Engaged.

It's true. I am actually, factually, officially unavailable. All single men and vampires, take note, because I'm just not destined to be your Bella Swan.

Instead, I am the cheese to this guy's macaroni:

And believe me, our brand of mac'n'cheese is the best you're gonna find.

But seriously.

His name is Chris Kirkham and he's the biggest stud I know.

We are to be married July 30th in the St. George temple — which happens to be his favorite. That also happens to be the same place and date that my parents got hitched 34 years ago. Wild, huh?

For now, however, we still live in separate states — him in Utah (I know, right? Who lives in Utah?) and me in Idaho (much cooler, I assure).

Most of the time, being apart is not that bad.

Ok, so that's a total lie. It's horrible to be apart.

But, the thing is, it just means that I have that much less time of actually being around him to drive him away crazy, which is probably a good thing.

Oh, I also have some other things going on before July 30th. Just a little ol' thing called graduation.

Still, I can't help but think of July 30th and ask: are we there yet?

Being more.

Heartaches.

They are caused by losing something that we loved.

Sometimes it’s a person you love.

People leave our lives, by choice, or circumstantially — it happens.
When most people think of “heartache,” this is probably the first kind that comes to mind; the longing for a person, their presence, their laugh or smell. The remembering and missing all wrapped up in one.

Sometimes it’s losing something we treasure. Like a book with sentimental meaning. A notebook of original poetry and sketches. Sometimes it’s memories.

We can lose places, too, as with homesickness.

But a person can also lose a space in time — remain nostalgic for a small speck of a lifetime that can never be retrieved.

Perhaps the thing is less tangible. Maybe it’s the idea that people are inherently good, that there is a God out there, that love is forever. Maybe it’s the notion that the world is a place of peace and beauty. Or perhaps it is the loss of innocence, of ideals, of hope.


Sometimes, my heart aches.
And I can’t quite lay a finger on what I miss, because I can’t quite remember it, but—I know it’s real.

Can a person be homesick for heaven?
I often think that I am.

Singing a hymn, the words say:
Yet ofttimes a secret something
Whispered, “You’re a stranger here,”
And I felt that I had wandered
From a more exalted sphere.

And something inside me agrees. The strangeness, the disconnect, the weirdness of being.
Living right now, it’s the only kind of being I can remember. So, why, then, does it feel so foreign?

My heart aches for what my head can’t remember, can’t even comprehend. It misses peace and truth, and love. It longs for clarity
It yearns for home.

There is a lot we lost before we even got here. Or, rather, we gave up so much in the process of getting here, to this life.

And maybe that’s what it means, choosing to live: being willing to lose things you love to be something better.

So, what does your heart ache for?

A Week Home for the Holiday (pt. 3)

V. Wednesday

Eyes level with the table, I poured a layer of the syrup over ice. Flavored blood orange, I had been eyeing the sweet liquid since my mother had placed the brand-new bottle on the table. I mixed in some mango syrup next, then cream, and finally filled the rest of the glass with sparkling water.

It was a girls’ night in, and the others at the kitchen table were also busy concocting their own Italian cream sodas. I tasted mine, and encouraged Aunt Lara to try the blood orange. Janelle, on my right, was mixing a piña colada. Ashley was there, with Robert’s sister, Alycia. Mom was there, and Karalee, as well.

With a six to one ratio of sisters to our only brother, it used to be that most nights in our home were girls’ nights. Karalee loved to bake cookies; to this day, she still makes the meanest chocolate chip I’ve tasted. Ashley would help, but mostly chat. Janelle often would be there with her son Byron, then just a baby, now a rambunctious six-year-old. She might have sat at the table, spooning cooked and mashed carrots into his mouth.

Brittany and I would have hung around, basking in the self-assurance that our older sisters so embodied, glad no one had felt the need to invite friends, which would have precluded our inclusion. We might have painted fingernails as we waited for the cookies to bake, or watched our favorite moments from the BBC version of Pride & Prejudice (which meant skipping over the whole Lydia mess, and replaying several times the moment when Mr. Darcy emerges, dripping and delicious, from the pond at Pemberley).

Now, girls’ nights were a slightly more formal affair. We made Italian cream sodas and had cheese ball and crackers. Pedicures may have been planned and mentioned once or twice, but the talking goes on for too long and they never happen.

