The Year of Discipline

Happy Two Thousand and Eleven!

photo by my talented and lovely sister, Ashley Ashworth

I like setting goals. In fact, it’s something I took to doing every three months or so this past year. That works better for me; that way I have a time to stop and assess how I’ve been doing and course-correct as needed.

Chris and I sat down and made some goals to start off the new year. Mine included flossing daily, running a marathon, and starting a blog about bookbinding. Also featured was getting my house tidier/more organized and paying ¼-1/2 of my school loans.

But I’ve been thinking about myself and the things I really want to change. As I stared at my list of things to do, it seemed that most of the things on the list of goals were things I should already be doing (flossing, keeping my apartment cleaner). And I knew that it was likely that most of these things would happen—but all of them? And what would fall through the cracks?

My sister Brittany posted a link on facebook to Christine Kane's post about New Year's resolutions. She suggests a different approach; instead of setting goals, pick one word that you want to kind of encompass the change you want to see in yourself. I liked the idea.

I looked over the list and almost immediately I knew what it would be for me: discipline. I consider myself many things, but disciplined is not one of them. I think, for me, it was a way to rebel when I was younger. I’ve never liked being told what I should do. It always seemed to me that if I absolutely should do something, it would happen eventually. Like dishes getting clean or essays written, book read or even graduating from college. They happen, right?

But I guess that I’m starting to realize that somewhere along the way, I was losing control. Losing my power over my time and how I would use it. Losing my ability to focus and accomplish.

And that’s really what I’m feeling like true discipline is about—not doing things because others think I should, but rather, keeping the commitments I’ve made to myself. Getting a little follow through for all my hare-brained schemes.

So, my mantra for 2011 is discipline. Already I’ve caught myself getting off task and been able to ask myself: is this a disciplined way to do this? Is this really what I’ve committed to doing right now? Looking at my list of goals, the only way to make sure they happen? Discipline myself. Make a plan and stick to it. Become my own best friend and personal assistant.

I talked to my sister, Kristin, about this idea. She shared a quote with me that went something like this:
“You can either face the pain of discipline or the pain of regret.”

And I don’t know about you, but I’ve tried regret on for size a few times and I don’t much care for it. It’s itchy and chafes in all the wrong places. My guess is that the pain of discipline will be closer to the burn of a good work out and the delicious achiness that follows. The pain of strength.

So here’s to a regret-free 2011.

What are your goals and ambitions for the coming year? And what is your plan of action?

Understanding identity & feminity

Recently, I found the April issue of the New Era (the magazine written and printed by the Church for teenagers)in the student newspaper office. It was a special edition, all about "Dating for Beginners," and it was full of some really amusing things (the whole issue can be found here).

There was a lot that I felt was good advice; overall this was a great introduction for young people to dating. I remember having a lot of questions when I was younger that the magazine addressed.

Another section addressed to the young women. The Young Women's Presidency gave dating advice, most of which were good things like "Be Physically Fit," and "Improve your social skills."

But one bullet of advice really bothered me. It read, "Behave like a daughter of God. Do not be forward, loud, brash, or suggestive. You may have seen this kind of behavior in movies, but it is not fitting for a young woman who understands her identity as a daughter of God."

Hmmm, I thought. I am definitely all those things.

Forward? Check.

I've definitely asked guys on dates. I've told others that they needed to take me on a date.

Loud? Check.

Ironically, I was loudly reading excerpts from the New Era in my hand just moments before. I seem to be missing the volume-control built in to most humans.

Brash? Check.

I'll admit it — I'm irreverent. I try not to be rude, but the truth is, life is too funny and absurd and ridiculous to be polite and soft-spoken all the time.

And suggestive? Check.

Not sexually suggestive, silly. Is that really all you can think about?

But, I suggest things all the time. Just today I suggested that the trash be taken out, because something smelled like rotting, snot-covered, fetid pig vomit.

Not to get graphic or anything.

Also, I would suggest that maybe it would be better to encourage young women to be genuine and unique. To love who they are, even if that is brash and loud. To be willing to take responsibility for their life and get what they want—even if it means being forward, or being intimidating and not getting asked out.

I suggest that it is great to be brash and loud. Being forward and going for what I want doesn't mean that I misunderstand my role as a woman — it just means that I'm not afraid to make things happen. My strong personality is what makes me powerful, and I'm not afraid to be so. I know that I was created loud and forward for a reason, in the same way so many are timid or shy. They are just different ways to do the same thing; to share my beliefs, to be bold, to be forward in what I feel passionate about.

