2/9/14: Special Guest Post by David...

Recently someone asked me, "What is it like being married to a marriage and family therapist student?” 

Tonight on a flight to Seattle when I saw Mt. Rainier gracefully emerge through the clouds I finally found my answer. I hate it. H.A.T.E. And by hate, I might mean love.

A few years ago I climbed Mt. Rainer via a technical route that includes a few hundred feet of ice climbing. Because of the many dangerous crevasses I was in a rope team with three other people. Unfortunately, two of the three people on my rope team decided to be tourists and take pictures every few minutes. Every time they stopped, the rope connecting us would go taut and I'd come to an abrupt halt. This constant, violent jerking strained my body more than I was prepared for. 

At about 5:00 a.m. at 13,000 feet above sea level, I was succumbing to altitude sickness.

In that moment I hated everything I was doing. It didn't matter that the sun was just starting to rise and the entire mountain reflected a transcendent palette of pinks and purples. It didn't matter that I was just 1,000 feet below the summit of one of the most technical routes on Mt. Rainer--the largest mountain in the continental US. 

I hated all of it.

When we reached the summit everyone else was shedding jackets and celebrating. Instead, I pulled my big red down jacket from my pack, threw it on, and shivered violently--not even able to stand. 

About 11:00 a.m. we were finally back to base camp, more than 12 hours after we'd left. We packed our tents up and started the slog back to the ranger station about 6,000 vertical feet below us. By 6:30 p.m. I was stuffing my face with the best tasting pizza I had ever had. 

But at this point the two tourists and I had a decision to make. Did we start the 14 hour drive back to Provo, or find a hotel somewhere? I was beyond broke and had a flight to catch in less than 48 hours. So, motivated by destitution, and fueled by more Mountain Dew than I will ever admit, I drove the three of us 14 hours back to Provo, through the middle of the night, after climbing for 20 straight hours, while the two tourists snored soundly. 

34 nearly sleepless hours later I was back in Provo HATING everything I had just done. 

Strangely, the next day as I was on a plane headed to the east coast I was already dreaming of climbing Rainier again. I'd seemingly forgotten how much, in the moment, I hated everything about the experience. Suddenly it was one of the most incredible moments of my life!

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Being married to a MFT student is something similar. On days where she had a good session, Erin's excitement is uncontainable! After a day filled with sessions that 'didn't go that well' she gets down on herself. While I try to be supportive, I'm learning I'm not that great with the whole 'emotion' thing. Fortunately Erin's life is consumed with helping people feel; connecting with their emotions. Being married to her means I don't get to just be "mad." I have to be one of the what she calls primary emotions--"disappointed", "sad", "scared", or "hurt." At first it all felt very artificial, but now I realize how emotionally bereft I can sometimes be.

A huge focus for Erin's program is "self of the therapist." For her, that means being acutely aware of her own issues and weaknesses so that she can learn to not let them interfere with her therapy. For me, it means that at least weekly she comes home with probing questions about herself, me, and our relationship.

I knew when she was accepted into BYU's program that in a way I was getting accepted too. As part of Erin's program she started going to individual therapy. Soon after, WE started seeing a therapist. Being honest, I hate it. But I hate it in the same way that I hated my experience on Mt. Rainier. In the moment you can't picture anything more repulsive, painful, demanding, or discouraging. And then you realize that you just paid a lot of money for that "privilege"! 

But somehow when it's all over you realize just how transcendent and elevating the experience was.

I have a profound respect and admiration for everything that Erin is doing. Every day she is pushing herself to overcome weaknesses and better connect with her emotions so she can help others do the same. Frequently she feels like she hasn't made any progress. The truth? Being married to her I can hardly believe the amount of change I've witnessed in the last few months. It's a big part of why I hate being married to an MFT student. Watching her work so hard pushes me to work on my own issues. I can't just "coast" for a bit, and I hate it.

Sitting in the Seattle airport, all I can do is dream about climbing Mt Rainier again. I think I might actually love being married to a MFT student,  I wouldn't trade it for anything. I look forward to the coming months while Erin is in school because we're closer than we have ever been. My love for her is deeper and my respect and admiration grows daily. 

So I guess when people ask me what it's like being married to a MFT student I should just give them the short version and say, "It's awesome."

Wrong Roads...

Wow.  I just watched a video from Elder Holland where he told a story that I so needed to hear.  Here's a link to it if you're interested.

His son and he were on a trip and they were turning back home when they came to a fork in the road.  Neither of them recognized it, so they prayed about which way to go.  They felt like the right road was the correct one to take, so they proceeded to go right and found a dead end.  It was clearly the wrong road.  They turned around and headed forward on the left side of the fork, which was clearly the right road.  

When his son asked him, "Dad, why did we both feel like the right road was the one we were supposed to take, when the left one was correct?", Elder Holland answered by saying, "I think the Lord was trying to reassure us of the right road, and the quickest way to do that was to let us go about 400 yards on the wrong road so we'd be certain that the left road was correct."

This so profoundly touched me because I feel like I've seen this application in mine and Dave's lives multiple times.  This is pretty personal, but I hope it's alright that I'm sharing this on here.  Dave was engaged to a girl before me for a long time (like a 2 year relationship experience total).  Things eventually didn't work out and he ended up having to break off the engagement.  Throughout the entire engagement, though, he felt incredibly strongly that he was doing the right thing by sticking with her.  It wasn't until the night before he ended the engagement that he felt peace about walking away.  I won't go into too much detail, but there were some problems with her family accepting him and some stuff about him being short and having a Psychology degree which wasn't secure enough for her or her family.  He was hoping she'd be able to work through the issues and have an open dialogue with her family so she could make her own decision, but she never could, and he didn't feel right waiting any longer after about 2 years.

