tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56863533671799191282024-02-20T22:58:17.064-07:00justinewrenand her anomaliesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-77040448264489908592015-03-19T00:47:00.001-06:002016-07-08T12:14:05.554-06:00Of Fishers and Men<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: xx-small; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">As I retire to bed after a long day of endless fun, I find myself exhausted. Exhausted with heartfelt laughter and etching smiles. I may not have laughed hard or for very long. But my smiles were genuine. </span><br />
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As my body falls heavier and heavier into the suffocating Tempur-pedic bed, pain increases as I recognize the sharp pain, digging into my lower back, as a small toy car. I laugh again. And begin to write. </div>
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My purpose? Men and fishers. Today I spent a solid 23 minutes fishing with a little boy and little girl. These children just so happen to be my siblings with the patience of a cat being held back from yarn. </div>
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It was my brother's first cast of the day--and almost of his life considering the rarity of fishing in a desert. The line, 15 feet across the water, lay perfectly still, minus the bobbing to and fro from wandering ducks. "This is the most boringist thing ever." He stated defeatedly after 6.5 minutes. "Why don't the fish come? I have everything I need." </div>
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Gently, and as patiently as possible, we'd help them cast out their lines to obtain the desirable prize of a smelly fish. With each swish of the poll, frustration increased. "Why do people even like doing this?" My sister exclaimed. "It's crazy." </div>
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I chuckled and said, "It's more than getting the fish, it's the experience that drives you here." </div>
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Mid-chuckle, I paused. That was it. That was my answer. To life's wonder of "why, if I'm doing everything I'm supposed to, am I not feeling successful?" </div>
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How often does our Father help us, patiently, kindly, and consistently? How immeasurable is His mercy and love? How often do we find ourselves lost in a world where the only thing we have to hold onto is a pole with a thin line, waiting for the bobber to fully submerge in the water? </div>
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We feel hopeless and impatient. But it's the journey that blesses us and morphs us into true fishermen. Experts in the art of obtaining that smelly fish. And it doesn't always end up being the biggest, prettiest one! Often we fail to realize the fish has been biting the whole time. We may even feel like this journey of life is the "boringist thing ever." </div>
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Thank God for his Son; for the Atonement of Jesus Christ; which allows us to visualize the end from the beginning but also allows us to bare life's "boringist" times. And for that matter, times of sheer disappoint. </div>
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We have been given a gift--the gift of baring all things with enduring patience and hope. </div>
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And for me? That's what hope is. Holding on to a fishing pole, knowing that eventually the fish will follow through with a big ole bite--never letting go. If not, faith makes us cast that line back every time. </div>
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And God always follow through. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-5538595463698012902015-01-15T01:09:00.002-07:002015-01-15T01:09:32.612-07:00Amber Run Moments. We all have them. It's in those moments where we are a pile on the ground; mentally stuck in the fetal position. We find ourselves in this awkward state for periods of time. This time may be lengthy or short. But we consistently find ourselves there. Alone. Afraid.<br />
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Then we hear something: encouraging words, gentle promptings, motivating melodies, or even the hum of everyday life. And we wake up--even if it takes a few times.<br />
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These somethings vary. Tonight it was the gentle music of Amber Run and a good conversation with a friend that nudged me enough. Enough to coax the "little ghost" of insecurity and doubt far enough away from holding me down.<br />
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And I began to rise. Not of being but of mind.<br />
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Moments. We all have them. It's in these moments, we become something more. We do the seemingly unbearable. And conquer the awkward fetal position.<br />
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"I found love where it wasn't supposed to be."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-22966538213138775322014-12-23T04:37:00.002-07:002015-01-15T01:20:41.108-07:00Future Insane Asylum Attendee, right here. <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Staring into the great abyss of nothingness. I most often find myself doing this at work. There are days when customers don't permit me to enter into my dream-like state; being the holidays, I'm in this despair quite regularly. But again, there are those days where I can visually fly away into the corners of my mind. What do I think about, you may ask? Frankly, this is the conundrum of the century. As I look over the bridge of my nose, I dose off. My vision blurs and in this moment, I think of absolutely nothing. Such a feat is normally incomprehensible for a person of my gender. Any one can attempt to get my attention, but to no avail. It is almost an awkward silence until a fellow associate rudely interrupts my bliss with a customer anxiously awaiting my acute abilities to extract and place contacts from one phone to the next. How rude. Clearly my non-existent thought process is more important than your ongoing communication with the "friends" you have whose names are only identified by a series of numbers. Who's to say they're real anyway? </span><br />
