrown in to keep everyone on their toes.

Let me stop here and offer this admission--I understand that if you were expecting to come to a performance of oldies covers and you got the performance that the audience enjoyed tonight you might be disappointed. I'm not trying to pick on folks who felt betrayed by the apparent bait-and-switch. But it got me thinking about bigger issues in art--like what is the value of being entertained by art? How invested should an artist be in giving an audience what they want? If an artist is dedicated to self-expression rather than pleasing audiences, is that art valuable? And if it is valuable, how do we sustain it if people are unwilling to pay for it?

I think I likely enjoyed tonight's performance better than what was originally planned. I'm sure the wedding band is fine, but part of the purpose for this concert series is to nurture local artists, not just provide free summer entertainment. The set tonight was entirely original songs but one, a Sufjan Stevens cover. It's not everyone's cup of tea, but both singers had exceptional voices and were clearly accomplished musicians and writers, and their performance evoked that sense of self-expression that I think excludes most cover bands from a place at the "art" table.

Is that horribly elitist of me? It's not that I don't think a cover of a song be could be art. It's just that most aren't. I think it may be harder to take someone else's song and perform it in such a way that it becomes a work of art, self-expression and all, than it is just to write and perform your own songs. I guess I frequently see songwriters as true artists, and have greater respect for them in that role than I do performers who interpret other's works. Painters who copy the masters are not masters themselves.

And yet, I find that contradictory when it's extrapolated to other mediums. For example, I would consider a great actor an artist, although in most cases actors are speaking lines they did not write and following directions they did not give. I guess I see actors as collaborators in the creative process. They have the opportunity to create the physical presence of the character on stage or on film and can bring their own unique spirit to the role. Hamlet has been played thousands of times, and the best actors create a new version of him that illuminates some aspect of the themes of that play. Those actors are artists.

On the flip side of that coin, not every songwriter is an artist. Apologies to her fans, but I wouldn't classify Taylor Swift as an artist. This is where the lowest common denominator comes in. Swift's songwriting feels like a commercial venture more than an expression of her own philosophies, emotions and experiences. The songs seem carefully crafted to appeal to the widest possible audience. In trying to appeal to the emotions of every teenage girl, I feel like Swift expresses almost nothing of any individual girl, including herself, which is strange considering how personal and autobiographical most of her music is reported to be. These autobiographical songs feel impersonal to me, like it's Taylor Swift playing the part of what Taylor Swift, teenage romantic, should be. She feels as manicured and manipulated as any other pop star. And I can't help but wonder if this classification of art/not art is simply a matter of taste. To paraphrase the inimitable Oscar Wilde, art is what I like myself. What is not art is what entertains other people.

I guess my whole point here, if I have one, is that I find it disappointing that a significant portion of tonight's audience wouldn't have shown up if they had known they would be serenaded by real artists singing their own songs rather than the familiar, easily digested melodies of Elvis and Chris Martin. Art, on some level, should make us a little uncomfortable. Yes it can entertain us, but for it to really have an impact on the audience it ought to challenge them in some way. Perhaps my frustration is the feeling that support for art in our communities is waning. That not enough of us, including me sometimes, are willing to risk the challenge of art. Do we prefer American Idol to today's budding Bachs and Chopins and John Coltranes? And if we do, how do we continue to cultivate a sensitive appreciation of the experiences of others? At it's core, is art about empathy?

Dang. I need someone to talk to about all this. I know it's discussed in every entry level art program everywhere, but I like monumentally unanswerable questions. Shall we discuss it? Comments, please. What is the line for you between experiencing art and being entertained? And does the distinction matter?

My sibs are pretty dang amazing

My parents had 4 kids between November 1973 and October 1979. Four kids in just under six years. I have no idea how they managed to stay sane and kind, but they did. I'm the second. I have an older sister, Gina, and two brothers, Jon and Joel. Statistically, at least one of us should have turned out to be a huge, mean, jerk. My brothers and my sister, though, are three of the kindest, most supportive, loving people I can imagine existing in the world. In addition to being smart, interesting people, they always have my back.

Gina has been my closest girlfriend for a long, long time now. I've always idolized my big sister, like many a little sis. We shared a room until I was about 14. I could have shared until she left home, but Gina was DYING by then to have her own space. It wasn't a big deal to me then, and I totally understand her motivations now that I'm an empathetic adult. See, I was a mess and Gina was our very own Commie Neatnik. (She was also known as "Captain Fun", but we won't get into that now).

