Something Beautiful

I've been travelling cross-country from Washington state to Connecticut via multiple forms of transportation. If we're going to be precise, they are as follows: bus, shuttle, airplane, and train. In that order. My travel time is nearing the 24-hour mark and, in that time, I've encountered a lot of people and seen a lot of beauty.

The view from the bus on the way to Seattle, Washington.

Here are my thoughts--with no rhyme, reason, or order to any of them.

I think it is remarkable to see people instinctively help each other. In this area, I firmly believe that the little things are the big things. I don't mean to discount remarkable humanitarian acts of building orphanages and distributing medicine, but I cannot believe that the impact of those actions are any larger than the one the young man on the train had today. Without a moment's hesitation, he helped three elderly women get their suitcases from the overhead compartment, and thanked them in the process. I was deeply impressed by his sincere service, and I want to spread that beauty along the way.

New Jersey is prettiest when seen through little finger smudges on the window. Something about knowing that a small child was thrilled by the scenery makes it more beautiful in my eyes, too.

Journeys are driven by beauty--wherever one finds it. For me, this trip has been driven by the beauty of family. For a girl I met on the bus, yesterday's journey was driven by the beauty in love, dedication, and sacrifice. For a man I met on the street, the journey was driven by the beauty made possible through new beginnings.

This world is remarkably beautiful. The variety, the complexities, the newness that just a few hours in any direction can bring is astounding. There is beauty in the details and in the grand picture, and I want to soak it all in. I want to let that beauty penetrate the walls I put up, and then let that beauty shine back out into the world.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, here's to remembering to see the something beautiful in everything.

Real Writing

I haven't written--really written--in a very long time. Long enough that I can't quite remember when I last composed a piece of any substance at all. Long enough that I have been craving it for some time now.

Every so often, I put another one of these posts up. Where I stand and acknowledge my apparent death as a writer. I share how much I loved it and express that something magical happened as my fingers stretched across the keyboard--it was as if the wisps of my emotions and experiences knowingly lead me along, one at a time, until I reached what I was looking for all along.

I then clarify that I was no remarkable writer and that I never expected to make a significant impact with my words. But it brought me peace to write and to share those thoughts.

Somewhere along the way, I remember how deeply I love the journey of writing and recommit to a life filled with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences. And, for a small time, I hold myself to my rediscovered passion.

The trouble with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences, though, is that they take time and focus. Which is something that I love to give to writing, so let's try this again. The bigger trouble with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences is that they can always be improved. Which is also something that I love--I love that there is an inherent lack of finality in writing. However, the perfectionist tendencies in me take that quality and turn it into reason for procrastination. Post after post remain drafts because they were set aside to be perfected before they were presented to my small audience.

Well, here I am. And I have decided something. My writing isn't perfect, but it is real--and I am okay with that. Speaking of which, I best leave this real writing to study for and take a final.

To all who may stumble upon this post, please accept it as a peace offering in the battle between perfectionism and a writer's love.

Dark Blue

Some songs demand my attention. I hear the first few notes and immediately drop whatever I'm doing. I associate it with memories and emotion, and I want to completely soak them in.

Dark Blue is one of those.

I never particularly cared for this song until my roommate, Cali, made a most marvelous comment:

"I hope my husband is like this song. I know it inside and out, every little detail of it. But it never gets old. I still get so excited every time I hear it."

And, suddenly, I can't get enough of it. All I want to do is listen to it over and over. I look it up and I put it on repeat. I should probably just buy the thing, but that is a concern for another day.

The point is that I hear this song and, in my mind, I hear those words. And for some reason those words bring me such peace and hope. Hope that someday I can find a this song to my life.

Crunch.

This morning I woke up. Late, much later than planned (much to the dismay of my dear roommate, who endured the multiple alarms going off that I, in my sleepy state of delirium, continued to reset), but it did happen. As I woke myself up with a spontaneous solo dance party to one song on repeat, I found the warmest of my running attire somewhere in the depths of my tiny college student room and pulled them on.