So, go ahead girls: get loud. Be brash. Go forward. Make suggestions. Because you're powerful, and it is this boldness that will enable you to make a positive change in the world.

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?

Resolving the New Year

2009 was an odd year. It brought a lot of learning and growth, but that came with heartaches and pains attached. It’s been humbling; the kind of year that leaves one feeling enlarged but deflated.

Every Christmas Eve my family has a gathering in which we share our feelings about Christ, His gospel and His love. This year, we upheld the tradition, minus one; my brother-in-law, Robert, who passed away on December 13th. The convictions and thoughts we shared were more sober and tender than they have been in past years.

“It’s been a hard, painful year for all of us,” said Brandon. “But I feel prompted to say that 2010 will bring a lot of healing and resolution to our family.”

I believe that statement.
I’m hopeful for the new year, and for the new decade.

I want to be more, to do more. I’m not much of a goal-maker, but I’ve gotten the feeling lately that I need to make goals for 2010.

I don’t like setting goals, usually. They seem trivial and insubstantial: getting good grades, writing a book, exercising daily, going on a lot of dates— these kinds of goals serve a purpose, but at the end of the year, these are arbitrary.

Especially now, with the loss of a loved one. I can’t help but look at things differently. At years-end, when I evaluate the person I’ve grown into in those twelve months, I won’t be looking at things like that.

In a year’s time, when I look back on 2010, I’ll be asking:
Did I grow my love?
Did I heal hearts?
Did I nurture my soul?
Did I change my small corner of the world for the better?

I recognize that I'm getting grandiose here. I'm getting sentimental, perhaps. And, as my Dad would say, my hippie is showing.

But still, I believe:
Goals should clarify. They should simplify.


My goals for 2010:
-Develop consistent, daily spiritual habits (starting with praying every morning and night).
- Develop the attribute of charity.
- Write more. Write better.
- Spend time in nature once a week.
- Serve some one. Every day.
- Get enough sleep (eight hours a night, minimum).
- Read two excellent books a month.

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.

A Week Home for the Holiday (pt. 2)

III. Monday

Jenny had planned this outing at least a month in advance, a date between her, her recently acquired boyfriend Chris, and me.

I sat in the backseat, slurping on the eggnog shake that I ordered, even though I knew I wouldn’t finish the whole thing by myself. We had eaten dinner at an Italian restaurant, and now Chris was driving with Jenny in the passenger seat; I watched them interact.

It was easy enough to see that Chris adored Jenny. He deferred to her in almost everything, an attribute I’m sure my bossy friend didn’t mind. He seemed aware of her, picking up on the fact that she doesn’t really like PDA, or that she hates having her face touched; the small things that matter, things that I know only because we have been friends for so long.

I considered my position in the car, and laughed inwardly. It was somewhat appropriate. Over the years, as boys had come and go for both Jenny and me, it was consistently the case that when Jenny had a boyfriend, I took backseat.

I dragged on the straw, feeling bored. Chris and Jenny were chatting, bantering within the dynamics already created in their relationship, a dynamic I couldn’t quite match. The spiced sweetness of the cold shake felt too heavy, too thick as my esophagus constricted the liquid downward.

“That was at the same time that you were dating Jamie, right?” Jenny addressed me. I hadn’t been listening; I had no idea what she would be referring to.

“Uuuh, yea, I’m pretty sure,” I replied in a bright voice. Facts satisfactorily verified, she carried on with her story.

IV. Tuesday

At the grocery store, I called my mother. She relayed to me the list of what she’d sent me there to pick up:

“–8 bags of lemons—you know, the ones that come with 3 lemons in a little mesh bag.

–6 bags of oranges, I’m pretty sure these come in a red bag. . . .

–A loaf of bread, whatever looks good will be fine, and

–a gallon of milk. Pretty sure that’s it.”

I snagged the groceries, the citrus fruits weighing down the shopping basket on my right arm. By the time I checked out and make it to the car, my biceps were shaky from holding the burden up.

I piled the groceries onto the corner of the counter at home; Mom stood by the sink and looked as if she had been at this for to long. She was in the midst of the annual season tradition in my family, one that has been so central to my life that I couldn’t imagine a holiday season without it: making cranberry ice.

