A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None

Dusk flirts with the balcony of my grandparents porch which overhangs a Garden of Eden. The trees dance in the wind; the blackberries not fully ripe; the tall grass an arrow to the bay. Childhood.


My eyes cascade the scenery. I stop at one desolate spot in the tall aspens. This spot once encompassed my most precious journal entries as a little girl. It composed of a worn rope, a sturdy plank, and an old, broken tree.


Memories flood. I smell the air and hear the sounds of days long forgotten. I'm on that swing again. Sitting there in solitude, pumping my legs forward and backward. My light brown hair sweeps over my sun-kissed, freckled face. "Those are angel's kisses." He once said.


His hands calloused, grasp the thickness of the rope with unsuspecting strength. I am lifted over my grandfather's head as he prepares to launch my six-year-old body over the leering blackberry thorns. In his release, I grin.


In the height of the swing I experience liberation. Nothing matters. My feet graze the leaves as the pendulum reverses. The sky is uncommonly blue and the clouds,  cumulous and white. I giggle and look back at his leathery face.


The memory fades. The swing is now gone along with the freedom of letting go.

My grandfather is selling this home. Along with all of my secret spots and fairy houses. He turned eighty this week. His hands are now soft and wrinkly. No longer calloused from years of pushing a swing for a little girl that wanted nothing else.


But the heavy fist of reality brings me back when I realize memories are only for reminiscing. A smile plays on my eyes.


Tonight I received a kiss. A kiss with a fist, which is better than none.

Helplessness Blues

Another box. Another dirty rag. Another sparkling shelf. Another "almost full" box. Another empty roll of tape. Another trash bag. Another day gone.

I pull the tape as it screeches over the next box. Week three on the Island of Friday Harbor. The tape sticks to the roll, making it nearly impossibly to find the end. As I roll the tape in my hands, searching for it, I find myself smiling. 

Why would I smile at such a tedious task? Because all day I've been caught in a cloud of reminiscent beauty. I've been down this dusty road of moving before. Three times in High School alone. However, this time was different. Not only was I assisting my parents in salvaging their social connections by getting off an island, I was staying busy at the same time. Two birds with one stone? I think yes. 

The busier I am, Fear's chance of creeping into my tangled thoughts is slim to none. 

I'm just shy of twenty-two years of glory. I've been through enough to callous my heart as well as my hands. But these hands and this heart are leaving for a humid land; a land named Houston. Both will soften. 

I find the end of the tape and continue my task with joy in my heart. Fear continues to play at my fingertips with every closed box and spray of cleaner. However, I feel it. I feel power in patience as I wait, with each passing day, till I leave to share with others what brings me the most joy. 

The image of my face and personality are already becoming a memory in the minds of those I love, who still reside in a town of 30,000 in Idaho. Most wont be there when I return and it makes the edges of my thoughts rougher and the corners of my mouth stiffer. And yet, I'm still happy. 

The tape runs out. Sadness enters deep pockets, once full of love. I grab another roll and start packing again. The sound of the tape sinks into my mind, blocking thoughts of negativity and regret. Everything will work out. 

My bright headphones hang from my ears, playing a song that causes a shiver down my spine. "What good is it to sing helplessness blues? Why should I wait for anyone else? And I know you'll keep me on the shelf, I'll come back to you someday soon myself."

I grin again. For the amount I lose will I gain that much and more. 

Brace-faced with a Five Head

I looked back down at my half-eaten chicken patty sandwich. Nothing was on it. I could barely open my mouth because I tripled my rubberbands in my braces. I had hoped to shorten the tedious process of tooth correction only to employ migraines at the tender age of 13.


 I wasn't even hungry any more. Placing the sandwich back down, I continued my conversation with my friends about the new Gameboy Advanced that came out. I had a Spongebob game. The boy to my right was obsessing about the Platinum Pokemon game. Pokemon was so the fifth grade. I rolled my eyes and pushed my oversized glassed up my large nose. 


Then it happened. HE walked by. I smelled the air as he passed. This was, after all, the first boy that didn't have cooties. His hair was long, brown, perfectly swooped to the left. As I was watching this 13-yr-old supposed "greek god," he flipped his hair as he walked. In mid hair-flip he turned and looked at me; or at least I hoped he'd aspired to do so. (If I'm being honest, he was looking well beyond my large forehead.) Time stopped.


I smiled. Mouth, full of metal, I smiled. He looked at me, smiled back, then walked away. Although it was a courtesy smile, it was a smile. I felt validated. In my bright, purple, butterfly shirt (a hand-me down from someone younger than me) I felt justified.


I was brought back to reality when my best friend had said my name, at least 14 times, "Justine. You have half-masticated chicken meat all in your braces."