He didn't meet me until a year or so later and I have been grateful since the day he met me for his experience with this previous engagement.  When I first heard about it, we were just friends and I thought, Wow, I could never marry someone knowing they were ready to marry someone else before me...  But surprisingly, this hasn't been the case at all.  This other girl and I are pretty similar in our interests, major, hobbies, etc, but I handle difficult situations very differently.

Dave wouldn't have appreciated the qualities and abilities I bring to our marriage half as much as he does if he hadn't watched her function so differently with them first.  He's always so vocal about how much he values me because he has this whole other life he almost walked into to compare it to.  He loves my family so much and is so grateful for their support and love of us because he dealt with an "in-law" situation where they didn't support him or their daughter in anything they tried to do.  And most of all, I think Heavenly Father led him down this "wrong road" for so long so that when the "right road" (that's me!) came along, it would hardly take any time at all for Dave to know it.  And that's how it happened.  Dave knew before I did that he wanted to marry me, and I think it's because he had the certainty that comes with traveling down a wrong road first.

I think for right now, my life is full of wrong roads.  (More like a complicated freeway rather than a simple backroad fork.)  I'm constantly chasing new ideas about what could be causing my chronic pain.  And I'm not just chasing; I'm fully driving down the road all the way to the dead end.  I've had surgeries, hormone treatments, physical therapy, and other procedures that have all left me wondering, why did I feel like these were the right things to do at the time, when they were so clearly wrong?  We're getting to a point now where there aren't many possible diagnoses left, and I think Elder Holland might be right that Heavenly Father is letting me travel down all these wrong roads right now while we don't have kids, life is pretty low-stress, and we can handle the expenses of everything so that when life gets more complicated, we can feel peace about a diagnosis and treatment for whatever this is.

Maybe this is just naive optimism again, but I'm personally choosing to cling to Elder Holland's possible explanation for this wild goose chase we've been living for the past year or so.  It gives me hope, patience, and peace that I'm doing the right things by listening to my intuition and guidance from the Spirit about my health plans--even when they turn out to be wrong.

Pretty Pretty Princess...

I forgot to blog about my sewing projects!  I wanted to sew a costume for my niece Tori, and I saw some pretty yellow fabric at Hancock's the other day so I decided on a Belle dress.  Now, you have to understand that my total count of things successfully sewed was 3 before this dress--a pair of pajama pants, a skirt, and a button up shirt that fits super awkwardly.  A costume was like, way out of my league, but I figured that if it didn't fit quite right, who really cared?  And if worst came to worst, I could hot glue it together, right?  So anyway, I got the costume pattern from JoAnn's and got to work.  I had already done pretty much everything the directions were asking me to do before except a liner for the bodice.  I've never sewn a liner because we weren't that advanced in our beginning sewing class, but I knew I needed to learn, so I figured this was a good time.  

I was nervous the dress would be hideous or wouldn't fit her at all, but it actually turned out great!  Things I learned:

-People are not exaggerating when they tell you slippery fabrics are hard to sew with.  Wow that satin was a nightmare!  I didn't realize how easily it caught and slipped around under the presser foot!
-Simple embellishments like sewing a ribbon around the bodice is going to add a lot of time to your project when you're not that great at sewing even just the basics.
-Tulle is super cheap and easy to sew because you can't really see it, so who cares if you mess up?
-You can't sew a dress for one niece, and not for the other.

Notice jealous little Riley in the top right
corner...that broke my heart.  

Overall, though, it was a blast.  It didn't take as long as I expected, and Tori was adorable as she pretended to be Belle and dance around in her dress for about 2 hours.  Here are some pictures of the process..

I was so excited after I finished the bodice!  

Here's what the dress looked like just according
to the pattern directions (minus the hem).

And here was the finished product once I'd
added some jewels and the ribbon.

And here's Tori in her dress!

Of course, after giving Tori her dress and about breaking into tears at seeing Riley's disappointment in not getting one, I raced to the store to pick a pattern for Riley.  I settled on a much more colorful dress because I have to admit, I was so done with yellow after Tori's.  I wanted something cheaper and quicker for Riley so I found a pattern using mostly Tulle.  I decided I would just pretend it was Sleeping Beauty and call it good :)

Loved the sparkly tulle and cheap costume
satin that worked wayy better than Tori's!

Her sleeves were harder, but so cute!

The belt was actually velcro so it could detach,
 but it's pinned here so it looks awkward...

Final product!  The belt looked a little space warrior princess
so I added a rose made out of the scraps I had left over.

Riley was so adorable in it!!  It was a little small for her, but I knew that was going to happen--
I made a mistake cutting it.  That was a lesson learned--Don't Do That!!!

Life Update May...

So we just left off with graduation, and now we are finally into May!  Before I go on, I don't think I've talked about my church calling yet.  So I was in the primary doing singing time, which I absolutely loved.  I was so impressed with these kids and how musical they were at such young ages!  They helped make our transition into this well-established family ward a lot easier because they were so loving and friendly to me every Sunday :).  Unfortunately, I was released from the Primary about a month ago and my new calling is the Ward Music Chair.  

Basically, what I do now is try to find musical numbers for sacrament meeting every Sunday and get families or groups together and ready to perform.  There are lots of other responsibilities that go along with it like just trying to build up the culture of music in our ward, which I'm excited about, but I sure miss my primary kids.  I sort of cry inside every time I pass the primary room on my way to Relief Society and hear them singing the songs I taught them.  (I just realized I never posted about primary officially, which is sad, but I'm sure I'll be back there at some point in my life, so don't worry...)  But Mother's Day this year helped change my feeling about my calling a little bit.  