By the time I stepped out my door, it was 8 o'clock and the most glorious kind of lovely. The air was crisp. The sun just peering between the mountain peaks. Specks of gold seemed to flick from the snowy ground. And then it happened.

As I rounded the first corner, my foot landed in the few days old, overnight frozen, super loud crunchy snow. And it was like I was home.

Some mornings are just perfect. Even when you don't wake up on time.

Photo from Saturday's morning run. Close enough.

This Much I Know

"Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. In the short space of twenty years, he has brought forth the Book of Mormon, which he translated by the gift and power of God, and has been the means of publishing it on two continents; has sent the fulness of the everlasting gospel, which it contained, to the four quarters of the earth; has brought forth the revelations and commandments which compose this book of Doctrine and Covenants, and many other wise documents and instructions for the benefit of the children of men; gathered many thousands of the Latter-day Saints, founded a great city, and left a fame and name that cannot be slain. He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord's anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood; and so has his brother Hyrum. In life they were not divided, and in death they were not separated!"

-John Taylor (D&C 135:3)

There are a lot of things that I haven't figured out. There are a lot of things I have left to learn, and a lot of improvements I have to make. I don't know much--compared to all the information out there, I don't know anything. But this much I do know: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. It is God's one true church on the earth today. I have a loving and caring Father in Heaven who knows me and watches over me. He guides me. His Son, Jesus Christ, gave His life for me so that I can return to live with them again. I am never alone.

So as I go through life, confused and a little lost, I will always be grateful for the sacrifices of those who came before me. Joseph Smith gave all that he had to give and, though I may not be called to die for this cause, I will live for it.

Because this much I undeniably and immovably know: this church is true.

Wind Chimes

Wind chimes remind me of our Arizona days. They sound like childhood. They sound like sweet relief from the sweltering summer sun, as the faintest breeze makes its way through the yard. They sound like the old polaroid camera I used play with--running around the streets, fascinated that I could see the picture almost instantly.

When I hear wind chimes, I remember Paul--a recently sprouted palm tree my sister and I discovered. We tracked its growth weekly with a ruler made with paper, pencils, and inch approximations based on the distance between the first and second knuckles of my forefinger. When I hear wind chimes, I remember rollerblading on those black, black roads. I remember swimming with cousins, and simply adoring the novelty of being able to see underwater when I wore goggles. I remember blue raspberry snow cones, and thinking that my cousin was really odd for reading a book with as strange a title as "Harry Potter." Because, really, who names their child Harry?

I remember feeling so cool as I swept our back patio while using my mom's walkman--jamming out to Enrique Inglesias the whole time. I remember singing to my dad over the phone, wishing he were there. When I hear wind chimes, I am lead to the morning I walked out of my room to get ready for school and found my mom sitting on the couch in shock--hands over her mouth, staring at the TV screen as an airplane flew into the second twin tower. I remember loudly singing "God Bless the USA" in school.

Wind chimes remind me of Visitor, a cactus wren who occasionally flew in through our open kitchen window and made himself quite at home. I remember hikes through the cactus forests. I remember realizing that, though only five minutes apart, twenty minutes seemed an eternity longer than fifteen. Wind chimes bring memories of the class clown who, against multiple warnings from every teacher, stroked a cactus in the small garden of our school. Through tears, he explained that he did it because he, "thought the cactus was bald." Wind chimes remind me of treading fertilizer into a garden barefoot as a class, and learning the reason why it smelled so bad. It was in that class that I was taught that smart person is never bored, because she can find a way to entertain herself always.

Wind chimes remind me of the days when I didn't mind the heat one bit, and when I thought it was exciting that we happened to move into our new home on the hottest day of the year.