She had this ability to arrange things perfectly, then keep them lovingly arranged. We had mirror twin closets with built-in shelving. I remember sitting in her closet, studying the way she had laid out her things in a pleasing pattern on her shelves. Then I would try to recreate it on my side. Never looked quite the same. Probably had something to do with the fact that she hung up her clothes on a regular basis. Our differences in standards of neatness couldn't have made it easy for her. But she was never mean.

I realize now what a pain in the hindquarters I must have been. I was bratty sometimes, but I also just wanted to be like her. I remember when she first started wearing nylons. I sulked and cried until Mom got me some, too. I think it was the same thing with the milestone of the first bra. I never let her be unique. I remember being in the fabric store one day and following Mom and Gina around saying something along the lines of "But I want that one!" every time she picked a bolt off the racks. I didn't really want any of them, but I hated that if I wanted it, she wouldn't want it anymore. She wanted to be different when I always wanted to be like her. I was being deliberately awful, but they were both far kinder than I would have been had the roles been reversed.

Being the little sister, you feel picked on because the big sis gets to do everything first, and it always seemed to me that she got the best stuff while I got the hand-me-downs. But the truth is, my entrance in the world blew her cozy little threesome out of the water. And yet she always let me tag along; she always let me be the best friend, know the deepest secrets, share the best jokes.

When we were at BYU together, she would meet me for lunch under the trees over by the Brimhall building. BYU wasn't the best experience of my life. I never felt like I belonged there, and it was always a lonely place for me. Those hours with my sister, they were my life line, my solace. On Fridays we would go to Hogi Yogi for lunch to celebrate the end of the week. She would eat a veggie sandwich and a vanilla yogurt with fruit in it (always so virtuous!) While I ate turkey and chocolate with more chocolate. My big sister shaped me both in the ways I wanted to be like her and the ways I wanted to be different. I love her for both.

Now, she's a mom to six of the most delightful human beings to exist, and she allows me to be part of their family. Her doors are always open to me. She lets me come over and cuddle her babies and smell their little heads when my heart has ached missing the presence of the babies I haven't had yet. She lets me tell them silly, exagerrated stories about our sisterly history, and she doesn't mind when I come over at dinner time because I can't face another weeknight dinner alone. Possibly more importantly, she believes in me, and she expresses that confidence to me, which bolsters my own faith in my ability to navigate whatever comes. I admire her faith, her charity, her boundless patience, her wisdom. Some of my most important insights have come in the snatches of conversation we have shared between the dirty dishes and the dirty diapers. She is a mighty woman and I still want to be like her.

Next post--The brother who has taught me more about Christ than anyone else I know.

Faith is really complicated. And God is not a vending machine.

I taught sharing time in Primary today. And it's brought up a storm of complicated feelings. I wish sometimes that I could just decide to focus on whatever positive emotion arises in a situation and then be able to control my brain enough to actually do it. But I'm apparently incapable of that.

Anyway, the theme this month is "we are blessed when we choose the right." All month we talked about examples from the scriptures of people who were obedient to God's commands and were blessed as a result. I guess I should preface this with a declarative statement that it's true. God blesses his children when they obey him. But I'm also still very mortal, still susceptible to doubt. Still struggling.

So, here's what happened today. We reviewed the scripture stories from the previous lessons (wherein the kids totally impressed me with their recall. Smart bubs, they are). Then I invited a really cool couple from our ward to come in and tell them about a time in their lives where they were blessed for choosing the right. The sister talked about her baptism, which lead to her experiences as a youth serving as proxy for baptisms in the temple, and eventually to her temple marriage and eternal family. Her husband talked about his time singing in the tabernacle choir, performing on his mission, and using his talents to share his testimony. They were great.

Then I talked to the kids about my mission. I had been thinking about it all month. I was adamantly opposed to serving a mission, for several reasons. As I told the kids, until I was 20 years old, I was scared to death of dogs. I was also scared to death of people I didn't know. And I hated calling people on the phone. In high school, I wouldn't even pick up the phone to order a pizza. Pathetic, I know. I knew these were fears that would confront me on a mission.