The primary kids always perform a Mother's Day song and they were as cute as ever, but I also wanted some young women to perform "Consider the Lilies of the Field"--which I actually wrote about two years ago here--what can I say?  I love this song!  I have always loved this piece and I thought it was appropriate for Mother's Day because it's all about the most perfect example of love from our Savior that we should all be trying to emulate.  Getting the young women to practice with me was more difficult than I thought it would be--their lives are so busy!  But they were very dedicated, and they were excited about getting the harmonies right.  It turned out beautifully and I really felt the Spirit when they were singing.  I was so proud of them and it made me excited about seeing more music in this ward.  

This last weekend we camped up in American Fork Canyon with Annie and Russ.  It was a long, cold, rather miserable trip, but it was still fun.  Lucky Dave has a fantastic tent that kept us warm and dry during the torrential downpour.  We stayed just long enough to do tinfoil dinners one night, and a breakfast casserole in the dutch oven the next morning.  Then we were outta there!  Dave and I got to go fishing the first night for about an hour while we were waiting for the rain to stop and I caught a fish!  But then we didn't really get to go again so it was kind of lame.  Hopefully we can make it up there again sometime soon when the weather forecast isn't predicting a storm...lesson learned--don't plan a camping trip hoping the weather report is wrong!  

You can see just a tiny bit of my fish!!  It was a beautiful rainbow trout!

The breakfast casserole was delicious!

Awesome tent with amazing rain fly.

This is what our campsite was sitting on.  The river!

Happy to be by the fire under the EZ-up and out of the rain...none of us died of carbon Monoxide poisoning luckily.

So I think that sums up May for us.  Maybe I'll be more diligent about posting from here on out.  If not, just know it's because we are finally cracking down and finishing the last of our Thank You cards for our wedding (I know...so late!).  So I guess I'll be back when the thank you's are done :)

Four Short Years...

The morning of graduation felt surreal.  Maybe it was because my convocation was earlier than I ever wake up, or maybe it was because my Young Adult Lit professor lost my final and I knew I still needed to retake it for him (best class ever...not), but whatever it was, I just didn't feel like it was real.  Or maybe I felt like it was real, I just didn't feel like it was a big deal.  Knowing that nothing is really changing--we're staying in the same house in the same ward, I'm starting back up in the fall, Dave's still working and doing his program--sort of took the excitement out of the day for me.  Surprisingly, the emotions I felt were a lot more sadness and sentimentality than excitement.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love school.  I love my professors, love literature, love becoming a better writer and thinker with every class, and just love learning overall.  My last final was an oral discussion with my American Novel professor and 7 other students from the class.  I was almost brought to tears when I was giving my response of what I personally think makes a great novel "great".  I was just so sad to think that I may never take another English class again at BYU.  I may never again have a professor force me to read something as challenging as Moby Dick, and teach me through the process that dedicating my time and my mind to a difficult novel is well worth the rewards.  I guess I'm just grateful I'll be living in Provo for the next 4 years at least where I have BYU's resources at my fingertips.  And I'm grateful for e-mail and professors who care about their students enough to respond to their questions or ideas.

I guess this is the part where I thank BYU for all the years of learning it provided me with.  So thanks BYU.  Thanks for teaching me to decide who I am and stick to it.  Thanks for teaching me that "who I am" will probably change as my life and experiences change--and that's okay.  Thanks for teaching me that I can do anything I put my mind to.  Thanks for helping reinforce my faith in the Gospel through your ridiculous religion classes.  Thanks for teaching me how to read--and I mean really read.  Thanks for teaching me that hard work goes a lot further than pure talent in this world.  Thanks for teaching me that it's more important to be nice than to be smart or the best.  Thanks for teaching me that you can learn from anyone at anytime--often when you least expect to be taught. I guess I just want to say thanks for the past four years, BYU.  You've been great.  Here's to hoping the next two will be just as great.

Who Needs Shakespeare...?

The following is a rant spurred by an issue brought up in my class the other day.  I will concede that it's a little one sided and overly passionate while lacking in rational support for now. Maybe someday I'll write a full-fledged paper, but for now...feel free to skip this post if you don't want to read about my stubborn views about literature.

***You teachers out there...please don't judge me for having an idealized view of high school classrooms...I admit I haven't ever taught before, but I just want to hold on to my precious belief that students can still be motivated by literature.***

In my Young Adult Lit class (again) today, we discussed the idea of replacing teaching the classics with new, popular, young adult literature in the classroom.  My professor's argument is that kids can't relate to The Scarlet Letter or The Great Gatsby.  I can understand where he's coming from, but I'm dumbfounded.  I couldn't believe that this entire class of English Teaching majors agreed that we should stop teaching the classics in high school!  They're basically advocating that we dumb down our education system to make school more accessible.  What about trying to raise our students up?!  What about teaching them that the great things in life don't come without hard work and effort?  I think part of the argument is that the classics are really hard to teach because the kids just don't read.  I can't argue with that because I definitely spark-noted my fair share of novels in high school, but the writing wasn't lost on me.  Maybe kids won't read at home.  Then read it together with them in class!  Or if there isn't enough time in class, take  specific passages and pick them apart with the students to show them that really great writing is complicated and full of multiple meanings--which makes reading it time and time again worth it.