I was on my second soda, a pina colada. I offered it up, stating that even though I didn’t wish to finish it, it was still very good; everyone laughed.

“No, really,” I asserted, “It’s delicious. I’ve just had too much sugar tonight. I’m just starting to hit my gag reflex, which means I’m done.” More laughter.

The cream settled in a milky haze in my half-empty glass.

I basked.

VI. Thursday: Thanksgiving

I dumped puzzle pieces onto the golden tablecloth. As I started to collect the edge pieces, I realized my mistake in picking this particular puzzle. It was a photograph of Arches National Park, an arch that is bright, rich orange. The edges, however, are made up of a speckled but homogenous cream-colored frame.

I sighed, and started to sort through the pieces, forming piles: edges, pieces where the border and the photograph meet, brilliant blues of the sky, the white and blue pieces of sky with cloud, bright orange of the smooth sandstone foreground, and the deeper reddish-brown of the background.

Janelle joined me after a few moments; she had given me the task of picking out a puzzle and starting it. Puzzle assembly is another holiday tradition in the Squires home. Actually finishing those puzzles, however, is not.

The house was fairly quiet. Thanksgiving dinner had come and gone in the early afternoon, and now it was evening. Loony Tunes played on the TV. I could hear Mom and Ashley talking and dishing up leftovers in the kitchen.

We assembled the outer rectangle, slowly and laboriously. Janelle talked to me, asked me about dating. I told her about a guy I like, but already messed up a chance with. She listened, offered advice, and all the time, the pieces fell into place.

CNF Piece: A Week Home for the Holiday (pt.1)

I. Saturday

My mother hugged me warmly, despite my ten-hour road trip from college to Las Vegas that had left me tired andgrimy. As she made to release me from her embrace, I tightened mine.

She smelled clean, like laundry detergent tinged with a faint chemical trace of cleaner, possibly Simple Green or Windex. She was comfortable, familiar in the way the skin on her upper arms felt slightly dry when my hand brushed them, and how she tucked her chin over my shoulder.

I released her; leaving one arm around my shoulders, she said in a calm, even tone, “I’m so excited to see you.”

“Oh, yea, and don’t you seem so excited,” I said.

“What were you looking for, something more like this?” She clapped her hands together and then threw them up with a dramatic shriek and a wide-eyed, manic expression of faux-delight. She let out a genuine laugh then at the sheer silliness of it—such an overwrought contrast to her perpetual poise and reserve.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said in a mischievous tone. We both know she is not the type of mother that insists on hugs and kisses. She doesn’t fly at me with barrages of questions or smother with attention.

No, she is the kind of mother who waited, instead, with a reassuring smile, a quick hug, a simple but constant welcome home.



II. Sunday

Siblings, brothers-in-law, an aunt and uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews poured in for the first family gathering of the week that I would be home for the Thanksgiving holiday. The fare of the dinner looked like something from a poolside barbecue, almost comically incongruous to the holiday season: pulled pork sandwiches, my mom’s famous potato salad, and fresh spring salad loaded with grape tomatoes and avocadoes.

I loaded up what I would eat, skipping the pulled pork. I laughed inwardly; Janelle had apologized earlier for bringing a main dish that was so meat-centric. “I still always forget you’re a vegetarian now.” It was amusing to me, but oddly relieving that no one had over-accommodated me.

We ate, and as the food on our plates disappeared, the talk grew loud and the children ran screaming and exuberant up and down the length of the house.

Eventually, we gathered in the family room, sleepily filling in pulled-up dining chairs, the couch, the love seat. I shared a wide lumpy armchair upholstered with an earthy-colored, nubby cloth with my close friend of five years. Jenny has become as much a fixture at family gatherings as any of us.

The room quieted as Ashley began to speak, thoughts on gratitude that she had prepared. Her voice was clear and high, a voice that mine resembles. We are blood; she is the fifth child, preceding my position as the sixth, and four years my senior. She has been married for over three years, and her husband Robert sat next to her now, gripping her hand.