Something happened a few months after I turned 20, though. In October conference that year, I found myself bawling my eyes out over a story about sister missionaries teaching a family in South America. And I couldn't get the idea of a mission out of my mind. The Holy Ghost was working on me, hard core. I gave in. I spent a year working and saving so I could afford it, and six months after my 21st birthday, I found myself in Detroit, Michigan, freezing my hindquarters off and knocking on doors.

I realized today as I was telling that part of the story to the kids how tender my feelings about my mission still are, fifteen years later. (Has it really been that long? That crumbling sound you hear? That's the sound of my cells degenerating, my joints moaning, my brain losing agility. Yep, I'm getting old.) I try very hard not to get emotional and teary in Primary because it confuses the 4 year-olds, but I couldn't quite keep from crying today.

I talked to them about how I had been blessed by choosing the right and serving a mission. I told them about overcoming my fear of dogs. That was the hand of God, because honestly, I went from being paralyzed with fear at the thought of dogs I know to being fine with any dog that was not being aggressive. It was kind of an overnight thing.

The fear of people, though, that took some work. But I worked at it, and I steadily improved. I'm still not a big fan of talking on the phone, but I call strangers all the time, and I don't have a breakdown as a result. On my mission I learned to play the "fake it 'til you make it game", wherein you pretend you are confident and capable, go out and do stuff, and eventually actually become confident and capable doing said stuff. That has been hugely providential in my life. It pretty much explains everything from my bachelor's degree to my mortgage to every job I've ever had in adulthood.

Other blessings from my mission: learning to teach the gospel to diverse people, but especially kids and teenagers, figuring out how to get along with folks who were very different from me, learning how to navigate on complicated freeways (including how to get unlost), an intensified appreciation for the sheer beauty of the natural world, a deepened, broadened testimony of my Savior and His gospel, a soul-saving relationship with a mission president and mom who continue to bless my life in miraculous ways. Nearly every blessing I recognize in my life today can be traced in some way to those 18 months. I am grateful.

Here's where it get's complicated. The most important blessing of my mission is this: I gained a desire to trust God. I love the verse in 2 Nephi 22 where Nephi quotes Isaiah saying "God is my salvation, I will trust and not be afraid." I want to feel that so badly. I have it written in my bathroom mirror, so I'll see it every day before I leave the house. I want it; I don't have it yet. I want to trust God, but I don't. Those blessings of my mission?--those memories are mixed up with sorrow, with serious feelings of failure and inadequacy, with hurt and heartbreak, some of my own making and some circumstantial. Someone once described a mission to me as an odd mixture of heaven and hell, and I can think of no better explanation of what I experienced. I trusted God when I accepted His call to serve a mission. And it hurt. Badly.

So here I am fifteen years later, and my life is still an odd mixture of heaven and hell. I have such a good life. I have health, a home, a stable job, access to education, good friends, a great family. I also don't get much sleep, I spend a good deal of my time confused, I doubt that I will ever have the opportunity to retire, and I'm lonely. The one thing I've ever wanted to do in this life is rapidly slipping away, and every time I have a tiny glimmer of hope that it's not entirely impossible, I get kicked hard in the jaw for my trouble. In the wise words of Foy Vance--hope deals the hardest blows.

If I could make myself think right, I'd just focus on the health, the home, the job, the friends, the family. I'd trust the Lord and let that be enough. But it's not enough for me. Every time I meet someone new and interesting and it becomes immediately clear that he's not interested in me, it hurts. Every year the "Good Date Challenge" goes unanswered again, it hurts. Every conversation I hear about love, or marriage, or dating, or parenthood, I feel like I can't have an opinion because I don't have any experience, and it hurts. Every time I wake up and think, "Marilee, you are never going to be a mother", it hurts like hell. And everything I have ever tried to reverse this trend has failed miserably.

I want to trust God, but I can't reconcile trusting Him and always hurting. I can't reconcile a God that loves me with the one who won't relieve this pain. I know, it's silly and shallow and not even reasonable, really. If I believe He is God, then I am obligated to believe that He knows what is best for me. But I can't conceive of a future life wherein this challenge is shaping my soul for happiness and love and family. The loneliness, the lack I feel, seems to be shaping me for nothing more than sadness, regret, and more struggle. I can't reconcile trusting Him, but living without even an explanation of why my life has to be this way.