Today I heard wind chimes. And I remembered the days of carefree imagination. Today I played games with a three year old who shot me with his toy gun, then kissed me on the cheek to wake me from an otherwise deathly slumber. Today my baby brother gave me the biggest hugs when I needed them most, and today I caught a piece of how far I've come since the faraway days of the wind chimes.

"We are the creatures of our thinking. We can talk ourselves into defeat or we can talk ourselves into victory." 

-President Gordon B. Hinckley, entire address here.

I've still got a long way to go, but I think I can get there.

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Conference Weekly here.

Friday's Letters

Niagara Falls on our recent (a few weeks ago...) trip to Palmyra

Dear movers, we still can't get over the fact that you backed your moving van all the way down our 1/3 mile long driveway. Considering the winding tunnel through the forest that it is, that is an incredibly impressive feat. Thanks for the laughs.

Dear USPS, you are my favorite. Please don't go out of business, or reduce your days of delivery. I love my letters too much to lose time.

Dear Christmas in July, you are the best. I celebrated with a morning mug of Stephen's hot chocolate and some holiday tunes. It was the best.

Dear mornings, I've missed you. Let's hang out more often.

Dear three-day thunderstorm, where are you? I've been super excited to experience the crazy natural disaster storms that supposedly happen out here on the other end of the continent. I would be a big fan of a power outage. I need a story to take home, after all.

Dear Costco, I still love your chicken bakes. A lot. Three dollars of Heaven-sent goodness.

Dear imagination, it's good to see you again. The stresses of attempting to fit into this grown up world took me away from you for a time, but with all the time I've been spending with crazy kids, I think I'm finding my way back to you. It's been a good time. Let's keep in touch, okay?

Dear Olympics, I'm really excited about you. Really, really excited.

This 25th Day of July

Memoirs. That's the word.

I've been looking for that word for years. And it finally hit me. I love memoirs. I love them. I love to catch glimpses into the experiences of others. I love a well-told story. I love life in its simplicity, and I especially love to turn something mundane into the extraordinary.

And I guess that's what memoirs do. They take something so simple, so commonplace, and transform it into a universally understandable work of art. They connect us. They help us look beyond social barriers and see that our hearts are shared. Though our hopes and dreams may be different, we all have something that we are striving to become.

You know?

Anyway, today is the day in which we celebrate Christmas in July. I plan on listening to Christmas music all day long, and reminiscing on the days when it was cold enough to wear pants, thick socks, shoes, three layers of long-sleeved shirts, gloves, and a coat--and still fight the urge to shiver in attempt to look normal while walking around Temple Square. While I'm at it, I'll probably drink some hot chocolate soon, before it gets unbearably hot. Then I'll eat some popsicles and pretend that they're snow. I will celebrate that the Christmas season has drawn yet another day nearer.

And, as silly as it is, there is no reason not to take the opportunity to remember what Christmas is all about. A Savior was born. He did all that was required of Him, He redeemed us. And He lives today and is ever reaching out to you, waiting for you to take His hand.

We are so, so blessed because of Him.

Photo Credit

Merry Christmas in July!

Hide-and-Go-Seek

Pretty much every morning this past month has gone down in the same lack-of-routine type of way. Meaning, I have no schedule, but similar things seem to happen in whatever random order they choose. You'll see what I mean in a minute.

Basically, I have lost all ability to wake up and get out of bed, with the exception of that one morning. And kind of today--I've been awake for two whole hours now, but that's about the extent of it. My theory is that 10 months of colleging instead of sleeping has finally caught up with me. Anyway, I generally out of bed when I'm too stiff to stay in there any longer (I'm nineteen, why do I sound like an old grandma talking?) or when my darling mother decides I've wasted enough of the morning away and I must get up. Either way, I groggily stumble my way into the kitchen and start fixing myself some breakfast, when my energetic three-year-old brother comes leaping and bounding into the kitchen with a stream of "Yet's pway a game! Yet's go outside! Do you want to ride my bike wif me?" spewing from his little mouth that has long since woken up and been fed.

