An Analogy Kaleidoscope

I often use analogies when explaining things. It's just one of the ways I'm trying to be like Jesus (not intended to be blasphemous...just slightly funny). Sure, His analogies are called parables and they contain the eternal good news of the gospel as their message, but the point is, we both like to make our points in a way that makes us easier to be understood. Although, I do admit that sometimes, like the one about the ten virgins and their oil lamps, the parable don't seem to easily translate through different cultures, generations, and advanced technology. I mean, obviously, I get the "be ready for the second coming" message but why did the virgins have to wait up all night? Was that normal behavior for that group of people? Only awake virgins with a light were considered fit to marry? And were they all going to get to marry the same bridegroom? Confusing.

Blogging is a moody hobby for me. Some days I'm up and love it, and some days I think it's the bane of my existence. "Then stop," you say, with perfect reason, or "Just post when you want to," another wise advise giver might reply. Yeah, yeah...sometimes both of those things seem perfectly within the bounds of sanity. But then again...do perfectly sane people blog? I don't think so. And if they did, they sure wouldn't be very entertaining blogs.

Awhile ago, I wrote about patio dining. Then later I wrote about hanging up shorts. That was followed closely with a declaration of joining a country club for private members. But here's the thing. Sure, the pool is a lot cleaner at the club and the chaise loungers made from a comfortable canvas versus the sticky (and often broken) plastic, and, by golly, my skin has enjoyed a chaffed-free existence since giving up the metaphorical running, and the table talk a heck of a lot easier to follow indoors minus the riff raff's street noise, but all those perks came at the loss of one vital thing - the thrill of blogging.

I believe that ultimately, the prize for blogging will be the personal record that is created with each post. Even now, my favorite thing to do when I'm down or lacking motivation, is to go back through my archives and read what I was doing, feeling, or writing six months ago. Or a year ago. Or even now...two years ago. That's a prize! And that prize is awarded to anyone with public or private blogs, journals, scrapbooks, or home videos.

However, the small but equally cherished rewards that come along the way are the connections we make with those around us. I have met some of my favorite people through blogs. It opened up a whole network of friendships during my year in Utah that would have been completely unavailable to me had all those bloggers been private. After going private I felt...false. The blog party I attended in May shortly after going private first brought that uncomfortable feeling to my attention. I didn't feel like a "blogger" anymore. During the party, there was no need for introductions because I was already too close to my 100 person limit to invite unproven strangers to read (besides, I have a quirk where I feel stressed when things are running out. Batteries, gas, shampoo. Maybe that's why I can't finish a can of soda? It must make me uncomfortable), and at that point of my personal blog journey, I felt at capacity with my reading. The entire evening, I felt...unnecessary. Yuck.

I've also noticed that with my blog set to private, I'm much, much less inclined to post - which makes that grand prize...well....less. There have been times when I finish posting and almost immediately have something else to say but find myself thinking, "No wait...give the other post a little bit of time at the top. If you post too much, the people that only stop by every few weeks will never see it." More yuck. This is no good.

Besides, with that twenty/twenty hindsight, I'm not quite sure why I was so freaked out. Some of it had to do with how obsessive I felt about my stat counter. I knew I was checking it way too often and, unfortunately, reacting to the number of visitors (which is so embarrassing to admit.) I got rid of that and feel like a surfer during high tide. Mellow. Far out. Relaxed. Some of it also had to do with our upcoming move. I think I was feeling stress all around about it and my blog was something I had control over. With the move come and gone, I don't feel exposed and I don't feel anxious that I'm handing over my cute little family to the wolves. Still, for caution sake, I am going to go back and edit some old posts that mention our last name and place of residence. I say - there's no need to be reckless about it. In future posts, I'll refer to where I live as D-town and, even though our last name is as common as it is - only mention our first names. If you could be so kind as to do the same in your comments, I'd sure appreciate it.

So, I'd like to request a table outside on the patio. And then I'll find my old running shorts and hit the streets - trying to avoid the cars with drivers using their cell phones, and then head on over to the public pool to cool off afterwards. Ahhh...I feel like me again.

Landed

I live here. For real. Probably forever. Wow.