My life was over.


And so the awkwardness began. In the words of my friend, Emmilie Buchanan, "I will make 17 cats really happy someday." 

I Love This List

Today: 
I woke up, wrapped in my baby-sister's arms.
I got beat up by Godzilla. 
I cuddled with my littlest brother while watching Willow.
I ran out of breath laughing with my smart-mouthed sister. 
I became reacquainted my #1 fan and looked at her freckles sprinkled on her nose for a long time.
I got my butt kicked by my "big" little brother on a run even though he was easy on my very out-of-shape legs. It was a good talk/run.
I felt pure love for a little boy and his smiling face fogging up a window as he anticipated my arrival at his school. 
I pushed two kids on two separate swings, simultaneously.
I found out what the "spit" is that forms on plants in Washington and I laughed with my sister because my little brother played with it, "BUBBLES!"--aka bug excrement.
I broke up 52 fights between siblings.
I thought about Texas.
I practiced Spanish tongue twisters.
I lost my hearing in my left ear from screaming/laughing children.
I turned my brother into a 3-headed monster.
I held hands with a 7-year-old beauty.
I watched my "soon-to-be" 18-year-old brother walk like 
Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
I admired my parents...again
I messed with a bunch of baby spiders and threatened to put 
salt on a slug.
I became a little better.
And I loved every minute of it. 

Mechanical Worship

I sat on the lonely, yet familier bench.  Had it really been seven whole days? I glanced around me before the meeting started. One boy was digging deeply for treasures, without success; a mother scolded her child for tangling foreign objects in her blonde locks of 80s styled hair. Four pregnant women walked by me, all gabbing about how they felt and when they were due. Once the meeting started, one man's head, bobbing up and down in his sleep (mind you, this was right after the opening remarks.) I prepared myself for the explosion of sound that would penetrate the noise around him when his head would meet the pew for the seventh time.

Business, business. That's what this was about. Meeting, meeting. Restless children. Crinkling snack packages. Organ blaring the notes of a familiar hymn.

I mechanically opened my hymnal. The poem went in one ear and out the other. It touched my lips as well as the three little girls next to me with no significance. Without intent, the vision of the Savior passed through my mind as a quiet reminder of why I was here. People-watching had to be saved for another time. Bowing my head I recalled several stories of His life. All the Savior asked for was his friends to watch while he went into the Garden to pray. Three times. Then, said He, "Rise, let us be going: behold, he is at hand that doth betray me."

 And this was the budding, quiet reflection of my life and His. "Greater hath no man than this: if he lay down his life for his friends."

My friend laid down His life; for me and my imperfections.

Testimonies were born. I felt a love for the leaders; the kind words that were spoken of a family that recently lost their mother; the tenderness of an elderly man's tears as he expressed his love for his Father in Heaven. Each of the children I had observed before conveyed, with fervent conviction, that Christ lived and that families could be together forever.

My judgmental heart turned to an compassionate one. I was looking in a new light. My eyes had been opened through Heaven's eyes. I realized I had to actively seek it. Just as the blind man had to find the pool of Siloam to wash the clay from his eyes, so did I. And THAT was why I was here. Among strangers; to wash the hardened clay that covered my entire face.

And this gem was salvaged amongst sand, dirt, toil and snare. This good news needs to be shared!

I left the meeting with conviction to become better. I left with the inclination to shake those that don't understand; that see rocks and twigs, rather than gems and jewels. I glanced down and in my palms lay my most prized possessions: greater than riches and health. I had miracles and happiness at my fingertips; all I have to do is turn the pages and share that message with others.

The 80s Prom

I grabbed the tip of several strands of hair. I just couldn't seem to get my hair big enough. It was a simple equation: comb at the top+dragged to the root= volume of a goddess. My hair was at least five inches off the top of my head--it would have to suffice.

 I painted my nails black tonight. Garnished my lips with lipstick named Voluptuous Red; how fitting.  

We entered the party: black ties laced the room. Prom dresses, tuxes, platform heels, and dress shoes. I looked down at my DCs and 80s dress. Rubbing my lips together one last time; checking if I need to reapply we bust into the room.  My friend in front of me with hot red lips, very rosy cheeks, and hair big enough to fit into Texas. 

Were we going to the Prom? No. Let's be honest. We're WAY too old and mature for such events. We were going to a mutual friend's birthday party. The music? Coldplay. On any other occasion this would have been acceptable but tonight was a night for Maroon 5 to sing about the moves like Jagger. 

In our corner we turned it up. Danced; well, tried to. We all looked like white girls with our hands in the air. We made complete fools of ourselves. People stared. What were they to do with the wreckless girls in the corner? What did they end up doing? Nothing. 