I, of course, was just coming off of reading my novel about Charles Dickens and remembering how great he is, so I was personally offended that anyone would suggest that Laurie Halse Anderson was anywhere near his level of greatness.  I'm not suggesting that all YA lit is trash, there are actually some really great YA novels out there, but for the most part, we have a literary canon because those are the texts worth studying--even hundreds of years later.

One girl went on and on about how Shakespeare is so dumb, overrated, and we all put way too much stock in his plays.  I could maybe understand what she was saying, except for the fact that I've studied Shakespeare--and lots of it.  Maybe he didn't mean to support feminism, religion, the traditional family, or all the other meanings we ascribe to his plays, but who cares?  If we can still derive new meaning from plays written 400 years ago, props to Shakespeare.  Yes, on your own, as a 9th grader, Shakespeare is almost inaccessible and has the potential to be meaningless, but with a teacher guiding you slowly through and explaining the difficult passages, it becomes the incredibly beautiful and inspiring text that it is!  Sure Romeo and Juliet was difficult, but my 9th grade class enjoyed it.  And we were able to grasp enough of it to know that it was worth picking up again later on in our lives.

I'm sorry, but I just don't think very much young adult lit is worth reading over and over again at different stages in your life.  The main argument for easier reading is that at least assigning young adult lit will get kids in high school to read at all.  I hate the concept of having to dumb down reading just because nowadays we're used to immediate gratification, at the cost of real learning and growing.  Maybe we can make the summer reading some YA books, but what's the point of reading simple, easy books, when we have teachers who are specifically there to help us understand the difficult novels and become better readers/thinkers?

K I'm done with my rant.  Congratulations if you made it all the way through!  I'm just completely shocked that the future teachers of English from BYU don't think the classics should be kept in the classroom.  Like, have we been taking different classes or something?  Because from where I stand, studying Shakespeare has the potential to make you a better person, and I'm pretty grateful my high school teachers had the gumption to trudge through these classics with me all 4 years. Their dedication helped inspire me to work hard to understand the meanings behind books like "To Kill a Mockingbird" and plays like "The Tempest", and I feel like I'm a better human being for it.

Sometimes I Feel Bad...

Sometimes, I'm too rash.  My family has come to expect only extreme reactions from me in ordinary circumstances.  For example; if it's too cold in the car, I frantically twist the air control to all the way hot, full blast.  Then, when I inevitably get too hot, I frantically twist it back to all the way cold and full blast, or turn the air off completely.  While I recognize that there's a better way, I can't help it!  My body only knows how to tell me things in extreme ways.  I personally think the problem is that what others feel as simply "a bit chilly" I feel as "I'M GOING TO LOSE MY TOES IF WE DON'T TURN ON SOME HEAT RIGHT NOW!!!!!"  It's weird, and I know it.  Sometimes, things are just black and white to me and I completely miss the gray.

I think the first time Dave ever saw an extreme situation with me was when I was furious with my landlord over her incompetency.  I believe he sat in the car and listened to me rant and rave for 30 minutes straight.  He'd never seen my face so red and my body so riled up.  I was ready to run miles and miles or smash things (and if you know me, you know running is a completely drastic response).  Anyway, the point is, the first time this happened, it scared him.  He was literally in shock I think.  I wasn't the girl he thought I was--I was irrational!

I used to pride myself on my extreme emotions and ability to get so passionate about something I lost all inhibition.  Since meeting Dave, a calming influence in my life, though, I've tried to change that.  I think I've succeeded mostly (the car temperature still gets me, I have to admit), but last night, when I was casually checking on my grades for one of my classes I noticed that I had close to failed an assignment.  I was livid.  It's a class I don't put much time into because I feel like it's not that difficult.  Most of the students in the class are young English Majors or non-English Majors, so I feel pretty confident in how my writing should compare.  Anyway, I pretty much failed this assignment and I was so so upset.  I tried to go back to sleep, but I just was so furious.  I couldn't stay calm lying there as the rage was coursing through my veins.  How could this professor tell me, as I'm getting A's in most of my other classes right now, that my writing is worthy of a D??  And this is the second assignment I've done terrible on!  What the heck!?  Does he hate me?!  Is he just out to get me?!?!

I couldn't sleep until I had sent him an e-mail, so after writing and deleting one that wasn't appropriate, I wrote a very calm e-mail asking him to meet with me today about my grade in the class.  He responded this morning (and by this time, I had calmed down significantly and, to be honest, was over the entire situation) and I went in to talk to him.

It turns out that for the first paper I hadn't done well on, we reread it together and he decided he would change the grade because he must have been in a very bad mood while reading it through the first time.  We then read the second paper I wrote together and he absolutely loved it and told me to expand it into my final paper.  As for the grade that started all of this, it turns out it was a misunderstanding and all I need to do is submit a different thesis and I'll have full credit on the assignment.

Of course, I feel foolish for reacting so harshly last night and spending the majority of this morning wishing ill-will on my professor because he was actually incredibly nice and helpful when he met with me.  Not to mention, he spent about an hour with me working on my writing, which I always appreciate.  I just wonder what it is about my genes that makes me so prone to overreacting.  I blame it on my genes, even though I'm the only one in my family who reacts so strongly.  Will I ever be able to stop the intense knee-jerk emotions that drive all of this?  Or is this just one of those things that'll be a life-long challenge?

All I know is, I better figure it out soon, because I definitely can't teach others how to control their emotions and problem-solve in healthy ways if I myself let my emotions rule my life, right?

In Praise of Mentorship...