She spoke of experiences that the rest of us only half-knew: hospital stays, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, intensive care units, weakened immune system and bone marrow transplants. She spoke of what the months watching, waiting, serving, holding out faith for a leukemic husband had done to her soul, and what it had done for it. Sometimes wavering, she spoke of prayers proffered in despair, others in hope, of hearts aching, but also hearts healing. Her voice coagulated on those words that rose from a place that is an opening to both pain and peace.

“A grateful heart is the beginning of greatness,” she said.

Jenny placed her hand on my arm. I looked around the room at my family. My niece Taryn sat on the floor where she had busied herself pulling tissues from the box. I noticed Dad scoot his chair closer to Mom, then extend his arm across her shoulders, saw the way she settled into that elbow crook that she must know so well.

I had all the beginnings of greatness right there.

This is the first installment of a creative non-fiction piece I wrote (and still finishing) that is a memory from each day I was home for the Thanksgiving holidays. The rest will follow.

And the meek shall appreciate what they inherit.

This is a column I wrote for the Scroll, published on Sept. 22, 2009.

We all have things we’ve inherited from our family.

It might be red hair, an artistic eye or habits. It could even be horrible eyesight or a propensity for using long words.

I’ve inherited a lot from my family, which consists of my amazing parents and seven of us kids — and we are all really close, maybe unusually close.

A friend once told me, “Your family is like a cult,” a statement that I could only refute with the fact that we don’t drink Kool-Aid of any kind.

But I’ll just leave it with saying that my family gets along really well and spends a lot of time together. As a result of this, we’ve ended up picking up each others’ senses of humor, mannerisms and ideas. While we are all very different, all of us still fit quite comfortably within the same Squires mold.

The similarities extend beyond my immediate family and into my extended relatives. There are two amazing ladies in particular from whom I have inherited much: my grandmothers. They are both ladies who have been through a lot in their lives, enduring with faith.

My maternal grandmother, Grandma Bev, is a lady full of whimsy and fun. I remember the magical hours of entertainment she would spin with her animated recitations of Shel Silverstein poems. (Oh, that peanut butter-loving king. Will he never learn?)

And let’s not forget the ever-popular Candy Bar Game.

I always looked forward to going to Grandma Bev’s, knowing I was sure to get pretty well spoiled.

One of my favorite things, however, was to sing along with Grandma Bev while she played the ukulele. Eventually she taught me how to play it a bit, a little two-chord version of “La Cucuracha.”

While I never mastered the ukulele when I was younger, in high school I decided I would get more serious about it. After all, if ukulele skills can’t get you somewhere in this world, I’m not sure what can.

I went to the local music store and picked up a ukulele. I still remembered a few chords and soon taught myself and became quite proficient.

When I saw Grandma Bev next, I showed her my recently acquired uke knowledge. I was surprised by how touched she was that I had stuck with something she had taught me, to see the influence that she had had on me.

When Gandma Bev’s arthritis developed to the point that it became uncomfortable to play the ukulele, I inherited her beautiful, handmade-in-Hawaii ukulele. And while I adore it, I treasure more the memories, knowledge and love for music she shared with me. Every time I play my ukulele, I think of Grandma Bev.

The other amazing lady is my Grandma Jean. With my grandpa, she spent four years serving two consecutive missions in Africa. She is dynamic, a cheerful little powerhouse, always full of energy, advice and a kind word.

And while that kind word might sometimes be telling you that eating almonds helps with acne, or that you have a little smudge right there on your face, you still knew that it only meant she cared enough to notice.

In addition to the hairline along my neck (which veers crazily to the right), I inherited the middle name of Jean from my grandmother.

I was reminded of this while reading my scriptures one day; I came across this verse in Helaman 5:6:

“Behold, I have given unto you the names of our first parents who came out of the land of Jerusalem; and this I have done that when you remember your names ye may remember them; and when ye remember them ye may remember their works; and when ye remember their works ye may know how that it is said, and also written, that they were good.”

I know we might not all be named after someone, but we all have last names to remind us of those we inherited them from, of those who went before.

My some number of greats-grandpa John Fell Squires, for example, was one of the children who comprised the first generation to be raised in the Salt Lake valley. His father was, in fact, the barber to Brigham Young. My last name stands for all those steps taken to Zion, the sacrifices my forefathers made for their faith and the many hairs of a Prophet cut.