I, however, fully intend to eat the delicious breakfast that I have slaved over. (Toast, most likely. Or something that requires a skill level akin to that of toast-making.) But, more often than not, I will leave my carefully crafted meal for a moment or two to play a game, and thus satisfy the small man-child that I might feast in relative peace.

One particular morning, the name of the game was hide-and-go-seek. I played a few rounds, and eventually began "hiding" on the stool directly in front of my tropical-blend smoothie. This must have gotten old, because he soon pulled Mom into playing with him. When she returned to her previous activity of "Monk-ing the house" (have you seen that show? we LOVE it in our house), Benny decided that he would play hide-and-go-seek with the remaining person in the near vicinity--himself. The conversation went as follows:

Benny: I'll play hide-and-go-seek wif myself! One-two-free . . . weady or not, here I come! [Clearly too excited about the vast array potential outcomes to count to the usual ten]
Benny: Now, where could I be?
Benny: Here I am!

The "Here I am!" was complete with a jump of sincere surprise, as if he was completely stunned to have found himself standing right where he was.

We often look at this boy and think, "Oh, to live Benny's life." Oh, to find such joy and surprise in playing hide-and-go-seek with yourself. Oh, to have that imagination. Oh, to be adored by all.

Just the same, I don't think I've quite grown out of the search for myself. Aren't we all in a continual search to discover who we are and what we can become? And as we look behind the couches and in the closets and all throughout the house in the most unsuspecting of places, I think it's fair to say that we are, on occasion, sincerely astonished to find ourselves. As if we hadn't known all along right where our personhood was hiding.

And that's the fun of it all. That's life--full of surprises, and the best ones are when you surprise yourself.

May we all find joy, excitement, thrill, and surprise as we search for ourselves throughout this life.

He also wears flippers while riding his tricycle.

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Conference Weekly here.

Let's Squish Our Fruits Together

Have you guys seen that video? It's hilarious. I regularly reference it in my day-to-day conversation ever since AP World History my junior year, when I saw it for the very first time. I mean, a grocery store musical? Brilliant. I love Improv Everywhere.

In other news, finger painting with the little brother is awesome.

Seriously, I don't remember the last time I finger painted before this. But you guys--you have to do it. Seriously. Go out and buy some washable paints, and just smear it everywhere. Make tie-dye colored handprints. Paint a house. Or a dog. Or a family. Smear all the paints together and make a brownish-red colored piece of paper. Paint each other. Paint yourself. And, for heaven's sake, get messy!

I promise, it's worth every extra second in the shower washing it off. It's not that many extra seconds anyway.

What can I say? I just really love this boy. And I am absolutely determined to never grow up anymore than I have to.

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Conference Weekly here.

Also, last week's is here.

Sorry it's late.

Pink Umbrellas

A summer project of mine is underway: reread the entirety of the Harry Potter series. So far, I have relieved years one and two with some of the greatest characters known to wizardkind, and I am enjoying myself immensely. Much sleep has been lost over this project, as I seem to have developed a habit of starting a book and refusing to go to sleep until it is finished. But hey, Harry Potter is more fun at 2 AM anyway.

But here's the thing. Now I think about Harry Potter all the time, and how great it is and how much I love it. The other day, as my mom, sister, brother, and I returned from a rather exciting day spent at Six Flags, I asked my dear mother a question.

Mom, if Harry Potter were real and I got a letter from Hogwarts, would you have let me go?

Her response? No. Who says that? I mean, obviously Harry Potter is real and I just didn't get my letter from Hogwarts at age 11 because the wizarding world needed me to stay here and protect the muggles, but still. Really? I was in shock. And I didn't speak to her for the remainder of the drive home.

Okay, that's a lie. My furious silence lasted about 15 seconds before I realized that, in my anger, I was failing to protect my muggle family as I was assigned to do by my lack of letter. It was then that I used my secret de-angering technique and continued to intently stare out the window in search of any sign of danger. You know, fixed bludgers, swarming owls, Dark Marks, that kind of thing.

The other day, my sister and I wanted to watch a family favorite: My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding. I guess we all kind of connect to it--we're loud and crazy too. The trouble is, our copy is very . . . well loved. In other words, the DVD has all kinds of scratches on it. Generally, we just skip past the first time it freezes, and the rest of the movie works fine enough. However, we have since misplaced the DVD player remote, so we were rendered completely helpless upon its first freezing. In desperation, I cast my eyes about the room in search of something, anything, that I could use to circumvent the scratches. And that's when I saw it. 

The pink umbrella.

Having recently been reminded of our dear friend Rubeus Hagrid, I instantly knew what to do. I picked up that pink umbrella, swiftly made my way over to the DVD player, and gave it a few light raps. And, I kid you not, the movie began playing again a few moments later. Not one more glitch the entire duration of the presentation.

It was the greatest of my achievements to date. Thanks, buddy. Let's do that again sometime.

Happy Happy. Double Happy.

You know how there are days when something incredibly unexpected comes along?

Sometimes, on those days, you discover the beauty of life. And sometimes you just discover happiness.

I've known about this song for a while, but today I actually ventured over to their website and downloaded the entirety of their free album. I'm currently going through it. So far, I adore it. 

New obsession: Ian Axel.

Friday's Letters

Dear Jimmy, you have been a wonderful friend to me. Well, as wonderful a friend as a phone can be. I know you're getting tired, and that it's not so much the years as it is the mileage, but please keep living. The fact that you sometimes freeze and then turn off of your own accord make me nervous. Endure to the end, buddy. You can have your final rest once it's time for a free upgrade.

Dear quilting, let's become good friends. You're doing a really good job of reminding me how to accept being new at something, and that mistakes are something about life that I will have to learn to accept. Just don't remind me too much. Deal?

Dear stolen fan, you have made my room infinitely more bearable. I think you were needed here much more than you ever were in the living room.

Dear running, thank you for all that you do for me. I especially enjoyed the hill you lead me to again--you know, the one that is surprisingly long and difficult every time? Well, I guess I've only really run it twice. Here's to hoping the third time's a charm. Or I can keep on enjoying the challenge, that works too.

Dear rain, apparently you remind people of me. That certainly isn't something that I have a problem with, because I sure think that you're great.

Dear home in the woods, you are a lot of fun. Sure, it means spraying Deep Woods Off bug spray all over me every time I step out the door, and weird dreams about grabbing a bear by the ears and kicking it in the snout to save my baby brother, but it's lovely. I watch the fireflies every night before I go to bed, and I see the most darling little speckled fawns come walking through our yard.

The Merciful Obtain Mercy

I know I normally just post the link for the Conference Weekly talks, but this one is too good to just gloss over with a, "Hey, go check it out sometime. You know, if you feel like it."

It is beautiful. It is perfect. It is something that we should all hear on a regular basis.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf is truly an inspired man of God. As the second counselor of the First Presidency of the Church, he has lifted me countless times with his words of guidance and encouragement. And for that, I could not be more grateful. For a basic rundown on how the church is organized, visit this link.

It is easy to hold on to things--to cling to them as if they were our only way to get through life. Fear, and hurt, and bitterness seem to offer us protection. "Nevertheless, we must let go of our grievances. part of the purpose of mortality is to learn how to let go of such things. That is the Lord's way."

"We must recognize that we are all imperfect--that we are beggars before God. Haven't we all, at one time or another, meekly approached the mercy seat and pleaded for grace? haven't we wished with all the energy of our souls for mercy--to be forgiven for the mistakes we have made and the sins we have committed?

"Because we all depend on the mercy of God, how can we deny to others any measure of the grace we so desperately desire for ourselves? My beloved brothers and sisters, should we not forgive as we wish to be forgiven?"

Please take the time to listen to these words--they are the words of God, delivered by His servant. Whether you are a member of the church or not, this will lift and guide you. I promise.

The text to the whole address can be found here.

Life is Great, and Connecticut is Not a Desert.

I managed to leave my brand new pair of running shoes 2,300 miles away. And as much as I adore this video, it would be a little hard to reenact when the only love I have to run to is the pair of shoes I'd need to get there. Which is a bit of a problem, you know?

I can't just not run. Not running isn't an option. Even when I am dead, I will find a way to run. I think we established long ago that I am a runner through and through, but just in case you haven't caught on just yet, check out this Pinterest board of mine.

Now that we've removed any doubt, I will tell you good news. As it turns out, it's actually good to have a second pair of shoes to alternate with--you get a little more life out of them when they're allowed a little break every so often. You can't really blame them. I'd want a break too, if I had the job of a running shoe. So new plan: one pair for the summer, and I'll be able to alternate once I locate my missing pair somewhere in the depths of my Utah things.

The trouble with getting new shoes is that I feel the need to take them on a run right away. I mean, look at these babies--they deserve to know what life is. Tomorrow is Sunday, and they just couldn't wait all the way until Monday morning. So, even though it was 90 degrees, I laced them up for the first (and only--I never untie my running shoes) time and took my first beautiful steps with my new best friends.

Then we kept going for four more miles.

And you know, it was glorious and all. I've missed running--this was my first real run since my marathon. (Oh hey, did I tell you I ran a marathon? June 9, 2012. 4:06:17. It was a blast. I'll get back to you on that.) I powered up High Valley with the sun blazing down, and I thought about how great it feels to start pulling myself back together after 10 months of college unraveling. But I learned something very distinctly.

I've always known that humidity makes everything in general more wet. (Like the toilet tank, for example. There is condensation on the toilet tank.) I knew it makes you feel like you never dried off after taking a shower, and I knew it makes you drip about ten times more sweat than you would where it evaporates off you in half a second. But I got a good laugh when a Fleet Feet worker came in the store and said to his coworker, "It's like a freaking desert out there--it's so hot and dry! The air just has no moisture in it." No, sir, Connecticut is not a desert. And until the entire state erupts into wildfires, I will stand my ground. Because here, it takes about three steps before I am absolutely dripping with sweat. To be entirely honest, that was a fantastic feeling--sweat pouring down my face as I took step after burning step, pushing my way up that enormous hill. It's been too long since I pushed myself just for the sake of it. Somewhere along those four miles, a found a piece of myself I had misplaced in the hustle and bustle of life.

Still, I think I'll wake up before the sun for my run on Monday. And every day after that.

Die Hard

Some things just die hard--and I think that pure love and habits are two of those things. Allow me to elaborate.

I love rain from the very depths of my soul. When clouds start to roll in, warm tinglies shoot through my entire body as if to say, "Something very exciting is about to happen. Are you ready?" And I almost always am.

Rain is an instant priority.

There are seldom few circumstances that will keep me from the rain. Whatever I have to accomplish that day has a way of slipping to the back burner until I have had my chance to get drenched from head to toe.

So when the Connecticut thunderstorm rolled its way on in yesterday, it wasn't long before I was standing out in the yard, arms outstretched towards the sky and mouth wide open. It wasn't long before raindrops were running off my chin and my elbows, and it certainly wasn't long before I was running around the yard giggling in delight.

Eventually, the runner in me put forward a convincing argument and I found myself racing through the rivers we had once called streets. Cars driving by sent sheets of water crashing over my head, widening my smile and quickening my pace. When the rain let up, my feet eventually found their way back home, where I discovered my little brother quietly playing in a mud puddle by himself.

I couldn't resist.

We chased each other around the yard with handfuls of mud in a game of "mud frow," we splashed in the puddle to our hearts' content, and smeared in a little extra mud where things just looked too clean. 

"But I don't want to take a bath!"

A combination of cross country and childhood has instilled a necessity to smear mud all over me whenever I happen upon it. Good mud should not go to waste, and I firmly believe that faces are happiest when they have wars stripes painted on them. Mud should be shared, and so should experiences--so should lives.

Rain and mud are just a chance to let go. To forget about obligations and stresses and fears, to stop trying to uphold an image and just be. Just live. Just experience. And, in the process, share it with someone else.

I guess you could say that's childish of me. But, to be entirely honest, it's likely that I'll always be a child in this regard. I simply can't see myself ever growing out of this.

Because some things just die hard.

Some things are habits, and some things you just love. Some things, however silly they may be, are a part of who you are. They make up who you are.

And you know what?

I'm okay with that.

With Everlasting Truth

"Of all the creations of the Almighty there is none more beautiful, none more inspiring than a lovely daughter of God who walks in virtue with an understanding of why she should do so, who honors and respects her body as a thing sacred and divine, who cultivates her mind and constantly enlarges the horizon of her understanding, who nurtures her spirit with everlasting truth."

-President Gordon B. Hinckley, here

And sometimes that's all that you need to hear. 

A Long Time Ago

"Let's now consider the effects of a change in monetary policy. To do so, imagine that the economy is in equilibrium and then, suddenly, the Fed doubles the supply of money by printing some dollar bills and dropping them around the country from helicopters."

You guys, my Econ textbook was hilarious. Every so often I look back to that class and think fond things, but I'm mostly just glad to be done with it. I still don't know what my grade is, and to be entirely honest, I don't really mind not knowing. Sometimes it's just best to live in ignorance.

On another note, I am becoming quite the Star Wars nerd. Remember Number 28 on my bucket list?

Consider it completed.

My world has been forever changed. I will get the chills every time I hear this song, and whenever I sit down to watch a show I will wish that I owned a copy of all six episodes--or, at the very least, Episodes IV, V, and VI. So, if any of you wished to make my birthday, or Christmas, or other present-giving occasion...now you know how.

Just sayin.

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Conference Weekly here.

I Am a Child of God

And so are you.

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Conference weekly here.

{Nostalgia} Humidity

It was dark. When we first arrived at our 6 week home in Hawaii, we couldn't see a thing. So we let the sound, the smell, the feel guide us. The swelling of the ocean pulled us in.

Our feet hit the sand, and we ran until our toes felt the washing of the waves. Giggling in excitement, we breathed in the heavy, humid air in loonnng, drawn out breaths. In, out. In, out.

Like the waves.

An oceanside summer. It took some time for me to adjust to breathing in so much humidity--at first it felt so oppressing. Like I was being suffocated, like I was trying to breathe through a thick, down pillow. But I soon didn't notice.

The sun was hot. I woke up at 4 AM every day to get some miles in before the sun rose. Even still, I came back with my long ponytail dripping and flicking sweat every which way. I finished every run by kicking off my shoes, dropping my watch, and collapsing into the cool ocean water once the resistance was too much for me to fight.

I read. They were summer reading assignments for my classes that year--The Hobbit and 1776. More often than not, I fell asleep in the process. To the steady, soft sound of the ocean waves in the background.

I probably didn't appreciate the opportunity as much as I could have. I certainly was convinced that it was of the utmost importance that I spend a significant amount of time inside, reading those books with the fans blasting in attempts to combat the stifling heat of the upstairs bedroom. I could have enjoyed the ocean a little more, I could have spent more time with my family. I could have done a lot of things differently.

Still, I look back on that vacation fondly. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and I have many wonderful memories of sunrises reflecting off the temple window, Angel's shave ice, and walk after slow walk with my mom.

And I guess that's how life always is. Filled with moments that could have been better appreciated, but generally composed of memories that make it all worthwhile. It's like humidity, looking back. At first it's overwhelming. But as time goes on, you begin to find comfort in it. It becomes soothing. And before you know it, you don't even notice anymore.

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Conference weekly talk found here.