On the stove sat a large steaming stockpot. I knew what would be in it even before walking over, but I did anyway. I peered inside and breathed in deeply. It smelled tangy and thick. Cranberries winked in the bubbling water; some had already burst open, others were still firm and bright.

My mom ordered me to add sugar to the bowl sitting next to the stove. It held a soupy goop, a runny mush that was a deep burgundy pink, a magenta perhaps. I measured out the sugar, counting to eight aloud to ensure I got the amount correct. I followed Mom’s further directions to add water. Then she got busy, slicing oranges and lemons in half and juicing them with quick, deft movements.

As we worked, Taryn wandered into the kitchen. Two years old, she has an inquisitive, round face, and large eyes that sit under fast, dark eyebrows. She has often reminded me of baby pictures of myself, with the cherub face that still manages to look determined and focused. And in many ways, I am told, she acts like I might have as a young child. We share intense, curious dispositions.

And just then, Taryn was curious to know what Mom was up to.

“Nonni, want see,” she demanded, reaching her arm up to point at the juicer on the counter. My mother obliged her and set her on the counter to observe and assist in the process. Taryn swung her legs, clunking them against the wooden cupboards. The boiled cranberries and juiced citrus produced a heady mix of rich and fresh.

As I watched my mother instructing her granddaughter on the art of juicing, I felt certain she had once spoken to me in the same, affectionate way. I can’t quite conjure up the frame of time, or memory, but she must have once swung me up, seated me on the counter, and let me watch her work.

Somewhere in my memory I am studying her hands; one holds a sieve with boiled cranberries in it, the other works to mash them against the metal mesh. I am a young girl, perhaps four, or maybe an overlay of several ages. But I watch the innards of the cranberries, in consistency somewhere between goopy and syrupy. It creates a ghastly drip into a large metal bowl, looking like so much vivid blood. After a while, I am given a turn. I mash with inefficient vigor. When the cranberries in the sieve are sufficiently turned to a pulp, I turn the spoon around and scrape the velvet-rich cranberry pulp from rounded underside of the sieve and into the bowl.

In the present with her granddaughter, my mother poured the juice into the bowl. Taryn let out an awed, “Ooooh!” These were the last few ingredients.

Soon, the liquids would be mixed together and then separated into Tupperware containers and old cottage cheese tubs saved especially for this purpose. They would be sent to the freezer to sit, then retrieved again, hardened, to be added to lemon-lime soda. And on some future night, the family would gather and eat, talk, visit, laugh, and drink this treat--carrying on in the same vein of tradition it was made.

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.

Confessions of a former WoW-Head

There is something about me that most people don't know. I don't readily admit to it, and it is with some consternation that I am putting this in print for all to read.

Here it is: I played World of Warcraft (WoW).

Sadly, it is true. For two years of my life, I was a WoW-head.

It all started in my junior year of high school.

I have always been a gamer, from Roller Coaster Tycoon to Diablo II. When I hit high school, however, my gaming interest slowly trailed off.

Then I heard some of my guy friends discussing their varied and epic adventures within the World of Warcraft. It sounded fun and exciting—and I hadn't really gotten into a video game for a while. So I decided to give it a whirl.

The game is, of course, a lot of fun. It is designed to be that way. It is filled with challenges, beautiful landscapes, and interesting characters. Perhaps its best selling point is, however, that you play it online with other real people. You can fight against, befriend, duel, trade and train with them. The social aspect is what makes it great.

I wouldn’t say I was hooked at first, but playing WoW definitely became my first choice of ways to spend my leisure time.

Eventually, though, I did become more involved with the game. While I had originally started out playing the game with my friends IRL (in real life), I soon branched out and befriended other adventurers I met in-game as we joined up to complete quests and battle the Horde scum.

And that is when it happened: I got sucked in.

Suddenly I found myself turning down offers from my real friends to go bowling on a Saturday night because I had to meet up with my guild to run a raid.

L33t speak started leaking into my everyday vocabulary. A couple of times I caught my self saying something was “twinked out;” after a particularly good dinner, I told my mom she had truly become an Artisan Cooker (she didn’t get it).

As I fell asleep at night, images of running through Ironforge or capturing the Lumber Mill in Arathi Basin would flicker across the insides of my eyelids. I almost felt more at home running around a player vs. player arena as my pink-skinned Night Elf Hunter, Barbiecue, than I did anywhere else.

image courtesy Paul Kwon

I'm not saying I was some pale mindless zombie who lived only to play WoW. I didn't hole myself up in my bedroom for days at time, hunched over with a headset perched atop my head, surrounded by piles of empty soda cans and moldy pizza boxes.