Then, a slow-motion moment. It's in this moment I realized something. I loved how I felt right at that moment. For a moment, I was allowed to escape and be someone from the era of Pat Benatar and Bonnie Raitt. Mothers everywhere would have been proud of my hair height and the length of my tone deaf notes attempting to sing along.  I could be someone that had no fears, and no regrets except deflating hair. 

What was I experiencing? Let me explain. I experienced a total eclipse of the heart. Amidst the rational stares of classily dressed men and women, I found love in a hopeless place. Rationality reared it's ugly head and the sweet release of endorphins brought the corners of red lips turned down to the opposing, yet pleasant expression of joy. 

How to end this: I have an overwhelming love for dresses made for 12-yr-olds, old music, red lipstick, black nail polish and slow-motions moments of happiness. 

My Friend, the Cash Register

The semester is progressing further and further--farther and farther? Meh. (I'm listening to John Mayer aka I could care less what proper grammar is necessary.) My life consists of the following: music, work, church, work, a tiny bit of homework, and did I mention work? Sounds really tedious right? Right. However, I've found joy and company in my reflection. Why is this? Let me explain:


My best friends are so busy if I ever have that prestigious opportunity to see them, they're sleeping. I've found good conversation a rarity. I mean, I barely have acquaintances, of which I lovingly refer to as "good company." What happened to being cool? Remember when I was younger--as in a few semesters ago--when people would plan their lives around me? This can't be happening to me of all people. It's all about me and I'm way too much of an extrovert to be alone for an extended period of time (usually about two days). The thought of trying to become an introvert makes me feel queasy. 


Immature? I gently refer to the name of these symptoms as Loser-a-phobia. So what do I do to compensate? I talk to myself--everywhere. No, I'm not really that psycho. However, today I found myself with a lot of spare time and two things happened to me that I'd like to share with my cyber-based messaging system full of hypothetical enthusiasts: 


1. I went to the efficient self-check out stand at our homely local grocer. As the cashier watched my transaction, without my knowledge, I listened to the instructions of the personified computer system. 
         "Welcome! Please enter cash or select payment type."
I was thrilled! Someone was talking to me. And not only this, she had such a friendly voice. Quickly looking around before I answered, I simultaneously reached into my hippy bag for my wallet. As I was completed the transaction I answered her. 

       "Okay I only have a few quick questions. Answer them 

         and I'll flip my plastic for you:

         1. Will my husband be able to handle my extremities? 

         2. Do I have friends?

         3. If the answer is no to the prior questions, who's the fairest

             maiden in all of Rexburg?" 

Her response?

  "Item has been removed from bagging area. Please ask an associate for assistance."

I muttered under my breath several expletives as the cashier walked over cautiously. 
      "Do you need help, ma'am?"

      "More than you know..." I muttered. 

After questioning my response to no avail, she swiped her card and I began the process all over again. And to think the only thing I wanted from this stupid machine was a little advice! Defeated, I walked out with my eyes sweeping the walkway in front of me. The sunshine hit my face. 'I'm losing my mind,' I chuckled. 


2. I got into my car. 'Oh, car. How I loveth thee. Will you be my friend?' 

No response. 

Turns out inanimate objects tend to have a better understanding of my sense of humor than people do. 


I laughed at the awkwardness of my logic and drove away drinking my diet coke. 

Gene Kelly in a Dentist Chair

The scene started out with Gene. Beautiful Gene Kelly. Why was I not blessed to be born in that era? He was singing as I was reclined, watching him in his suave ways. Yes, he was projected on the ceiling. You'd think a girl couldn't be happier.

What Gene didn't know is I was laying in a dentist's chair that was rather uncomfortable. I was nervous and excited. Yeah, you've met those people that actually like the dentist? I'm one of them. Weird, right? Nevertheless, I was distracted by his buttery voice and 100watt smile. Bliss. 


Then it happened. The next thing I realize I had some lady's hands in my mouth while she persisted on asking me questions when, clearly, it was impossible to make any sense out of what I was attempting to say. 


'Mmmhmmm," she'd say. Or "No kidding!" If she could understand me at this point I'd like to see her have a conversation with Chewy from Star Wars. Yes. That just happened. You're welcome. 


At any rate, Gene still strummed on my cute little heart-strings. My mouth was being torn apart by this bilingual-ist yet, I was grateful. No cavities. No toothaches. I passed. 


On the drive home, I felt my jaw, ouch. Like, my life is like, so like hard and stuff. O-M-G. 
-__- Puh-leaze. I imagined a life in which I'd shovel plaque out of someone's mouth. A life listening to children gag, throw up, cry. And the looming thought of everyone loathing your career which directly corresponds with your personality and therefore leads to your lack in forming any sort of normal friendship.