As my previous post suggested, I've been struggling with staying focused and engaged in my English classes this semester.  I hate this of course, because it means I'm not using my tuition money wisely, I feel like I'm wasting my time, I don't feel inspired by literature anymore, and I feel sort of bad about myself for turning in less-than-polished papers to my professors.  But I finally figured out why I have lost interest in school.

I miss my brilliant professors from last semester.  Two in particular--Hutch and Dr. Walker.

Both professors teach literature through the lens of the Bible which I have come to love.  I think Hutch has brainwashed me to read the way he reads.  Typically, I'd resist against a professor telling me how to read, but I've been fully converted to his style.  I took 3 classes from him about American Literature and how the Bible informs those texts.  Hutch was a hard professor.  Lots of C's on my papers.  Lots of harsh criticism.  Lots of frustration that first semester.  But when it comes down to it, I don't think I've ever had a professor take so much time individually with his students to improve their writing and thinking skills.  Not only was Hutch the type of professor who cared about his students, but his classes were inspiring.  The days were far and few between that I walked out not wanting to share what I'd just learned or thought about in his lecture.  Probably my favorite class he taught was all about autobiographies of early American people.  His discussions about the religious revival in America in the early 1800's clarified a lot about Joseph Smith and the beginning of our Mormon heritage for me.  Hutch had a way of challenging our previous notions, pushing us to think further, and bringing the Spirit to Literature.  

Dr. Walker teaches the Bible as Literature.  He's been teaching here for like 40 years or something insane, but he's the nicest man you've ever met.  He teaches the Bible as if it's a collection of short stories that we have the ability to unpack.  We talked about different ways of looking at Samson and Delilah, King David, Jonah, etc.  While his class sometimes bordered on sacrilegious, I really genuinely feel that his classes brought me closer to God.  I read the Bible with a vigor I've never had before.  I think in the LDS culture we are "biblically illiterate" (as Hutch says), and I'm grateful Dr. Walker gave me the skills to look at the bible differently than ever before, and embark on familiarizing myself with it.  

These two professors have helped me understand that if you're looking for Literature to blow your mind--Find the biblical allusions and think about the implications.  

Anyway, how does this relate to me losing motivation this semester?  None of my professors (with the exception of my Shakespeare Senior capstone course professor) challenge my thinking or help my mind expand and grow with every novel we read.  I don't think it's their fault, I just really miss the confidence I had that Hutch and Dr. Walker's classes would consistently have me exhilarated and motivated to go research on my own to find new applications for the literature to my life.  

I think the main difference is that both of these professors were mentors, not just teachers.  They obviously taught me well, but they also spent the time to personally get to know me, my writing, and my thinking.  They'e clearly in this profession to help influence people's lives--not just to be known as BYU professors.  

                                                       

The Fear of Mediocrity

You know those self-deprecating thoughts of "I won't ever be as good at this as so and so" or "I can succeed, but I just can't ever excel in this" or "Why is everyone else so much better than me"? If you don't, then I congratulate you and cannot relate.  I was talking to my sister today about feeling discouraged because she felt that no matter how hard she worked she would never be able to be "the best" at her specific field.  As I empathized with her I also unintentionally reflected on my own experience here at BYU and in life in general.

It all started when I was little. (Doesn't it always?) I was ahead of the kids in my classes with my shapes, reading, math problems, etc. from about preschool to third grade.  We just liked to read at my house a lot I think.  And the whole 3 kids older than me led to some self-induced learning competition as well.  This led to the idea that if I wasn't the best at something, it was not pertinent to my life.  No adult imposed this on me, by the way.  This was completely all my own faulty logic.

Then we moved to Southern California with its incredibly competitive schools.  All of a sudden I wasn't the best anymore.  Almost everyone in my classes was smarter, funnier, more clever, and more successful than me.  This paradigm shift in my life led to some (who am I kidding?  LOTS of) meltdowns and discovering through trial and error that it was okay if I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.  I could still be worth something even if I was just mediocre compared to my 5th or 8th grade class.

In high school, I always took the honors and AP classes, so I guess that's not considered mediocre, but I sure felt that way.  So much so that I hesitated to make comments in class because my essays never received A's, my comments never led to my teachers telling me they appreciated my input, I always felt that whatever I had to contribute everyone else had already thought about and dug a few levels deeper to come up with some brilliant comment.

When I got to BYU, I actually felt pretty successful at first.  My freshman year of English classes I felt like I could hold my own.  But as I progressed into the 300 and 400 level courses, my self-esteem began to plummet again.  It was like I was reliving my AP English class again.  Everyone had noteworthy comments except me.  Everyone could come to some earth-shattering meaning from the readings lightyears before me.  And everyone received A's with seemingly no effort.

The difference between my university experience and my high school experience is that I stuck with it.  I received so much satisfaction from my Literature classes that I wouldn't dream of dropping the major, but I really felt that I would never be able to measure up to my professors' or fellow students' brilliance.

Fortunately, I started to really get to work and met one on one with my professors to work on my writing and reading skills.  I developed some amazing relationships with these professors and my writing has skyrocketed.  I feel confident in my papers for once (rather than writing a shamefaced apology on a post-it note when I turn it in).  I receive A's or at least high B's on my papers.  And I feel like I can keep up with my professors and classmates when I actually read the novels before class (which is a struggle in and of itself).  I've never felt this way before and I just want to encourage my sister to keep with it.  3 years of not feeling "excellent" but pushing myself to become so has led to the greatest satisfaction I have ever felt from any English classes I've ever taken.  The way I read and think has completely changed and I have learned to value my own opinion as much as anyone else's.

Admittedly, sometimes I wonder why in the world I would want to put myself through a completely different discipline that I have NO experience with next year when I am finally feeling like I truly fit in with MY discipline and can compete.  But I'm just trusting that my new-found skills are transferrable to the social sciences...