Looking back, though I can see that I had become desensitized to living in the real world. I didn't feel that great about myself, and my priorities had turned a bit fuzzy.

I played WoW from my junior year in high school up until I started school at BYU-Idaho. I wish I could say that I came to my senses, and stopped playing of my own accord, realizing how much of my time it wasted. Sadly, this was not the case. I stopped playing simply because the internet censor in the dorms blocked the game, and it seemed like a waste of $15 a month to keep my subscription.

It was something of a relief. In the six months or so that followed, some incredible things happened. I developed talents (some of which, like painting, I didn't think I had), worked in church callings, studied hard, and earned grades I felt good about. I made a boat load of new friends and even dated a little (gasp!).

During that time, I was reminded how vital and vivid living in the real world was compared to the insubstantial offerings of the pixelated world I had played in.

It was easier to feel good about myself when boosts to my self-esteem came from relating to and serving others in a meaningful way, or getting a good score on an exam, instead of whether I had Most Damage Done, or the number of quests I completed. Nothing I ever did in WoW begins to match the satisfaction of creating something real and beautiful with my hands.

As I listened to Elder Bednar As Elder Bednar outlined how these things can have desensitizing and harmful affects at the last CES Fireside, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I found myself looking back on the hours spent, not just with playing WoW, but with other video games, Myspace, blogs, Facebook and Youtube videos. I couldn’t help but wonder how many great opportunities those things have kept me from taking advantage of.

After all, this life is amazing and full of joy. It is designed to be that way. Heavenly Father filled it with challenges, unique experiences, beautiful landscapes, and fun and interesting people along the way.

Perhaps the best selling point of this life is, however, that it doesn’t fade after a computer or console is turned off. The things I gain here, like my body, memories, experiences and family will be mine forever.

That is what makes living IRL (in real life) truly great.

Note: This is an editorial I wrote for the Scroll. Let me know what you think. Criticism (or praise? ;D) welcome.

The beauty is the blur.

Sometimes, you stand still.

You just stand, or slump. you sit. you throw your head back and reach out to the sky.
You curl up, knees to chin, arms securely around.
You pose defiantly, legs sturdy and hands firmly on hips.

The world swirls around you in a blur:
your life
Passing.

Recently, it has been that way for me.
Days streak past me.
Not a bad thing in itself, but it makes it easier to miss out on the good things.

Standing still, watching everything move around me, it is dizzying.
I hardly know sometimes what to make of things.
I see a flash of color, and while I try to decide what it was, three more splash by me.

But maybe its not so much about organizing my life, knowing what each speeding streak means. Knowing where it is going or why it came.
Could those be as beautiful if I organized them, sorted them out?
Hung them up on a clothesline for all to see,
Or placed them carefully in individual boxes?

Where would the Life be in that?

Maybe it is less about knowing, and more about observing, and enjoying.
Noticing each shape, hue, rich- or flatness.
Letting each splash in turn, have its time
To be beautiful.

And so,
For now,
I trust that know matter why these streaks came, or where they are going
or what picture all these flashing colors will someday form
that no matter what magic they weave around me:

The sum
the whole
they someday will form, the glory these splashes hint at
will be so much more miraculous than
any of these
small
parts.

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.

Some Nitty-Gritty Details.

In my previous post, I discussed the challenges and blessings that have come with being back up at school.
But, apparently, you guys (Janelle) didn't want to hear vague statements or sweeping generalizations.
No, you wanted details. The juicier, the better.

So, seeing that I am such a people pleaser, I decided to oblige. Following are some details about my life up here in Rexburg.

Weather:
It is pretty darn cold, but there is not nearly as much snow as there was last year. It's only snowed a couple times since I've been up here. I am kind of glad about this, but come on. This "all or nothing" business is a bit extreme. Plus, the Idahoans need the moisture!
Also, the snow melts and makes a lot of ice. Good for shoe skating.