I think I may have lost the point somewhere in all this whining. Oh, yeah, it's this. God is big and complicated and although He is approachable, He is yet unknowable. There is love and compassion and joy in approaching Him, but he's not a vending machine. I don't get to put enough righteousness and obedience in the slot, push B4 for eternal companion and D8 for kids and expect those blessings to roll out of their spiral and into my life. Of course, I didn't express that in sharing time today. This is the last thing I told the Primary kids (who I'm not sure were really listening, which is probably good): I chose the right when I chose to serve a mission and I have been blessed every day since. It hasn't turned out the way I wanted or expected, but I was blessed because I learned to put my trust in God, even when it hurts.

That's it for tonight. I have one more totally off-topic thing to write though. Someday, I'm going to really write again, which means I will start revising. The saddest thing about all the writing I do anymore, including this blog, is this: Everything is a first draft. Goodnight, y'all.

The digital conversation that I currently like the least

So, this week the Utah Mormon modesty conversation broke out of the Wasatch front and made the Yahoo newsfeed when a really silly boy at BYU slipped a "love note" to a young woman wearing a floral dress, long sleeved sweater, leggings and boots at the library. He apparently felt she was a threat to the moral fiber of the university in her immodest apparel. The young woman was so mortified that she took a picture of the note and her outfit and posted it to Twitter, which people then reposted on any number of social media sites until it made it to professional curated sites (slow news day, seriously?). I could, like many of the comment boards on said sites, argue about the length of her skirt, the appropriateness of leggings, the real danger of making women responsible for the sexual impulses of men, or the plain old peculiarity of BYU--and I'm not talking about the good kind of peculiarity--but I won't.

What bothers me about this whole conversation is its dangerously narrow perspective. The way we have reduced the concept of modesty to how much of a woman's body is covered by fabric is short-sighted and dangerous considering how we must learn to navigate an increasingly immodest digital culture.

To me, modesty has to do with the ways and the intent with which we draw attention to ourselves. Could Andy Warhol have predicted the 21st century digital culture where truly anyone can be famous for 15 seconds at least? Within a circle of Facebook friends or Twitter followers, you can feel famous every time you post anything from a witty but somewhat mean comment about the president to the tiresome details of your dental hygiene. We live for outside approval, be it a like or comment on Facebook or a troll war in the local online paper. Like publicity, any attention is good attention these days.

Don't misunderstand me. You can actually dress immodestly. I don't doubt that. But there is little difference between a girl with cleavage or a too-short skirt and a boy with one of those t-shirts that's emblazoned with a slogan meant to offend anyone who has the misfortune of reading it. If you think that the best way to draw attention to yourself is to display your flesh or your misanthropy, something's wrong in the modesty department.

But dress is certainly not the only road to immodesty. Likewise, if you think the best approach to calming lustful thoughts about the cute girl in the library is to pass her a note telling her she's responsible for those lustful thoughts, something's wrong in the modesty department. I imagine that young man justified his behavior with thoughts of what a good deed he was doing. Obviously, she should be grateful that someone had the superior moral courage and enlightened conscience to point her back to the straight and narrow, right? Uh-huh. Right.

Still, perhaps if you think the best way to relieve the indignation of receiving such an ill-conceived note is to solicit the approval of your Twits and shame the anonymous writer in a public forum, well, maybe something needs to be adjusted in the modesty department there, too.

I'm currently in a long-term gospel study on this. So far, I haven't found much that made it clearer to me, but I found a verse in the New Testament that resonates. In 1 Peter chapter 3, there is an admonition to wives. In verses 3 and 4 it reads

3 Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel;

4 But let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.

There are many reasons I'm not super fond of this chapter, including that, like many of the epistles, it seems to give men a pass on certain things. But for both men and women, I think verse 4 teaches us about the kinds of attention we should seek. Our greatest adornment is a quiet and meek spirit, the quality of our character. A modest life is one of moderation, one of integrity, one that needs no one's approval or attention other than God.

Is attention bad? No, of course not. When I sincerely seek the quality of life that God intends for me, I have found that He guides me to true friends, and I feel less and less tempted to strain for other kinds of attention. I guess I just hope that as my sweet little nieces and nephews develop into their own adult lives, they are not caught up in the clamor of immoderate behavior--that they are confident enough in their divine origins and eternal potential to refrain from needlessly entering the fray.

By the way, once again, the irony of this post doesn't escape me. Here I am, advocating that we moderate our behavior while drawing attention to my own philosophy (which, I freely admit, could be completely off-base). I'm not perfect yet. Forgive me. What I hope this post might effect is a broader discussion of what it means to be modest and why we should continue to care. So, to all three of you who read this blog, what do you think? What does it mean to live modestly, and how would you change the conversation about it if you could?

Okay, so maybe I have something going on the side, too

There are just too many amazing musicians in the world. Here's another one that I'm digging right now. His name is James Vincent McMorrow. His album is Early in the Morning. He's Irish.



He reminds me a little of Bon Iver, back when I was really digging For Emma, Forever Ago. Here's another song, Follow me down to the Red Oak--



He's awesome. Check it out.

I'm in love...

I am deep in the throes of a mad, passionate music crush. I discovered Chris Bathgate's Tiny Desk concert on NPR a few months ago and had to download Salt Year immediately. I held off on A Cork Tale Wake until this week. Now I can't stop listening. Salt Year is spare and plaintive, the kind of music that resonates in your bones.



Kind of perfect for the exquisite bleakness of a Utah winter--it's music born of suffering. Strangely, that's what I like listening to when I'm content.

I also just really admire his skills as a musician and a writer. He's smart, in a way that I have no hope of ever being. I love watching him loop this song, Borders.



It cuts out there at the end, but dang. I could think for a thousand years and never come up with something that beautiful.

So, I'm evangelizing for him around here. Partially because I think everyone's life would be a little better if accompanied by his work. But mostly because I want him to come to Utah the next time he swings by the west coast. Good luck, I know. I really want to hear him play live, and I'm not going to make it back to Michigan anytime soon. So go to chrisbathgate.org and download away. Worth every penny.

Here's the Tiny Desk performance, too. Enjoy...

Registered Voter is good enough for me

Oh, how I love presidential election years. They bring out the best in us all, don't they? The best of Newt Gingrich scares me, but I don't really want to criticize candidates. No, I want to criticize entire political parties, and anyone who has an iron-clad ideology, really. Which is every campaigning candidate. I think it's one of the pre-requisites of running: you have to be entirely certain (or at least appear entirely certain) that you are right and everyone else is dead wrong. And that is part of what bugs me about politics.

The center of my intense dislike of politics is hypocrisy, and here is how I see that play out in our two-party system. Both Republicans and Democrats (and Ron Paul, whatever he actually is) want to have their cake and eat it too, and that never, never works. For Republicans it comes off this way--Keep your dirty, liberal, lazy (and sometimes dark-skinned) fingers out of my wallet. But you don't mind if I tell you how, when, why and with whom you have sex, do you? Their strong stance on moral issues clashes with their laissez-faire attitude toward taxes and regulation of private enterprise and personal wealth. From where I'm sitting, how, when, why, and for whom you spend your money is as much a moral issue as abortion, gay marriage, or the legalization of marijuana (all of which, I'm afraid, are more important in appealing to certain groups of voters during a campaign than they are when it comes to actual governance). You cannot demand freedom in the economic sphere while simultaneously attempting to legislate the personal lives of the folks you don't like very much.

Democrats aren't much better. They just flip the script. Stay the hell out of my bedroom and the consequences of what I do there, but you don't mind if I reach in your wallet just for a minute or two...Aaaargh. It makes utterly no sense. If you are going to have an immovable position of freedom to do whatever you want in one area, don't you have to extend that liberty in all the other areas, too? Including regulation of business and taxation?

Or here's a novel idea. Compromise. Everybody could come off their high horse, even during an election year, and stop drawing lines in the sand. I'm not always right. Neither are you. Nor are the people who are on either side of any issue. We're all fallible humans, and that's not a bad thing. It only gets ugly when we pretend we're not, and spend years trying to convince voters that we're infallible, even when we're supposed to be governing.

I do realize that's an oversimplification of a far more complex system, but that's the kernel of my understanding of it. And I'd caution you not to assume from what I've written above that you know how I feel about anything from abortion to federal regulation of the private sector. Nor who I'm voting for. I'm happy to talk about those things, but not on a blog. I'm far too fallible, and aware of it, to broadcast those opinions on the Internet.