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So I reluctantly exhume numbers once lost and yet again, allow myself to go to that distant place of peace and freedom. Although, maybe isn't either of these. Maybe it's more of an escape from the tedium and stress; maybe it's a stifling of problems like dust under a rug. I don't know what it is; but this much I do know, it is out of necessity. If I didn't have my moments of drool-worthy stares, I would most likely be admitted to an insane asylum. </div>
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Isn't that ironic? </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-81610269439005003912014-11-15T16:31:00.001-07:002014-11-15T16:31:38.441-07:008 Ball Confessions and Folding Paper FortunesWouldn't it be nice if all of life's most difficult decisions could be simply made with an 8 Ball or a folding paper fortune? Life would be so much easier.<br />
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I think of all the times I was on an awkward date and the guy says something along the lines of, "this was so much fun, lets do this again." or "can I kiss you?" It's in these moments I wish I could just say, "Can you hold that thought for a second?" At which point I would pull out my 8 ball, ask it, and proceed to shake it. Most of the answers swim to, "Not likely," or "My sources say no." The answer would leave the boy so dumb-struck, I would have a chance to escape.<br />
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Another thing we need to bring back is the game of M.A.S.H. This was a harmless game--or so some thought--that we played as kids. It would determine your entire future based on the number you chose and the handful of people listed on the column for the opposite sex. In a meager 10 min, you would know what type of establishment you would live in, to whom you would marry, how many kids you would have, what your career would be, and what type of car you would own. Ten. Minutes. No hesitations. No preconceived notions. Nothing. Just pen and paper.<br />
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...Apparently you can play it online. Is that what the kids are doing these days?<br />
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At any rate, I love the idea of leaving all of my responsibilities behind me and in the "hands" of a fortune telling device. Because let's be honest, being a kid is so much easier.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-48532678373757962432014-09-21T15:27:00.003-06:002014-09-21T15:27:44.043-06:00The Change was in MeSweat beat down my face. Oh, how I desperately wanted to understand what they were saying but even more importantly, I wanted them to understand what I felt.<br />
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She sat back skeptically. "So what are you saying?" She asks thoughtfully. In my broken Spanish, I replied with, "You and I can be with our families forever." Hot tears welled my eyes. That was my purpose. That was why I was sweating in the humidity of Texas. With every ounce of brain power I had, I began to testify. Testify of the love I felt from my Savior, the love I had for my family, the love I had for a perfect stranger.<br />
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A hush came over the room. Fellow missionaries waited for her response. She knew we were speaking of truth. <br />
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So, she humbly entered the waters of baptism. She was changing her life for the better, becoming what God intended her to become. I smiled and thought, "This is the best feeling in my life. I love seeing others come unto Him, morphing into something that God can work with."<br />
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Little did I know, it was in moments these, and countless others, He changed ME; made me something better. Just as a stone rolling in a river bed becomes smooth over time, the message molded me into something more patient, understanding, and faithful. He took my heart and made it malleable; soft once again. <br />
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And for that, I am forever indebted.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-76839501984204858712014-08-26T10:26:00.001-06:002014-08-26T10:26:26.011-06:00I'm Desirable, Said No One Ever...except me.This is a very serious topic that I have been wanting to post about. I am a desirable woman. Why? Allow me to explain. There is a common misconception that the following are not desirable but I beg to differ. Disclaimer: readers must not violate the "non-judgmental" policy.<br />
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1. Excessive amounts of drool that lather my face and pillow after a well-rested night's sleep. <br />
2. My culinary mastermind....of breakfast foods and nothing else. I hate cooking. <br />
3. Deep thoughts as to why my nose gets in the way. <br />
4. The acute ability to place screen protectors on phones<br />
5. I shop at the D.I<br />
6. My amazonic height (also the making up of words.)<br />
7. The dancing capability of a 90-year-old.<br />
8. Dubbed pedophile. <br />
9. Disney/Pixar lover<br />
10. Lioness hair every morning.<br />
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Granted, this is just a short list of 10 attributes. Be that as it may. However! With time comes age and with age comes beauty...and diapers.<br />
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Thank you, and goodnight.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-33494370959007301522014-06-17T23:00:00.000-06:002014-06-17T23:00:14.162-06:00I Spilled TwiceToday was one of those days. I was on my way to work when I realized I forgot the papers that my boss specifically asked me not to lose.<br />
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I guess you could say I woke up on the wrong side of the bed but let's be honest; which side is technically the right side? Is it actually referring to the right side of the bed or the "correct" side of the bed? And what is correct?--a common dilemma in our day and age.<br />
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So on my way out the door, I grabbed a bowl of cereal. It's called Strawberries Awake--you know, the cheap brand of Special K. (Side note: I should have just bit the bullet and bought the name brand. It's a fitting title for me, Special, for obvious reasons, and K for Kelly...which it wont be that for much longer.)<br />