Paris Trauma...

Paris, France.  Romantic.  Lovely.  Quaint.  Delicious.  Eiffel Tower.  The Mona Lisa.  Are these the words and images that come to mind when you hear the word Paris?  They used to be for me, too.  But I have since decided that it only lives up to these expectations if you do Paris right.  a.k.a. In a fancy hotel, with a driver to chauffer you to all the sights, a fantastic camera  to be able to capture the most monumental sights you've ever seen, and plenty of money to spend on the ridiculously overpriced (but totally worth it) crepes.  If you do Paris wrong--a.k.a. In a sketchy cheap hotel, taking the underground everywhere, in the pouring, freezing rain with just a light jacket, and with no one to protect you but the other two girls you're with--it can be incredibly dangerous and scary.

I don't think I've ever had the experience of feeling utterly and completely hopeless and then experiencing the mercy of God and falling to my knees in gratitude--until Paris.

It started on our last day in Paris--Bastille Day.  This is the high holy day in French culture--therefore EVERYTHING is closed.  All things except the Louvre, Notre Dame, Saint Chapelle, and other famous sights, that is.  We woke up early to more pouring rain (after three consecutive days) and started on our way to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa, of course (how could you not?). We had to check out of our hotel early that morning, so we were all carrying our backpacks, side satchels, and suitcases on wheels.  We hopped on the metropolitan (underground) by our hotel after a quick breakfast of cheap fruit off the vendors on the streets--Delicious!!  (And it was a very Beauty and the Beast experience--"Bonjour!  Bonjour!  Bonjour, Bonjour, Bonjour!")  We were in high spirits as we would be returning to our beloved clean and safe London that afternoon.  (I wish I could say dry, too, but no...)  After our first stop off the metropolitan I realized I had forgotten my purse.  I turned to run back on just in time to see the doors close and watch the train speed off.  I may or may not have uttered a profanity under my breath at this point.  You see, my purse didn't just hold my makeup or loose change.  I was a classic tourist and had my passport, wallet, and camera in there as well.  Obviously my camera was not such a big deal, but it added insult to injury, and can you blame me for catastrophizing everything at that moment?

Now, I don't know if the trauma of the situation is clear yet.  See, we were in France--meaning no one speaks English, everyone hates Americans, and they have absolutely no concept of customer service.  We ran to the nearest Metro station with a lady inside.  We started gesturing and explaining, but before she listened to a full sentence she abruptly stated "Speak French."  And slammed the window shut.  At this point I completely broke into tears (I mean...uncontrollable sobs).  Without my passport I couldn't get into London that afternoon because I couldn't make it through security.  And I did NOT want to spend an extra night or two in Paris--alone.  On top of this, none of our phones worked because apparently AT&T doesn't provide service in France!  Who knew?

Anyway, once I started crying, the lady came back and started speaking to us in English (classic...) and asked what was wrong.  She checked the trains on the phone and no one had turned in a purse.  At this point she was sure to tell us that Bastille Day is the day thieves travel to Paris specifically to pick over the tourists.  She told me there was no hope and I should just begin trying to get new documents.  So we needed to find Wi-Fi to use our iMessages or Skype to get ahold of our directors in London to see if they could help us with the US Embassy.  We walked the streets of Paris searching for a cafe with Wi-Fi, but everything was closed because of Bastille Day of course.  Just my luck.  I was completely catatonic at this point but Suzette (my friend) decided we needed to stop in the middle of the street and say a prayer right then.  I believe I rolled my eyes at this point and thought something to the effect of, "Seriously?! A prayer??  Pretty sure a prayer isn't going to bring my passport and wallet back to me!  How about we just keep looking for wi-fi so we can talk to the US EMBASSY!!"  But, of course, that was all in my head, so we said the most sincere prayer we have probably uttered in our lives up to that point praying that by some miracle things would work out.  (We didn't have the gumption to ask that I'd actually get my purse back.)

We ended the prayer and I felt this incredible sense of relief wash over me.  I'll never forget it.  In such a panic, it was a 180 degree turn around.  We then calmly walked about a block and ran into a cafe with free Wi-Fi with and English speaking, wonderfully generous server who let us stay as long as we needed to figure things out.  I don't know if you can appreciate the miracle of this unless you've been to a foreign country where they really hate Americans, but running into her was a miracle in and of itself.  Not to mention the contact we could make with our instructors over Skype, her getting ahold of the American Embassy and translating with the operators for us, and her giving us contact info in case we needed her help or to come back later to use the internet again.

At this point we had eaten crepes, had water, and spoken to our instructors--we had a plan, and were feeling much better.  The embassy was closed, unfortunately, because apparently we celebrate Bastille Day (what?) even though we're American.  So I couldn't get new documents until 2 days later at the earliest.  So we were going to try to go to the EuroStar station to try to see if they'd let me back to London without my passport by any chance because I was with my study group (kind of).  We went, and it was no go.  They told me to change my ticket for 3 days later so as I went to do so, the lady opened up my ticket and said "Wait, there's a note on here.  Someone found your purse and it's at a police station..."  My jaw dropped about 3 feet and I said, "Shut Up."  She was affronted.  Woops.  She then proceeded to explain how to get to the police station while I wiped my eyes and silently prayed a million thank you prayers in my head.