Classes:
-I love my British Literature teacher. He is very entertaining, and has fun being in class. He has gone off on several amusing tangents, including a long story about why his dog got itself impregnated, and it is the worse dog in the world, among other things. We also had a lengthy discussion another class period about whether his shirt was pink or just "light red" (it was totally pink).
-My Spanish class is going really well! I currently have a 99.48%, so go me! The teacher I have now I also had for Spanish 101, and she is a great, and her teaching style really works for me.
-Orchestra is great; we are playing the IV Movement of Dvorak's Symphony no. 9 New World. I swear, I didn't know it was possible to actually record that kind of majesty, but it is. Give it a listen.
-My Music Appreciation class is fun, as well. My teacher is pretty laid back, and hey, I get to listen to a bunch of music, go to live concerts on campus, and get credit for it all. Hello, awesome!
-My Book of Mormon class is also really good (aren't religion classes always good, though?). One of our first assignments was to write a paper outlining one area of our lives that we wanted to improve on. I chose selflessness; I would really like to experience having more of that ultimate Christ-like quality.

Roommates/Apartment Life:
I am really loving my apartment! It was a bit quiet at first, and us roomies didn't interact a lot at first, but it has really warmed up and we have a lot of fun together.
-Last night: OH THE DRAMZ. Kirsti and Deborah (they were good friends, and now share a room) got in a fight! Kirsti was joking around, pushing Deb's buttons, but then Deb actually got upset and threw a loaf of bread at Kirsti, who threw it right back and followed it up with a bottle of cranberry juice (which consequently exploded all over the floor). It was INTENSE. AND CRAZY.
And pretty hilarious, really.
They made up later, as well, so it was all good.
-Kirsti and I have been working out together! We've gone to a step class a few times, and which are actually a lot of fun! Kirsti is from Texas, and LOVES animals. She watches Animal Planet all the time, and says at least once a day how much she misses her dog. She is pretty fun, but also a pretty focused person.
-Deborah cut my hair, and it actually looks SO FLY. It is now shorter in the back, and longer in the front. I'll take a pic and post it soon. So, yes, Deb does hair, and is in school for Auto Mechanics. She is from South Carolina is totally a country girl. She's sweet and nice.
-Paris has her room to herself (since Tess ended up not coming up). She is SO nice, and is pretty quiet. She is totally fun to hang out with though, because she laughs at me and thinks I'm funny. She is trying to get into the Nursing Program here right now.
-Jennifer is my roommate, and she is totally cool. She is tall (6'2"), and half Native-American, half Honduran. She is also a direct descendant of Sittin Bull. Cool, right? She has the biggest heart, and we have a lot of fun together. She makes a honking noise when she blows her nose and it is amazing!

What's New:
- I am writing for the school newspaper now! It is called the Scroll, and I had thought about getting involved in it, but was afraid I wasn't qualified or it would be too hard. It was funny, though, the subject kept popping up from different people. For example, I met this guy and we were introducing ourselves (his name was Russell), and almost right away he asked if I was interested in getting involved in any school publications (he does a lot of advertisment stuff with the school). I told him I was, and just had to laugh on the inside, wondering how he could have known! He encouraged me to go talk to someone in the i-Comm office, so I did, and voila. I was writing for the Scroll! It was almost disappointingly easy.
In any case, I wrote my first article and turned it in yesterday. I will post a link when it goes up on the paper's website.
-I have this totally obnoxious and ridiculous crush on a guy in Orchestra. He plays the bass, and he is so. good. looking. Seriously, I forgot what it was to be this attracted to someone. He is either a 1-2 or a 2-1, I think, and has the squinty eyes a la Robert Ashworth.
Yesterday I was helping put chairs away after class. He was standing next to the stack of chairs and offered to put up the two I was carrying. My heart dropped down to sphincter, I'm pretty sure. I let him, and that probably would have been that, but I somehow (thanks to a pep talk on Sunday by Ashley, centered around putting myself out there more) got up the courage to introduce myself. His name is Jacob, and he was even thoughtful enough to clarify whether my name is spelled with an "A" (which, as you know, it is not).
It was a small victory--but a victory nonetheless!--and I walked away grinning from ear to ear.

transitioning...

It has been a whole official week since the beginning of classes, and I must say that I am enjoying my time here at BYU-Idaho. Which is a relief. While I was constantly looking forward to being up here again the entire time I was in Las Vegas, I was still nervous.
Would me roommate be a "Me-Monster"?
What if my workload was crazy hard?
Would I get a lot of chances to meet new people?
What if the people I already knew didn't want to talk to me?
What if the testing center wouldn't let me in because of my crazy red hair?
What if my crazy red hair scared off potential dates?

I felt overwhelmed my first couple of days, which I realize is normal, but that doesn't make it any better to experience. (It actually peeves me when I am discouraged or frustrated and people tell me it's "normal" to feel that way. How exactly is that supposed to make me feel better? But I digress). I have also felt oddly anxious about most everything; usually I am pretty easy-going, and get things done as they come, make friends and meet people as I go. So feeling anxious or worried about anything really isn't my style. I am particularly concerned about falling behind in school. I guess this does cause me to be more motivated to get work done, i is not very enjoyable. I much prefer being motivated by pretty much anything, rather than fear. I'm kind of missing my old, leave-it-until-later, pull-it-together-at-the-last-minute self.
It's kind of hard not to feel isolated, as well, when you are living with four perfect strangers, your family and friends are ten hours away, and even if you wanted to talk to them you couldn't because you forgot your phone charger, and sadly enough, your phone does not run off of chewed up fingernails. I rely so much on my family, it can feel very hard to be apart from them for any amount of time.
So, in summary, I was kind of thrilled to be here, but my excitement was more a vague haze I could feel floating around on the other side of anxiety, loneliness, and something close to panic.

Still, even though transition are most always awkward, this one has been relatively smooth. While being up here isn't quite how I pictured or would have liked, I have noticed that I have many moments of clarity and joy. I feel more vivacious, and I have moments in which I truly relish life. Taking the time to notice the little, simple things; that is where the joy lies. When I take time to be grateful for:

-the sound of snow crunching beneath my feet,
-the smell of my vanilla lotion,
-being silly and having my roommates laugh along with me,
-the feel of my body, and how strong and good it is,
-tasting the health and flavor of food I cook for myself,
-the way that fog makes the world look peaceful and subdued.

...That is when I can feel and hear most clearly all the many ways Heavenly Father is telling me He loves me.
And I could never count them all.

a wonderful weekend.

It really was a great weekend, filled with some of my favorite things.

There was my Dad's homemade salsa, and breakfast burritos to enjoy it on.

I listened to the living prophet speak in General Conference.

I got to hang out with my amazing family.

We were spiritually uplifted together.

We laughed together.

Watched Dirty Jobs together.

I have an interview with the woman who (helped) cater Ashley's wedding reception.

I am rested, rejuvenated, and ready to go!

So, watch out, world!

Besties.

As many in my family know, my good friend Jinny has recently started attending church and taking the missionary discussions. She had been talking for a while about finding out more about our church (I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, i.e. LDS or Mormon), and so I invited her to attend with me probably four weeks ago. She really enjoyed it! Everyone in my singles ward was really friendly. She particularly like the Sunday School lesson, which was on Faith in Jesus Christ. She has attended church with me every Sunday since, and Thursday she had her second discussion with the missionaries. She has started reading the Book of Mormon, and has felt the Spirit very strongly.

I really love Jinny. She has been an example to me for all of the four years we have been friends. She has always been very strong, loving, and generous. It has been exciting to see her faith increased, and her heart opened. It makes me so happy to see the truths that bring me joy in my life bring joy to her, as well. To see her remembering things she once knew. She has had two missionary discussions so far, and have a third next Tuesday. She really loves them. I also, have loved being their with her on this journey, to be reminded of truths, and to remember my faith, as well. As I have been with her and supported her, I have noticed that my perspective, especially spiritually, has been renewed, and my excitement about God and my relationship with Him revitalized. It has been fun, touching, and awesome. She is an amazing person, and such a great friend. We have shared a lot in the time we've been friends, and I know we'll share much more in years to come. I love her!

Jinny and me at Ashley and Robert's wedding reception.

Yesterday, I went over to Karalee's early in the morning (though not as early as originally planned--oops!), and we did yoga! Well, I did yoga, and she managed to squeeze in a couple poses before her two kids put an end to all of that. Tyler is adorable, and I love that every time she sees my she runs over and gives me a hug. She always so happy when I come over. It warms this Aunt's heart!
I also accompanied them (along with Brittany, Janelle and her two chilluns, and Ashley) to Linens'N'Things. It is closing down so they were having a big sale. I got some sheets, a rug, a mattress cover, and a throw pillow for my room when I go back up to school. Byron and Tyler were hilarious, they had these little vibrating, handheld massagers, and were running around the store with them. Byron was sure this device had to do somethign more than simply massage; so he pressed it against his chest and yell, "I'M INVIS'BLE!! YOU CAN'T SEE ME I'M INVIS'BLE!!!" We all humored him and played along with, "My goodness, where did Byron go???" and "Don't know, I can't see him anywhere!!!" Tyler didn't really get that we were pretending, and just stood there looking confused, pointing at Byron right in front of us, and saying, "Here! Here! He here! Right here!" It was adorable. I love those kids.

We also went to JoAnn's, and I got some REALLY gorgeous textured silk to make a duvet cover with. It is a rich, beautiful gold color, and I got it for SUPER cheap--only $4.50 a yd! I think my angels really worked that one out. We also ate a delicious and wholesome lunch at Panera Bread. It was great to hang out with my sisters and their cute kids.

Faith.

It is something I am trying to learn more of. I thought I was doing pretty okay with it. Was doing alright with the whole, pray-study-ponder thing. I figured my faith had grown a lot up at college, in leaps and bounds. Me and my faith, we were pretty strong. Ready for most everything.
And then I came home from college.

It seems silly to me to sit here saying that coming home from BYU-Idaho has been so hard. I mean, I was going to a great school, and then came home to an even better family. Hard life, huh?
But, oddly, it was. I guess I had all these expectations of how it would be and what would happen. I was going to get a job that paid well and gave good hours. I was going to be part of a totally awesome singles' ward and dominate the social scene. Boys would be falling over themselves to date me! My family would be so strung out with elation over my triumphant return that, well, they simply wouldn't know what to do with themselves. I would practice the cello! Learn the guitar! Paint! Write! Show the world what I was meant to do.
And then, I came home. I didn't have a bedroom. All my plans for getting a job fell flat. My singles' ward turned out to be awkward. I've been on a total of one date. And, I have all this free time, but what to do with it? I sat around for many hours. Re-watched all 4 seasons of the Office. Wasted a lot of time.

Which is how I got to where I was last night. On the way to pick up Britt from work, I thought about how I had spent my day. I had promised myself that I would get my bedroom and bathroom clean; both still lay in gross disarray. I had watched the Bee Movie "on demand"--and by myself. I had eaten a entire half of a frozen pizza by myself, in one sitting. The thoughts were all pretty dismal.
And then Brittany gets into the car and asks me: "So, what did you do today?" aaaand I kind of lost it. Started crying. Pretty intensely, too. I don't think Brittany really knew what to do. I was just so--MAD at myself! When we got home, of course, Mom and Dad wanted to know what was wrong. Dad offered a blessing, which I accepted, gladly. Then we had a nice, long talk. I prayed and went to bed feeling much better.

I woke up this morning, eyes all puffy still. Sigh. Got ready for my first day of work (at Tilly's! seasonally! minimum wage!). Eyes still looked puffy. And they kept looking and feeling that way all day, reminding me of all the things I had to think about and ponder on. And I had some inspirations.
I was reminded of Matthew 6:24-34. It's a particularly poetic excerpt from Christ's sermon on the mount (you can read the whole thing here). But, I will quote verses 31-34.

"31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
34 Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Maybe the whole not-getting-a-real-full-time-job-thing is a blessing. Not even really in disguise. I mean, I have loads of free time. More than I know what to do with. Something that so many would fall over themselves to have a li'l mo of in their lives.
More than that, though, there is a reason I need to have a complete overload of it in my life right now. I know that the Lord has something great, something important He wants me to do with it. It might be something different each week, or it might be a lot of little somethings each day, or it might be one big something from now until the time I head back up for school. I don't know, and I decided: I don't have to! I just need a bit of faith, enough to take the step I'm feeling right about, and that will be good. That will be enough.
And also, I don't need to know and figure out exactly how my schooling will get paid for. It will because it's where I want to be, and where Heavenly Father wants me to be. It is right. It will happen. I know that.
I guess my lesson right now is not to worry that I'm not "toiling" or "spinning" as much as I should be or think I should be, or whatever. But to just have faith. Trust that the Lord will reveal to me all things that I should be doing, if I will keep a clear mind and an open heart to receive what He has to tell me.
And trust that, as I allow myself to be more of what God created me to be, that I will know what to do, and that He will feed me and guide me. Just as He does the fowl of the air and the lilies of the field.
And all it takes to start is a little more Faith. Maybe only a mustard-seed's worth more than I had yesterday. But just that tiny bit.
And the rest will follow.