And suddenly: 
my life was luxurious. Thank you, Gene Kelly and tired dental assistent. 

Thunder

There is something extremely dissatisfying about a storm without the deafening result of thunder. Thunder is something that consistently reminds me of how small I actually am. I'm nothing in this world. I am simply a child; a child with hopes and dreams of becoming something bigger and better. I am the soil to this wonderful thing called earth.

Ironically, in my inadequacies, the thunder also teaches me that the being who created life itself, created it solely for me. And He would have done it for me, alone. Call me egotistical but I've come to realize that there are people are individually significant. We are known by the author of our lives.

And each etching of the pages He writes consists of a different template and font. We are unrivaled in one another. None alike. However, I am so appreciative that we are so unique. Our author's hand aches at each stroke we attempt to erase. Yet, I know He loves me. In my faults, weaknesses, strengths, and fortes. It's the process to understand this that is so tedious and everlasting.

We can read and read this book that is being divinely recorded. We can search with all of our strength but it ultimately comes down to this: We will have to learn our heritage through a process like the anticipation for thunder.

First, we start off with the wind. It rages, on and on. And then the silence before the change--which calls for pondering and gratitude. Then the rain. It slashes against the pavement yet the fragrance is so sweet. Soon, lightening. Brilliant light flashes across the night sky--sometimes day--creating a path amidst areas of darkness.

Silence comes. Again. We feel the beat of the thunder arise and brace ourselves. Then it happens. The crack so loud you feel it in your bones. And you feel small. So small and insignificant, yet so important to Him that loves us. But only after the cycle repeats.

The journey for me thus far consists of the prior. Never once does the storm hit without bringing me to humility as well as gratitude for the Almighty being. So what do I do in return? Think of my personal wealth, blessings, and virtue; Think of those whose fonts work so well with mine; Think of windy moments that make me fray around the edges; Think about the light directing my path in no particular direction apart from the good; think about the One who did it all for me.

So, in short, I am nothing. But to the true Master of thought, I am everything.

Hilarity Amidst Monotony

The man began his slow and tedious shift. He was just working another day; earning another dollar.

Cereal was his task. It's tower that lay ahead. He knew that he'd be earning the money for the sole purpose of his wife and children. One. Box. At. A. Time.

As he turns to pick up the next box, two girls are down on the ground. One is tall, freckly, and red in the face. The other is also tall, freckle-less and crying. Both awkward.

You would suspect they were in pain; that something was terribly wrong. When gasps of air were finally taken, he realized this this wasn't a moment of heartache. They were laughing hysterically. The attempted explanation was given in vain.

Their story:

Two best friends. Walking in a store, shooting the breeze regarding their one true love: food. They weave in and out of the isles, debating on what to purchase for the night of entertainment. While looking through the the cereal they both glance down the isle that contains marshmallows and soup.

In this split second they see a father holding a bag of the fluffy goodness and his son's back facing him, coveting this childhood delicacy. As the dad observes the bag of mallows, he frowns, looks at his son, then chucks the bag at the back of the boys head. Causing the boy to tip awkwardly into the shelf.

Who would have thought bad parenting would have been something so fulfilling?

Well, let me tell you. These three individuals found this moment of hilarity amidst monotony.

Hyperbolic Communication

I say stupid jokes; things that don't makes sense; things that sound weird; things that make people double-take.

"Justine, you missed an episode of Psych tonight."

My response? "Well, I guess that makes me 'Psych'-o! Haha! Get it?!"

Obviously the converser checked out of the conversation...3 and a half minutes ago.

I erupt into what I like to lovingly refer to as my old man version of PeeWee Herman's laugh. It's not a pretty sound. Some girls who laugh sound delicate and polite--cute even. Me? No. I sound like a man who recently encountered a wall of helium and didn't know what else to do aside from laugh. And laugh awkwardly, might I add. It makes people very uncomfortable.

Another problem in my communication:

"How's your day been, Justine?"

"It's been so good. I bought a jamba, read my scriptures and soaked up some Vitamin D *snicker snicker* OH! This one time my mom told me that if you close your eyes while looking at the sun that you'd retain more vitamin d. Look at the size of this apple! So juicy. Also, that guy over there, dang, he's attractive. My foot itches... Do you scratch a foot or do you itch it....etc."

A.D.D, much? Yes. SQUIRREL!! Just kidding...kinda.

Another unnecessary conversational "tool" I use involves talking with my hands: on the phone, in person, in the shower, to myself, you name it..my hands are flappin as much as my gums (which, who came up with that phrase anyway? Gums don't flap). But why? Because if I don't use my hands words don't come...at all. I've tried not using my hands; I've even practiced in the mirror. The result? Exaggerated facial expressions. Talk about humiliating.

So where does this leave me? A hopeless conversationalist. I'm never taken seriously and honestly, I completely understand why.

Chapters

There is a book that sits in front of me. It's a book that is extremely personal. It's not something tangible, however. It's my book of life. I have been flipping back and forth through the pages in attempt to see what lies ahead. Each time I flip a page beyond where my story resides, all that is revealed remains crisp and blank.

I can flip back a few pages. I see my mistakes, my eraser shavings, and my crossed out words. All of which I have access to because the past can't be rewritten. I become frustrated in my efforts to read the end of the book. I look closer; I dig deeper--with no avail.

Then, with sudden urgency, excitement fills my mind and my heart to do one thing: begin where I left off writing. I haven't found the pencil yet, but I'll never cease to attain one to keep my book for those to read.

Life is full of chapters. I have some that are short and some that are long. I am just barely starting a grand new adventure; a twist in the plot.

And I'm ready.

Resonating Hope

Her hands were warn with work. They shook as she pet the keys of the piano. Memory gone, talent not nearly exercised enough over the last ten years. She had experience in her eyes and though a stroke took part of her memory, music still echoed in her mind. Where had she gone, whom had she known? It didn't matter. It was in her song that her fingers struggled to recall. She trembled on every note, but played from her heart.

I quietly sat and watched. Not too close. I wanted to feel of the love she had for her crudely played piece. Finally, I asked, "How long have you played?"

"Before or after the stroke? I'm 96 years old. I've played since I was 6. Then that happened. Now I sound like this. How embarrassing?" Her answer was strained with tears.

I began to reflect on my life. My notes in adventures. Would I come to a point where I didn't remember? I then told her it was time for my choir to sing for her. Elderly gathered around. Many were veterans of the home we were at.

Our words echoed through halls: Here is love unbounded; Here is all compassion; Here is mercy founded: Oh, Great Redeemer!

I went up to her afterwords, grabbed her hands, and with a joy exclaimed, "Just so you know, even if you are terrible at the piano--which you aren't-- it's the effort that counts. It's what is in your heart--and you have that faith. Thank you for teaching me that."

I have smiled ever since. We have such a blessing on this earth. We have the chance to express that Love that we feel; the Joy that we know; and the Hope that we trust. And this weekend is exactly how my loved friends and I went about that. We sang of peace through Him that loves us. We prayed through song. We laughed in joy.

This was my "happily-ever after" movie. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I regained joy, hope, peace, love, friendship, talent, prayer, and so much more.

And words of sweet song still resonate:

All of my life; all of my days; STILL not enough to sing [His] praise.

Dryer's Heartbeat

There are a lot of tedious things in this world--things that, if listed, would turn this blog into tedium at it's best. What's at the top of this list for me? Laundry--any shape, any form: folding, ironing, washing, timing, sound, the list continues.

So, I performed this mundane task: quarters in, water on, soap in, clothes in--all necessary steps for freshly scented and warm attire. Today, however, it was different.

On a normal day, I'd go back up to my room, do some sort of meaningless activity and carry on with my day while my laundry kept working on getting clean. Instead, I sat listening to the heartbeat of the dryer. It was annoying at first but then became melodic. I sat down on the chair and began to read about a close friend of mine.

In the world where I read, many suffered; many sinned; most wept. All seemed lost. There was seemingly no direction. No one knew where to turn. Amidst all of this my close friend spoke. His words were soft, tender, and so thick with tension you could see what He spoke. He spoke of His grief. He spoke of his anguish. He wanted them to change--but they didn't understand.

Then, it happened. They opened their ears to hear Him. He appeared to them in white robes; so white they pierced the eyes to the very heart. They acted, He answered. And for a moment, I felt how they felt. I felt love and gratitude for all of the heartache I've endured. I could taste the tears they shed and I could hear the words He spoke: "Arise and come forth, unto me that ye may thrust your hands into my side."

I found myself rubbing my hands together. What a divine moment it must have been? What glory and pain, regret and gratitude, love and hate! I envisioned myself feeling the prints in His hands; bathing His feet in my tears.

And suddenly, I didn't notice the relentless beating of the dryer. I felt the beating of my heart. So it's true. The Savior does live. So I'm not alone in this journey. Tonight, I become reconverted. I truly feel of His love and sacrifice for only me.

Conclusion? Laundry is tedious, annoying, and downright stupid but there are more important things in this life to be unduly concerned with: the Love and Life of Jesus Christ.

Love from Him

Love for Him

Love like Him

Life-long Lessons at a Call Center

It all started in the summer of '69. No, that's NOT when I bought my first real six-string (see what I did there?) It was a summer full of heartache--mostly on the opposing side. Tears were shed. Countless prayers were raised. One is recalled in particular: "Lord, I am done. I don't want to court. If you want me to marry, you'll have to make it happen." Peace came. She was going to marry a minister.

She lived in Loving, Texas: population 500. It was June. It was beautiful outside--a car-washing day. One thing led to another and memories were made of soaking wet clothes. A fellow friend ran up to her, "Linda! There's a new minister in town! He's young and single and at the back of the store! Go meet him!"

Meanwhile, this young minister had no intentions of marrying. He, too recognized that if he were to marry, it'd be in the Lord's hands. Linda knew that this would be her spouse. How could she meet him soaking wet? Well she did anyway. Her prayer that night consisted of the following: "Lord, if I am supposed to marry this man, he'd better ask me out for this Friday, to Guys and Dolls. Otherwise, I'm through with this whole thing."

He called her the next day and asked her to the very thing she desired. Six months later, they were married.

It's been 43 years now. Their love stronger than ever. They age in time but more so in beauty. Both doubtful. Both hopeless. Both fought and won.

Linda told me not to lose hope. "Adam didn't even know he needed a helpmeet. If he did, he'd have married a monkey. Avoid monkeys, dear."

And this is what I get to experience at work: life-long lessons of pain, joy, suffering, blessings.

Through A Little Girl's Eyes

In my eyes, I see things with in a natural state. I see the changes in season. I see mommies loving daddies. I see cows laying down on the grass, when they normally don't. I see smiles as well as frowns. I see doors open that need to be shut. I feel the wind on my face; grass grow, flowers die; magic and how high I can pump my swing. But that's it. I can look into this window of life and instead of fearing failure, I know dreams will soon turn to Hope's sweet companion.

The only thing I care about is being loved by others. However, I have staples: my best friend--a blanket, stars, and music. All three, of which, are my closest possessions in this life; constant, steady, and reliable. These unchanging things bring comfort when I feel loneliness creep into my mind. No, not everyone has these. And that is why I find them so special and even dear to my heart.

Still, I don't care about surroundings or even physical commodities. When I open my eyes to the new day, my responsibilities are few and far between. I awaken. I eat. I sleep. I play. However, just because my life lacks sophistication doesn't mean I can't feel. Because I can. I worry about tales of grace that seem so unreachable. I stress over the importance of loving everyone. Fear steps into my life more than I would like. The lack of believing in dreams turns and sometimes a simple fear becomes a crushing reality. I bank on societal approval and learn from my mistakes.

Then I wake up and I'm an adult...which, ironically, is what I've been all along.

Butt-Dialing but Life-Saving

My life is an emergency. It's pretty terrible lately. I mean, it's not like I have a bed to sleep on; I don't have food to eat or anything. It's not like I have a full time job that I love! Or family that loves me; parents that take care of me; a car that works. I mean, freak, I am just so popular I don't know WHAT to do with myself. It's a sad but true reality for me.

But aside from those regular trials, I've had a few choice subjects I wish to vent about, publicly. 1. dating. 2. health. 3. money. All are large albatross' of the average college student. If you don't have these stresses...ask for some because you aren't normal.

I do, however, feel that it seems to be one hilarious moment to the next. Allow me to expound. I haven't been lucky in the dating world on many different levels. Which lead to many awkward moments involving hitting on a married man. That aside, I tackled a snowman the other night--which ended up being frozen solid--knocking the wind out of me, giving me whiplash and a friend hunched over in laughter. Stupid. Me? No. The snowman.

I crashed my car--nothing big. Gotta get the tire fixed. I don't FEEL stressed but it's rearing it's ugly face on my body. I am having WAY to many accidental/embarrassing moments of clumsiness. Might I add that these things are completely unnecessary? Because they are. I have eczema which begins to look like leprosy and drags attention to my elbows...awkward? Yes.

So where does my blog title come in? I accidentally called 911 today. Yes. Or was it an accident? Hhmmm. Of course they called me back immediately and asked me if everything was going all right. My response wouldn't come. I mean, of course I was fine...but I had just sprayed butter all over myself. I debated on whether this man would care if I explained my "emergencies." Instead, I hung up after a rushed apology.

Resolution? Schmeeh It's a good thing I have the ability to laugh amidst a seemingly tragic and habitual routine.

Lima Beans

I am awkward. There. I said it. There is nothing you can do about something that's already been flaunted to the world--well the world of those who actually READ my blog..haha. I do feel there are different variances of awkward. However, it seems that most people do fit into the category of innocent clumsiness. We are all awkward in our own ways. I guess it depends on whether or not your parents are awkward and lets be honest: they all are.

However, there are a select few that fit into the rank of a food. Mine? Lima beans. They are the one oddity in the bunch of mixed vegetables. I mean honestly, we are sitting here eating these wonderful veggies: carrots, peas, corn; ALL with the same consistency and texture. Then you take a highly anticipated bite which turns into a completely different experience. You thought you were eating something that came from the ground when in fact, this "unidentified" object ends up shocking you into something you never even imagined would occur within any crevasse of your soul. It's dry. It's bland; and frankly, it's an acquired taste.

It can electrify some who are unprepared to experience the texture to the point that they never wish to taste it again. But I look at that lima bean with a smile on my face and learn to selectively eat them prior to their veggie neighbors. I love that little lima, with it's crescent smiling shape and inconsistant texture. I like awkward. I like different. I like the genuine honesty that only a lima bean can deliver.

So what I'm saying, folks, is I want more. I want more lima beans, more beets, possibly more buttons; but overall I want more awkward. And I want society to be okay with that.

Maybe someday you'll have the pleasure of figuring out your classification--food or animal? It's up to you. As for me? I'm a lima bean.

Life in a Water Tower

Sometimes in life, we see things as if we are in the middle of a water tower drain. We watch the water go down in a spiral current and because we're watching, we go down with it. And we find ourselves stuck against the grate of the drainage system. The grate seems to press against our faces, with seemingly vain hope that something will save us.

We begin to feel all is lost; love has no chance, and suffering knows no end. Little--and I stress the little--do we know, there is hope. One who loves and atones for us, reaching down, lifting us out of the turmoil. One who has the strength to pick us up when we were the ones that jumped in the first place.

This One looks at us as we are staring into nothingness; our blank stares lacking luster. The invitation is calling. We are not too far distant yet. And we begin to see how desperate He is in pleading with us to continue in hope. Yet, in our minds, we see the water, the drain, and the imprint of that grate is etched into our faces.

But the vision comes clearer. He presses; he urges; and suddenly the water you are holding onto is expelled into the unknown and sometimes uncomfortable. We breathe in and for the first time, in a long time, we start to taste how sweet the air is. We perceive that water tower as if it's something we need not dread but learn to welcome.

And He looks down as we are lying there, tasting the air, and smiles. Amidst His countless attempts to rescue us, the stress, the heartache, it was He who showed praise when we didn't cease to breathe.

Here, is Hope.

Moments

I have moments when I feel content and ready to hand over my life to the One who knows best. When has this recently happened to me? Almost every day this weekend. I spend time with people I love. I grow in my Savior's love that He has for me, I pray, I read, I teach; most importantly, I learn.

I learn to love those around me. I begin to notice things within each person that influence me to be my personal best--my #1 self if you will. I have my moments when I am down. Moments when I look in the mirror and the reflection I see is either something I'm ashamed of or it is something I cherish. I don't have His eyes, or His hands but I know of His love.

I felt this way last night. It was a night, FULL of nostalgia and cherished memories of moments when I feel at peace with where I'm at and where I am going in my life. I feel good. I feel happy. Oh, how great it feels to write that and genuinely mean it!! But the best and most endearing part about this is that I know that even after my body begins to turn to soil's one companion, my moments carry on. My children will know of my moments--I'll remind them regularly. They, too, will have their moments which will carry on through the careful watch of Father Time.

And isn't that the whole reason we cohabit this roller coaster? So we can cling to those moments that we experience and share them with others? This is what makes things once weak, stronger.

So have I moments? Yes, I do. Do I foster these moments and yearn to have more? Yes. Will I? Yes. Will you? Sure. The key is vigilance against all odds.

Determining My Race and Losin' Myself

In all honesty, I think I am much closer to being a black person or a latin person than a stark white person. Really, I am much more than an Uh, Oh! Oreo. Why? I can rap. What? I like Eminem songs? I can sing like a big black woman. I can bargin like a latin. And my sense of humor is equivalent to that of an old man. I feel judging eyes reading this facet of my imagination and yet, I am still content being my plain white self.

But you know what? I have no idea why I am even writing about this. And the point is, if I were black or any other minority in my all-american, white, mormon school it wouldn't matter. If it did, I would just accuse everyone of being racist. In the end does it really matter? I mean, shoot, I have friends of all races and all places.

Why do I desire to be another race, you might find yourself asking, well, I feel as if I am in a time vault, locked up forever. I feel as if I am stuck in one place as a single time and that I'll neither ripen or return to the soil. I feel that the answer is not in this pasty complexion. My soul is old but I still feel young. My heart is taken but my brain seeks freedom. In all, I am between a rock and a hard place--as if I am going through my mid-life crisis at 21 years old. I'm not even eligible for my quarter-life crisis!!!

Solution? Live each day of 8 mundane hours of helping others figure out whether or not the fresh mint toothpaste is better than the cool mint toothpaste. The other half of my time is spent being a mediator of one conversation to the next.

Amidst all of this, I find I am so happy. So blessed. I have the body of a 21 year-old and will be forever filled with the gratitude of an aged woman of any race. And for that, I am dizzy in euphoria.

Blissful Inconvenience

"You can have sacred, revelatory, profoundly instructive experience with the Lord, in the most miserable experiences of your life. In the worst settings, while enduring the most painful injustices; when facing the most insurmountable odds and opposition you have EVER faced." --Jeffery R. Holland

Isn't that an interesting statement? No matter what we go through, we can learn the most personally gratifying things amongst the hell that surrounds us. We know that happiness is a state of mind and attitude but do we really acknowledge that life is often really crappy? It's ok to say that! In fact, it feels good. Try it out.

Life throws many things at you. Often, in times of deep nightmare, it is hard to see the light. And in that tunnel of misery we feel as if we are running through stone or slitting our wrists and doing push ups in saltwater. However, I have come to find that even in these times we can identify with many around us. It is in these moments that we are defined as either pitiful and lonely or bridled towards those who can help.

Suck it up, people. Life is good. Quit complaining about the simple annoyances and remember that opposition is nothing more than an tough situation that soon turns to blissful inconvenience.

"When lonely, cold, hard times come, we have to endure; we have to continue; we have to persist...The Savior has been where you've been--allowing Him to provide for your deliverance and your comfort."--Jeffery R. Holland (Same talk)

Waiting with Empty Palms

As much as you don't want it to happen, we all grow up. Many grow in different ways--some fast, some slow; some in a positive way and some in a negative way. Yet, it all comes down to how we love. Hastiness isn't the answer; patience is.

However, my purpose of this blog is to stand palms open and ready showing those in a path they didn't necessarily see themselves in years back that I am willing to listen and wait. As children we profess to be our best selves: the kind of person your mommy or daddy would be proud of.

When we fall short of our own expectations as well as the expectations of others it can be hard to change. Pride overcomes the necessity to change the change that is taking over motivation to be our best even if that change is so minor and insignificant.

Meanwhile, many stand by and do the only thing they can do to help: wait. They wait for that moment when this person realizes their becoming lost along a stringy, sticky path that holds them captive. And once they grasp that reality they find the will to revamp themselves; curing themselves from doubt and insecurity. But the standers watch and wait; wait instead of judge and shun--anticipating to the point of annoying those seeking restitution: alone. And those struggling grope for those willing to listen.

We can't save souls alone for we all need saving. Are we lending arms of comfort? Are we grieving with those that need empathy? But most of all, are we patiently waiting?

I'm here. I'm waiting. And all I have are empty palms and a broken heart.

Authentic Mexican Mariachi Bands

Tonight I was in company of a great friend. We laughed and reminisced of good times past. These past memories only bring better ones.

It was a moment of quiet reflection for two reasons: 1. I'm off track...what ELSE am I supposed to be thinking about. 2. The soft descant of a mariachi band over the speakers of Taco Time brought me back to my Mexican roots...wait...never mind...2.5. I was eating a crunchy chicken burrito which always allows time and, in fact, invites contemplation of ones life.

What thoughts, in particular, you ask? Well...I can give you a list of things that will only make sense to some but may perhaps bring joy to others:
-Reading random pages in British accents
-Apple Orchards
-"Schmee."
-Hair dye
-Singing in a crampy, old, luxury van.
-Photography

And much more....even more to come. And that's the joy of friendship. It's joy in sitting in a car, doing absolutely nothing but talking about the many facets of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Common Courtesy of Commenting

What do I do in my spare time? I blog. It sounds dumb. It even sounds slightly tacky but you know what? It's how I do. Every blogger has his or her expectations. They expect that their stats keep rising, only to find they average about the same month to month. They expect to receive feedback--positive or negative...you know which of the two we welcome more.

Personally, I have around 10 comments...fail. I do, however, have over 1,000 views--which makes me feel good. Do people actually read my blogs? If so, I'm sorry. haha.

Basically what I'm saying is nothing short of the following: PEOPLE! give me some feedback!

On a different note, I feel as if I should speak to all of the bloggers out there that talk about meaningless crap that give the rest of us a bad name. Please, pick up another hobby like...goldfish hunting or underwater basket-weaving.

Much Love