We headed to the police station in the scariest part of Paris and when we got there we realized we were in seriously dangerous territory.  Homeless people were all over the streets, they followed us three well-dressed white girls like hawks as we walked very purposefully towards a the police station (in reality, we had no idea which way to go...no one spoke English!).  By some miracle we found the station and as soon as we opened the door they held up my purse and said "Eeeyyy!  We have your purse!"  I was so relieved I started sobbing again.  I just had to sit down I was so light-headed so Suzette took it from there.  She asked them how my purse had ended up there, and they said a nice couple on the metro had seen us get off that morning so they grabbed my purse and turned it in on their stop.  It was unbelievable.  In such a dangerous, dark, scary city, the honesty and good will of this kind couple will never be forgotten.  I couldn't believe it.  It was a miracle like I've never experienced.  I was so grateful for these people's honesty.  Everything was in my purse when I opened it.  Cash, credit cards, license, passport.  Everything.  In Paris.  On Bastille Day.  I have no doubt Heavenly Father had sent these people to be my angels that day.

We still had time to make it to Notre Dame, Saint Chapelle, The Louvre, and the Eiffel Tower one last time before we had to head home and it was the first day of sun in Paris.  Such an incredible ending to what could have been the worst day of my life.  I was so grateful to my loving Heavenly Father for watching over us that day.  And for forgiving my stupidity ;)

P.S.  I didn't tell Dave about this until I was safe in London and I told just about this exact rendition.  He was pale as a ghost when I finished and couldn't breathe properly for about 5 minutes after.  Luckily, he was able to overlook this crazy error on my part and still marry me :)

Once Upon a Time...

No I am not going to tell a sappy romantic love story...sorry Dave...but you know that's just not "us" right?  I was actually going to say that once upon a time I went to London!!  I studied abroad this past summer with BYU in London.  It was amazing.  Let me clarify...I am not one of those girls who is obsessed with London just because I go to BYU and I'm about 20.  I wanted to go  because I was excited about the Literature class we'd be taking while there.  I didn't go expecting my life to change, and I didn't go because I felt like my life wouldn't be complete without the experience.  Regardless of my not-so-passionate beginnings in London, it actually did end up being life-changing, but not in the way I expected at all.

I have never fully experienced the feeling that the Lord is literally providing for you in EVERYTHING in your life.  While I was in London, Paris, Wales, and Scotland, however, I couldn't go an hour or two without feeling the Lord's hand in my life undeniably.  I had some of the most spiritual experiences while pleading with the Lord for health, safety, comfort, energy, help in finding my phone the numerous times I lost it, honesty of people around me, and excitement for learning while I was abroad.  I don't know if the Lord was trying to assure me that I was in the right place doing the right things or what, but the consequences of his continual intervention in my life was just such an increased measure of trust, faith, and hope that the Lord will provide if we ask in faith.

There are so many stories--Too many for one post--so I will take my time I think over the next bit posting them.  (They're too good not to share)  I hope you can enjoy reading them at least a fraction of how much I enjoyed living them!

I thought this only happened in movies...

So I realized why I don’t blog very much anymore.  It’s because I have someone to tell everything to.  After having told Dave my stories from the day, there’s little motivation to write them all out again…But since Dave is backpacking in the Grand Canyon this weekend with no cell service, I finally have a story that is just too good not to share.   And he’s not here to tell it to, so I’m finally going to blog.

So…Dave’s mom is a twin.  And my mom is a twin.  And they say that twins skip generations, so basically—we’re doomed.   I’ve never wanted to have twins.  And after this weekend, I feel validated in not necessarily wanting to struggle with double trouble as a new mom.

So there’s these two twins I have been babysitting lately who are 4 years old.  They’re adorable.  They love anything they can do with a ball—soccer, football, I just taught them volleyball, and handball.  But they also love to dance and perform (and scream).  You get the idea, right?  Incredibly high energy, loud, and constantly vying for my attention as I’m babysitting them.  These girls are also very sneaky, however.

You have to know before I write this that I am a pretty attentive babysitter.  I don’t typically turn on the tv for hours and let the kids watch until bedtime, I don’t fall asleep while the kids are still awake, I don’t forget to feed them, I don’t lose them.  And I have never had to call a mom while I was babysitting her kids to ask for help with something.  Everything yesterday was a first for me…

We were downstairs in the family room just having a good time playing with the camera on my phone.  They love to take pictures of themselves and me and flip through them over and over.  We were playing with the phone when one of the twins decided she needed a drink.  I went with her to the kitchen to grab her a glass of water while the other twin sneaked around the corner with my phone. About 5 minutes later I called out to her, “Where’d you go?”  And she came running back oh so innocently showing me all the pictures she had just taken of the stairs.  Looking back, I should have known something was up when she came running back so quickly, but at the time, I thought nothing of it. 

Everything went well for the rest of the night while we played at the park with our bikes, razors, balls, and Frisbees.  We ate dinner and they went down with just 2 bedtime stories and a half-asleep, “Will you come back tomorrow to play tea party with us?”  Once they were down, their mom called and told me I could go because their older son was going to be home to just keep an eye on the house until they arrived home. 

I was happy to have successfully put the girls to sleep and done everything with no mishaps when I walked right out the door to my car, my hand sifting through the contents of my purse for my keys the entire way down the driveway and across the street to my car.  When I got to my car I realized my keys were nowhere to be found.  I shamelessly knelt down and emptied the contents of my purse on the street searching desperately for my keys, but alas, they were not there.  I resourcefully flipped on my “flashlight” app on my phone to search through the windows of my car to see if I’d accidentally locked my keys in there.  But I couldn’t see them so I concluded I must’ve left them on a counter inside somewhere. 