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At any rate, I got in my car with my milk-drown cereal (for extra special people) and set it on the passenger's seat. As soon as I turned the corner, milk poured everywhere. I had nothing to clean it up. I figured it was just going to have to wait until I got home tonight.<br />
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Fast-forwarding to lunch: For whatever reason, it's freezing in Utah. Here we are, in June. and it's below 40 degrees outside. Bitter, foul, and freezing. So what does a "special k" girl like me do? I buy some hot herbal tea at the friendly 7/11. Again, I turn the corner, after placing my tea in the empty bowl beside, thinking it would barricade it, it spills in the exact same spot as my foul dairy friend had done earlier. 'That's it.' I thought. 'I am done for.'<br />
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Not only did I spill once, I spilled twice. In the same spot. And I was so bitter, I didn't muster the energy to clean it up.<br />
So here I sit, feeling extra special, tired, and full of tea--just not off of the car seat or floor. I'm not that desperate.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-26281885585178745512014-01-29T03:39:00.001-07:002014-01-29T03:39:37.683-07:00The Clock TicksThe clock ticks.<br />
No one around.<br />
Hunger returns.<br />
Smiles remain.<br />
Tiredness gone.<br />
Thoughts envelope.<br />
Chest pounds.<br />
Eyes weary.<br />
Fingers type.<br />
Nothing matters.<br />
Fear comes.<br />
Fear leaves.<br />
Hurt heals.<br />
Love hurts.<br />
Warm embrace.<br />
But no one's around.<br />
The clock ticks.<br />
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Joy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-33151006241624884542014-01-05T18:51:00.002-07:002014-01-05T18:51:48.202-07:00Love Defined Love isn't something that should grow stale or cold; but it often does. It is something that is acquired solely through effort. It truly is an ability. Why? Because even in my "puppy love" I find times when I don't feel as close; don't feel as accepting; as confident. This is when open communication is a necessary part in this game we so cruelly name life. So what do we do to keep these channels open? We do the one thing we were designed to do as human beings: recognize WHOM is behind it all. <br />
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So who is that? That would be God. He, being onerous, is also intimate. That is why these so called "coincidences" don't exist in my vocabulary. That is why I believe love exists. Not merely because it's a "nice thing" or something "convenient." It is what we were born and bread to do. To fulfill our purpose and become as creatures of He whom designed us to be more than we will ever understand or give ourselves credit for.<br />
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That being said, what is love? Something that endears us to another being? Something that can be tossed in the wind? No. It is our divine capacity to see others through God's eyes; to witness a person in their potential "god-like" form while choosing to overlook weaknesses and shortcomings. It is to recognize that even the most vile of people can be spared through that same sacrifice that spares each of us daily. For that is how He looks at all of us; with such compassion that only He can understand. <br />
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THAT, my friends, is love. And THAT is what we all have the capacity to obtain.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-19414884771744021882013-11-25T19:21:00.002-07:002013-11-25T19:21:56.547-07:00Time has past, treasure it while it lasts. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A new word has been added to my vocabulary. A word that will forever be fond to my heart. Something that may annoy some but something I can't let go. It was found in a place where my heart resides. And will continue to reside until I make memories of my own in a life created by someone I once was.<br />
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Some may consider me a fanatic; others may consider me a freak. But what I have to say to that is this: Texas pride is not a plague but a prize; a delight not a distaste. I used to be a hater of the biggest state in the nation but I have changed my ways and I'm never looking back. Why? Well, because it has added this word into my vocabulary. The word is this: ya'll. <br />
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No one will ever fully comprehend the power of the "ya'll" unless they've lived in the Lone Star state. So. When you ask me questions like, "How would you summarize the last 18 months of your life?" or "Did you enjoy your time in the home of the blue bonnet?" My answer will be this:<br />
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"Ya'll will never understand unless you move to Texas."<br />
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or<br />
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"No sabes nada hasta que viva en Tejas."<br />
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You're welcome.<br />
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P.S. If Texas does secede, I'm moving out of the country. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-9560866852694148932012-07-05T23:50:00.000-06:002012-07-05T23:58:54.798-06:00A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None<span style="background-color: #666666;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #666666;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #666666;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #666666;">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.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #666666;">The memory fades. The swing is now gone along with the freedom of letting go.<br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;">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.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;">But the heavy fist of reality brings me back when I realize memories are only for reminiscing. A smile plays on my eyes.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #666666;">Tonight I received a kiss. A kiss with a fist, which is better than none.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-75316863292679342212012-06-26T20:57:00.001-06:002012-06-26T20:58:20.558-06:00Helplessness BluesAnother box. Another dirty rag. Another sparkling shelf. Another "almost full" box. Another empty roll of tape. Another trash bag. Another day gone.<br />
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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The busier I am, Fear's chance of creeping into my tangled thoughts is slim to none. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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."</div>
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I grin again. For the amount I lose will I gain that much and more. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-10629055806494612482012-06-21T00:17:00.000-06:002012-06-21T00:22:52.446-06:00Brace-faced with a Five Head<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then it happened. HE walked by. I smelled the air as he passed. This was, after all, the first boy that <i>didn't</i> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My life was over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so the awkwardness began</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. In the words of my friend, Emmilie Buchanan, "I will make 17 cats really happy someday." </span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-60230013828944417732012-06-13T00:22:00.002-06:002012-06-13T00:22:48.474-06:00I Love This List<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Today: </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I woke up, wrapped in my baby-sister's arms.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got beat up by Godzilla. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cuddled with my littlest brother while watching Willow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ran out of breath laughing with my smart-mouthed sister. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I became reacquainted my #1 fan and looked at her freckles sprinkled on her nose for a </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">long time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got my butt kicked by my "big" little brother on a run even though he was easy on my very </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">out-of-shape legs. It was a good talk/run.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt pure love for a little boy and his smiling face fogging up a window as he anticipated </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">my arrival at his school. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pushed two kids on two separate swings, simultaneously.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I found out what the "spit" is that forms on plants in Washington and I laughed with my </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sister because my little brother played with it, "BUBBLES!"--aka bug excrement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I broke up 52 fights between siblings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought about Texas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I practiced Spanish tongue twisters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lost my hearing in my left ear from screaming/laughing children.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I turned my brother into a 3-headed monster.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I held hands with a 7-year-old beauty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I watched my "soon-to-be" 18-year-old brother walk like </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I admired my parents...again</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I messed with a bunch of baby spiders and threatened to put </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">salt on a slug.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I became a little better.</span><br />
<b style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">And I loved every minute of it. </b><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-80608572652492588712012-06-10T13:36:00.001-06:002012-06-10T13:36:54.108-06:00Mechanical WorshipI 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.<br />
<br />
Business, business. That's what this was about. Meeting, meeting. Restless children. Crinkling snack packages. Organ blaring the notes of a familiar hymn.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
My friend laid down His life; for me and my imperfections.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And this gem was salvaged amongst sand, dirt, toil and snare. This good news needs to be shared!<br />
<br />
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.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-50604239539919102752012-05-26T23:26:00.002-06:002012-05-26T23:26:56.398-06:00The 80s PromI 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.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I painted my nails black tonight. Garnished my lips with lipstick named Voluptuous Red; how fitting. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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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. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-84278417309588698132012-04-28T19:13:00.000-06:002012-04-28T19:13:15.870-06:00My Friend, the Cash Register<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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? </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sounds really tedious right? Right. However, I've found joy and company in my reflection. Why is this? Let me explain:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My best friends are so busy if I ever have that </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">prestigious opportunity to see them, they're sleeping</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. I've found good conversation a rarity. I mean, I barely have </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">acquaintances, of which I lovingly refer to as "good company."</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> What happened to being </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">cool</i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">? 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 </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">me </i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">of all people</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. 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 </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">queasy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Welcome! Please enter cash or select payment type."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Okay I only have a few quick questions. Answer them </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and I'll flip my plastic for you:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 1. Will my husband be able to handle my extremities? </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 2. Do I have friends?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 3. If the answer is no to the prior questions, who's the fairest</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> maiden in all of Rexburg?" </span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her response?</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Item has been removed from bagging area. Please ask an associate for assistance."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I muttered under my breath several expletives as the cashier walked over cautiously. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> "Do you need help, ma'am?"</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">"More than you know..." I muttered. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. I got into my car. 'Oh, car. How I loveth thee. Will you be my friend?' </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No response. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Turns out inanimate objects tend to have a better understanding of my sense of humor than people do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I laughed at the awkwardness of my logic and drove away drinking my diet coke. </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-49989998137987349672012-04-25T00:42:00.000-06:002012-04-25T00:43:50.384-06:00Gene Kelly in a Dentist Chair<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">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 </span>ceiling<span style="font-size: 100%;">. You'd think a girl couldn't be happier. </span></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 100%;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 100%;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the drive home, I felt my jaw, ouch. Like, my life is like, so like hard and stuff. O-M-G. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-__- 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And suddenly: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">my life was luxurious. Thank you, Gene Kelly and tired dental assistent. </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-23515913050106975762012-04-11T22:01:00.003-06:002012-04-12T00:10:17.983-06:00Thunder<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-wfAZyvu1Z-M6pkwkaMyNwckX3N7d6IfcWpo4dNMlGbzWBf4Mu8TLpzoT-ISrF6hIUZLE56ymf2-cDb90hRr_8uZZHXjGG_0duxBcUbpMnHer4SsZCDFeXC-IWWmAdGnTmhzmVbH2kc/s1600/Lightning-Photography20.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-wfAZyvu1Z-M6pkwkaMyNwckX3N7d6IfcWpo4dNMlGbzWBf4Mu8TLpzoT-ISrF6hIUZLE56ymf2-cDb90hRr_8uZZHXjGG_0duxBcUbpMnHer4SsZCDFeXC-IWWmAdGnTmhzmVbH2kc/s200/Lightning-Photography20.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730392539786143474" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Ironically</span>, 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. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">And each etching of the pages He writes consists of a different template and font. We are </span>unrivaled <span style="font-size: 100%;">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 <i>me. </i>In my faults, weaknesses, strengths, and fortes. It's the process to understand this that is so tedious and everlasting. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "> 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. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; ">Brilliant light flashes across the night sky--sometimes day--creating a path amidst areas of darkness. </span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>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. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>So, in short, I am nothing. But to the true Master of thought, I am everything. </span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-41111172413854264852012-04-07T20:50:00.006-06:002012-04-07T22:28:31.314-06:00Hilarity Amidst Monotony<p class="p1" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">The man began his slow and tedious shift. He was just working another day; earning another dollar. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">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. </span></p><p class="p1"><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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, </span>freckle-less<span style="font-size: 100%;"> and crying. Both awkward. </span></span></p><p class="p1"><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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 </span>hysterically<span style="font-size: 100%;">. The attempted </span>explanation<span style="font-size: 100%;"> was given in vain. </span></span></p><p class="p1"><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Their story:</span></span></p><p class="p1"><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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 </span>marshmallows<span style="font-size: 100%;"> and soup. </span></span></p><p class="p1"><span >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. </span></p><p class="p1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; ">Who would have thought bad parenting would have been something so fulfilling?</span></p><p class="p1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; ">Well, let me tell you. These three individuals found this moment of hilarity amidst monotony. </span></p><p class="p1"><span ><br /></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-29988686698554795712012-04-04T23:26:00.009-06:002012-04-05T00:12:22.815-06:00Hyperbolic Communication<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiI6IWPGdVxEqxDkp7gSVz2hW6mtwNSX25sSPQtIURM1cj1KpJc1ZtgDkiPd5zRPgYqiJKEjL8x5ToZrb-WSnFuQDnMuVtAKVAzSzHnznsmdthOkYUnaK5P7YYfkq14lpNXCRWHShp7bU/s1600/381779_317448051603676_100000154500142_1556795_942073380_n.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiI6IWPGdVxEqxDkp7gSVz2hW6mtwNSX25sSPQtIURM1cj1KpJc1ZtgDkiPd5zRPgYqiJKEjL8x5ToZrb-WSnFuQDnMuVtAKVAzSzHnznsmdthOkYUnaK5P7YYfkq14lpNXCRWHShp7bU/s200/381779_317448051603676_100000154500142_1556795_942073380_n.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727795541759946338" /></a><br /><span>I say stupid jokes; things that don't makes sense; things that sound weird; things that make people double-take.</span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>"Justine, you missed an episode of Psych tonight."</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>My response? "Well, I guess that makes me 'Psych'-o! Haha! Get it?!"</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>Obviously the converser checked out of the conversation...3 and a half minutes ago.</div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>I </span>erupt<span> 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.</span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Another problem in my communication:</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>"How's your day been, Justine?"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>"It's been so good. I bought a jamba, read my scriptures and soaked up some Vitamin D<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*snicker snicker* OH! This one time my mom told me that if you close your eyes while<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>looking at the sun that you'd retain more vitamin d. Look at the size of this apple! So juicy.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>Also, that guy over there, dang, he's attractive. My foot itches... Do you scratch a foot <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>or do<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>you itch it....etc."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span><br /></span></div><div><span>A.D.D, much? Yes. SQUIRREL!! Just kidding...kinda.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>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.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>So where does this leave me? A hopeless conversationalist. I'm never taken seriously and honestly, I completely understand why.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-23709194419728066352012-03-28T11:01:00.001-06:002012-03-28T23:47:36.404-06:00Chapters<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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 </span>revealed remains crisp and blank. </span><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span >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. </span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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 </span>attain<span style="font-size: 100%;"> one to keep my book for those to read. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">And I'm ready. </span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-6614461951473761822012-03-25T21:51:00.004-06:002012-03-28T11:01:22.735-06:00Resonating Hope<div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">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. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">I quietly sat and watched. Not too close. I wanted to feel of the love she had for her </span>crudely <span style="font-size: 100%;">played piece. Finally, I asked, "How long have you played?" </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">"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. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">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 </span>veterans<span style="font-size: 100%;"> of the home we were at. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Our words echoed through halls: Here is love unbounded; Here is all compassion; Here is mercy founded: Oh, Great Redeemer! </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">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."</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">And words of sweet song still resonate:</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">All of my life; all of my days; STILL not enough to sing [His] praise. </span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-54961270132212161092012-03-20T22:45:00.003-06:002012-03-21T00:18:24.469-06:00Dryer's Heartbeat<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">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. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">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. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">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. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span >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." </span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >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. </span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >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. </span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >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. </span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >Love from Him</span></div><div><span >Love for Him</span></div><div><span >Love like Him</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5686353367179919128.post-49019838139746930412012-03-14T00:31:00.007-06:002012-03-14T09:18:52.437-06:00Life-long Lessons at a Call CenterIt all started in the summer of '69. No, that's NOT when I bought my first real six-string (see what I did there?) <span style="font-size: 100%; ">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. </span><div><div><br /></div><div>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!" </div></div><div><br /></div><div>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. <span style="font-size: 100%; ">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." </span></div><div><br /></div><div>He called her the next day and asked her to the very thing she desired. Six months later, they were married. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>And this is what I get to experience at work: life-long lessons of pain, joy, suffering, blessings. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04655982615884817513noreply@blogger.com0