In addition to what we’ve inherited from our families, we have a rich heritage as a Church and as a school.

We carry the name of Latter-day Saint, the title of BYU-Idaho students. Let’s remember those who came before us, whether they crossed the plains or pioneered the changes that have made this university what it is today. Let’s remember the good that they did and try to live up to the standards they set.

After all, if it wasn’t for what we’ve inherited from them, we wouldn’t be the people we are today.

Tribute to my mother

My mother watches as one of her grandsons Jr. plants a kiss on another, Elijah.

Lori Gardner Squires. To me, she is mother. To the rest of the world (besides my six siblings, I suppose), an amazing woman.

A mother at twenty, a grandmother at forty-two, she is the kind of woman who has made her family the center of her life.

My oldest sister Kristin had her first baby in 1998. My mother did what she has done with the birth of each of her nine grandkids: she traveled out to support the new mother and care for the new babe. She helped to smooth the transition from insanely pregnant woman to brand-new mother. Cleaning house, rising at unholy hours of the morning, babysitting; she has done it all.

A month or so later, the whole family made a trip to meet the bouncing baby. I was awed. I stared at this tiny little creature and wondered if it was really possible that it would someday grow into a person. I held him, breathed in his newborn scent and marveled at the process that could enable my sister to make something so perfect, soft and amazing.

My sister cradled her new joy, and I could tell she was in love. I was away at college when another sister, Karalee, had her little boy Elijah. He was a chubby baby, the pictures sent to me via camera phone reminding me of Augustus Glump from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

When I met him a matter of just five weeks later, he was unrecognizable. Born with Pierre Robin sequence, a combination of a cleft palate, small jaw, and asphyxiation caused by the tongue falling into the throat, the little guy had a near impossible time eating. He had lost a lot of weight, and was quiet and lethargic. Even sleeping was a struggle, as it caused him to asphyxiate on his tongue.

My mother was there again, reassuring my worried sister. When Elijah was hospitalized in Salt Lake City, she drove up several times to be with Karalee and grandson, to uplift and help in any way she could. Through the following surgeries and hospital time it took to get Eli healthy, that wonderful woman was there, doing what she does best: mothering.

Lori holds Elijah, August 2008.

On May 16, 2009, Lori Squires was again made a grandmother. My sister Janelle, quite pregnant at just three weeks away from her due date went into labor at a family gathering. My mother, of course, jumped right into things. She took her home, set her up in a tub full of water, and called the midwife.

It soon became apparent, however, that this baby would not be waiting for any such a luxury as a midwife. Just a short fifty minutes after she went into labor, Janelle gave birth to a beautiful baby girl—and my mother was there to deliver the baby and welcome her to this life.

I have watched my mother tenderly handle those floppy newborn beings that are her grandchildren. I have seen her goof around and play with them as they get older. She spoils them, as a grandmother rightly should.

It is no secret that she loves them. And I know my mother was once as infatuated with all 9 lbs. 8 ozs. of newborn me. She once held me with the same wonder in her eyes, and loved to hear my laugh.

I am comforted knowing that, when the time comes, my mother will be there with me as I welcome my future children into this world. She will be there to support me in all that I do.

Because my amazing mother, after 36 years, still knows what is most important, and continues to center her life on those she gave life to.

Thanks, Mom.
And I love you.

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." -Psalms 56:3

My heart aches.

I want to be home with my family.

I wish I could laugh with them, cry with them, fast and pray with them.

I wish that there were more that I could do.

I know Robert and Ashley will pull through everything.

I know in my heart that everything is turning out great and that Robert will heal; and at least, if sometimes I get scared, just knowing that Ashley knows it is reassuring.

If she doesn't doubt that the person she loves most in the world will be okay, how can I?

How can I doubt?

The Necessity of Hope

It has been a while since I posted, so it feels like I have a lot to talk about and catch up on.

More than anything, while these past few weeks have held much conflict for me, they have also come with something so much greater: Resolve.

Robert's regular checkup found leukemic cells in his blood. He is back in the hospital, and has just finished off a first round of chemo. He will also have to undergo another bone marrow transplant.

I also have been letting myself get afraid. Drawing away, letting myself get scared. Afraid of being vulnerable.

Honestly, I feel that I've given in to despair often lately. My personal journal is filled with phrases like, "This is all so confusing," "I don't know how to do this," or "I can't believe it; I just feel so angry." Still, after I wind on down that path for a while, I always end up coming back to the Savior, and to His love. Almost every entry ends with a reference to Him and His atonement.
Too often, I lose sight of the opportunity that each day is. I think about the prospect of the next day, week, month, year, and wonder how I can do it all. Wonder how it is that I can continue to go on, to exist in a world that is so full of pain and despair. What could really make living in such a crazy world worth all the heartache?

And then I remember the answer: Christ, our Savior. It is His Atonement, His sacrifice that makes sense of all the senseless pain and tragedy of the world. He lifts those who reaches to Him, makes it possible for them to heal, to become pure. He descended below all these things, all these hurts so that He could lift me above them

Hope is more than just a feeling; it is a conscious choice. It is the choice between having faith, believing, and keeping our hope alive, or giving in to grief and despair. Being hopeful means habitually choosing hope over fear or doubt, every time the choice presents itself.

I have received the resolution I needed. I have felt a confirmation, letting me know that all things are working together for good. I know Ashley and Robert’s journey will be hard and painful, but I also know it will be worth making. I know that because of the Atonement, and their faith, something good and beautiful will come out of it, something better than could have come by an easier way.

I also know that all things in my life are working together for my good. I see the way to courage and love opening up before me. I feel that I am being blessed with the resolve to embark on the journey. I am ready!

I choose to have the Hope needed to know that what lies ahead is perfect.
The best is yet to come.

The Ultimate Dare

This past weekend was so amazing. I drove down to California and spent the weekend with Tess. I love that girl! She is a true friend, even if it is impossible for us to share a bed (apparently I kick/touch/take over when I'm sleeping...excessively).

In any case, I got lots of sun and tons of beach time. We even rode seadoos; Tess was wowed by my amazing seadoo-ing skills (and with good reason ;] ). We even chatted up a good number of fellas, rode a roller coaster. Serenaded random people on the beach (on the uke of course), and have an all-around good time. I love hanging out with Tess because she makes it hard to take the world (or myself) too seriously.

Her mission over the weekend was to get me to do/say silly, random, outrageous things--and I did. Half because it was her birthday and i couldn't begrudge her a birthday-dare or two, and half because it really was fun.

For instance, we were shopping and we walked past the Abercrombie and Fitch store. I stopped in my tracks, staring at this huge, blown up picture of a man's naked torso, with pants pulled dangerously low. We of course giggled at it--it was completely absurd. We both agreed that those pants were just scary-low. Too-much-information-low. Seriously scandalous. And then: the dare came. Go into the shop, and closely and conspicuously inspect the photo. In a squint-your-eyes, bend-closer-to-see, put-hand-to-face-in-thoughtful-gesture-type manner. And of course, I did, and got several odd looks from patrons and employees alike.
I was sure at the time that I was making some awesome statement, but the exact intended message of that action escapes me at the moment.

Another example: Monday night we went out to P.F. Chang's, just the two of us, for dinner, and made up this whole elaborate scheme to get the entire restaurant to sing her hapy birthday. It didn't work too well; it ended up just being two waiters and my lungs at full power that sang to her. It was still sufficiently humiliating, and thus a success, nonetheless. I'm sure we convinced several of the tables around use that we were pretty intoxicated--despite the fact that all we'd had was water (and of course, neither of us drinks). Alas, our strange, crazy, obnoxious behavior does not even have that explanation (excuse?) !


In any case, I love being aroud Tess, because she's one of those friends who insists on me always being honest, being myself. It's like this unspoken challenge, the ultimate dare: "Be true to you!" Around her, I am reminded that what others think of me and how they perceive me really isn't a big deal, and that I actually can't even control that. Even if everyone on the planet thought I was crazy, or homicidal, or lazy/untrustworthy/etc., it wouldn't matter; I would still be OK. It's none of my business what people think of me.
And Tess reminds me of this, reminds me of my business. It is my job is to just live my life in such a way that brings me joy, and allows me to think well of myself and feel good about who I am. And really, if I do that, who can fault me for it?