When I went back to the house at 7:30 expecting to find my keys carelessly laid on the kitchen counter, I found a house completely void of my bright blue BYU lanyard attached to my keys.  At this point I started to realize one of the girls had probably taken and hidden them, so I retraced our steps for the day.  I searched the toys in the garage, the refrigerator, the lawn chairs outside, the dress up room, in between the cushions on the couches, the pantry, the dirty clothes, under the girl’s pillows and sheets in their bed; everywhere I thought possible.  I called their mom and asked about secret hiding places, I even splashed the girls with water and woke them up to ask if they knew where my keys were.  I turned that house upside down before my parents called wondering where I was around 8:30.   Luckily, I had a spare key at home in my backpack so my mom came to bring it to me hoping my keys would be locked in the car, but when she arrived, they weren’t there.  At this point I was terrified, remembering the time one of the girls went to the bathroom by herself while we waited for her outside in the garage.  I was convinced she had dug to the bottom of my purse, pulled them out, and flushed them down the toilet.  My mom even stuck her hand in there to check (thanks mom!).  We continued to search the house for another hour until at about 9:40, we ultimately gave up. 

I had decided I must have dropped them in the street and one of the neighbors had picked them up.  I texted the mom and told her I was leaving and hadn’t found them, asking her to check with her neighbors tomorrow.

So this morning, I woke up to a text at 8:30 telling me they had found my keys!!  One of the girls had hidden them in the library of the house.  Unbelievable!  We thought we had checked every possible place, but were still outsmarted by a 4 year-old.  I didn’t know that kids actually played tricks on their babysitters, but it looks like they do!  I think I should take it as a compliment—they hid my keys because they didn’t want me to be able to leave, right?  At least, that’s how I am going to look at it J

P.S.  Last time I babysat, they managed to flood the family room by plugging the bathroom sink, turning it on, and closing the door so I couldn’t hear the water.  Yeahh…This kind of thing happens in reality.  Who knew?

In Loving Memory...

I don't think I've ever really deconstructed this phrase. I've surely said "In loving memory" about someone or something off-handedly before, but never have the words meant more than they do now to me. I really do want to express my love for Mark in respecting his memory.

I can't understand the facebook notifications telling me that everyone is celebrating the life he lived. I just can't bring myself to "celebrate" yet. I need the time to grieve the loss of someone so special to me.

Mark Spencer Wooldridge:

To most, he was known as that quiet kid in class who made lessons bearable with his underplayed snarky (one of his own favorite adjectives) comments about the ridiculousness of life. Or maybe the genius who had a perfect score on the SAT and frequently set the curve on all the physics tests.

Others may remember him for his outstanding acting debut as the awkwardly hilarious Willard in our high school musical, Footloose.





Or possibly when he was crowned Mr. Mustang in 2009 after he stole the show at the mangeant our senior year with his performance of an original comedic monologue he wrote which had the entire crowd in tears we were laughing so hard.

************

But I feel like I personally knew a Mark not many people got to see.

I knew the Mark who sincerely wanted to know what life was about and loved to spend hours having deep conversations about things that really mattered.

I knew the Mark who finished his Eagle project partially (and he'd deny that this had any sway with him at all) because my mom once told him she would never let her daughters marry anyone who didn't finish their Eagle Award in scouts.

I knew the Mark who understood me. He could just sense the days I was exasperated and ready to give up on everybody. All I had to do was make eye contact with him during class or in a rehearsal and he knew exactly what I was thinking--without fail.

I knew the Mark who struggled to find a place for God in his life. There was a time I watched as he went from extremely confused and hurting, to full of faith and happiness. It was amazing to discuss the things that transcend this life with someone so brilliant.

I knew the Mark who spent the majority of his weeknights skyping with me when we both went off to college. He could always find something humorous in life's situations, even in the worst of times.

I knew the Mark who had an amazing way of lending support. He had a gift for instilling confidence in others, and he was so sure of his own gifts and abilities, it was refreshing.

I knew a Mark who doubted he'd ever find anyone who'd completely understand the way he thought about life and made a pact with me that if we both turned 3o and were still single, we'd just elope and get married.

I knew a Mark who was brilliant. He could do anything he put his mind to. He was truly incredible.

***********

As I sit here pondering the loss of such a great person and close friend, I struggle to define my emotions. My first thoughts are of sadness and grief at the idea I will never be able to call him up to chat again. Then my thoughts turn to his mom and brother. My heart aches for them more than I can explain. I just want to pour all the love I have out to his mother and assure her of the many times Mark told me of his love and respect for her. I want to hold her and let her know that I am praying God will help her find peace and comfort through this awful experience.

Once I muster up the energy and courage to look past the immediate pain, I can't help but think of the implications. What would have been different had I taken more time out of my life to check in with him more frequently in the past year? Why did I lose contact with him? He was struggling emotionally, I knew that much. What in the world was I so caught up in that I let one of my good friends go months without hearing me tell him how much I appreciated and cared for him?

It would be presumptuous to assume that I alone would have changed the outcome of his story, but I can't help but feel like I neglected one of God's greatest commandments: "Love one another, even as I have loved you." I hate that it feels too late for me to show Mark my love for him, but I simply have to pay my respects to his memory. I wish he had known how much each conversation, each sarcastic remark, each "look", each day with him had meant to me. I wish I had told him more often how frequently in the past few years there was no one I wanted to talk to more than him.

I hate to diminish this entire experience to a simple didactic message. But I think the only way to cope with my emotions here is to resolve to do better at telling those people in my life I love that I really do love them. I'm not even close to accepting the fact that Mark is really gone, but I think all we can do in this situation is do as Proverbs says and, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding".