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?