I won't even refer to the chaos and feelings of despair that moving creates for me (well, I guess I just did), so I think it'd be better for all of us to simply pretend that last week didn't happen. My hips and thighs are really wishing last week didn't happen as I still turn to food to cope with stress. But, now I've landed, and there are trails a plenty and hills to climb and I think I'm going to like it here. I'm going to really, really like it here.

It is beee-uuuuu-ti-ful! Everytime I look out a window, my heart does a little flutter of joy. I am a mountain girl and I feel home all around me.

Now, I just need to find a home for our gajillion things, stay on top of the laundry and dishes while doing so, and try and enjoy the rest of summer.

I'm normally not a fan of any type of frou frou, but I actually enjoy this little window in the small alcove off the master bedroom. We set up the desk and computer underneath it, so now you can imagine where I am every time I blog. Isn't that fun?

can you see all the pine trees behind the stained glass? Paradise.

A Last Hurrah

In spite of the painfully slow loss of my mind (I hate moving. I hate moving.) I have just enough moments of clarity remaining to know that I want to see people one more time before I move. So, in a desperate and perhaps pathetic attempt to end on a good note (I told my mother today that it's really too bad that the last memories of a place includes the act of moving - because it really taints the entire experience), I am inviting anyone that wants to come and has the flexibility to hang out with very little notice, to Kneaders in South Jordan tomorrow evening.

It really feels awkward, almost blind date-ish, to put this up on a blog, but I figure even if I'm the only one there, I can enjoy a gooey brownie, perhaps a refreshing beverage, and relax for a few minutes before the storm arrives (Wednesday - load/clean/drive).

Come if you can, care, want to, or need an excuse to enjoy a delectable sandwich. No pressure. I'm extremely adept at silently reading at a table by myself, so not even the restaurant workers would feel sorry for me. But, it would be nice to see you Utah gals who I have come to rely on and adore.

7:00. South Jordan Parkway. I'll be the one with the rose;)

Conversion

Wow. Posting a Sunday thought isn't quite as easy as I imagined it would be. I rarely feel like blogging on Sunday. So, here it is, almost eleven o'clock at night (o.k...now it's Tuedsay. This was much tougher than I anticipated) and I'm hoping to be coherent because what I want to write is important. Really important. Probably the most important thing I will ever say.

Ummmm....no pressure, though.

During Sunday School, the teacher asked for a volunteer to come and look at a picture and, without showing it, describe the picture to the rest of the class. The volunteer proceeded to describe a stone boat, with arches and swirly scrolls along the ends. With that description in our minds, the teacher then passed around the picture and asked how close our imagined picture was to the actual picture. Sadly, not very close.

She compared that object lesson to attempting to describe something that we have experienced. In the end, no matter how well you say it, or how detailed your description is, the re-telling of the experience can never fully equal the actual experience. Likewise, the things written in the scriptures are these amazing experiences had by a people long ago. They are trying to explain....to record something for us so we can understand as well. I appreciate the verse found in Mosiah 26:33 where it says, "And it came to pass when Alma had heard these words he wrote them down that he might have them..."

The next chapter contains a favorite, and oft-told story of Alma the Younger and the sons of Mosiah and their conversion following their rebel rouser years. Alma the younger wrote his experience down and we read about it, but upon the urging of the Sunday school teacher, I found myself reading with new eyes. Alma experienced this. His experience was much more than we readers can ever understand. And yet, he tried to explain. He tried to describe the great change that happened to him.


I knew then that I wanted to write down my own conversion story. I wanted to "write it down so that I might have it" and ultimately, so that others might have it. This is real. This happened to me. But, now fear has grabbed hold of me and I don't know if I can do a good enough job of explaining it. I worry that I'll leave an important part out, or misrepresent a sacred thing. However, fear aside, I have hope that my words will serve as a great reminder to me, of a time when I really was at a crossroads, and I chose a road that has made all the difference.

While I certainly can't claim a sin-less youth or one that was mistake and pain-free, I can say that through the example of my wise and sincere parents, I didn't struggle with confusion about the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I think I thought about it, but always respected and admired my parents enough to trust their testimonies and lean on their understanding. I witnessed them serve faithfully, study regularly, and live the gospel every day. Additionally, both are incredibly intelligent, and I could simply never imagine that they wouldn't....you know....know.

Shortly after graduation, I traveled to Europe to sing with a youth chorus. We flew into Germany and our first stop was to have lunch in a small town, on the way to an even smaller town. A group of six of us stopped at an adorable little bistro, with red and white checker tablecloths and ordered pizza. All six of us also each ordered a beer along with it. I know my heart was pumping when I placed that order, but I also recall making the mental decision that I was going to do this...be a part of this European experience. Drinking was not against the rules, as the drinking age in Europe is lower than our own in the U.S., and we were instructed to be responsible and to always remember that we were representatives of our country and state. Missing the much, much larger picture, I thought, "O.K."

I knew what I was doing. I will never claim ignorance or naivety. I just didn't think it would matter so much. But I was wrong. It mattered. More than I could have ever imagined.

Contrary to my original plans, my European experience didn't end in Europe. I came home, back to my familiar friends, my familiar home but not my familiar actions. I kept drinking. I really liked my new, wild self and from the positive feedback I got from a lot of my school friends, so did everyone else. For the first time, I wondered if I had been fed a line through all those years in Young Womens. Wasn't this kind of life supposed to make me feel miserable? Where was the misery? I was having a ball.

In order to get to the ball, however, I had to resort to lying to my parents (really for the first time. They were not strict and always full of trust, so curfews and choice in friends were always abdicated to us) and lying to God. I kept up the facade of my former self and forged ahead with my plans of attending BYU. Neither of those actions came consequence free.

I arrived at BYU that fall full of irritation and judgment. Who were all these dweebs and why in the world did I allow myself to be dragged to the so-ridiculous-I-can't-believe-people-in-college-actually-do-this evening of tunnel singing? I hated all of the rules and really wondered how I could manage a transfer to a state school at home and "really experience college".

Miraculously, the magic of BYU started to sprinkle it's happy-valley fairy dust on my head and after a few months of Book of Mormon classes, devotionals, and roommates that weren't as horrible as I originally imagined, I started to feel real remorse for my sins. I wanted to be better. I wanted to be the kind of girl who belonged there. I decided to try.

It wasn't easy. It involved a lot of behavior that was uncomfortable and unpleasant. But, you know the phrase...the one that says it would be worth it. I hoped so.

I returned home that summer unprepared for the great war between personal wills. I had mistakenly thought that going through the repentance process would somehow make me immune to all future temptation. Sort of like a vaccine, I suppose. Once again, I was very, very wrong.

For the next year, I became a person I didn't like much. The fun from the previous summer was replaced with dangerous friends, reckless behavior and a complete loss of the spirit. I felt schizophrenic pretending to be one personality to my family, someone different for my friends, and someone in between at BYU, where I returned for my sophomore year. I honestly didn't know which of those someones was actually me anymore. Feeling unhappy and in a great deal of emotional pain, I wondered if the source of my unhappiness came from what I had been taught by the church. Afterall, take away that conflict of interests and I could take away the pain, right?

I thought so and stopped going to church the second half of the year. Sundays came and I'd go for a bike ride or a drive, I'd happily work up at the hole-in-the-wall Radio Shack I was bound and chained to, or hang out in my room, ignoring my well-meaning but beyond annoying returned missionary roommates. All I wanted to do was to stop pretending and choose a side. But I also wanted a college education and was financially dependent on my parents so I lied to my bishop to obtain my ecclesiastical endorsement just in case I'd be back in the fall (really, I considered lying the least of my concerns at the time) and began looking into getting financial aid at some different colleges.

It was much harder to avoid church while at home. Sometimes I went. Sometimes I'd say I was going but, instead, stealthily remain in the car. If I could, I tried to be scheduled to work just to avoid the conflict. I know my parents and my siblings knew something was going on, and each of them attempted to talk to me and help me in whatever way they could, but my heart was hard and truthfully, I thought I was beyond saving.

The second half of the summer brought some important changes. In late June, I went to Guatemala to see my brother, who was finishing a spring term study abroad. The trip was full of highs (riding on top of buses, taking a mud room bath - I can't remember the actual word anymore, staying in small Q'eqchi villages, and swimming in the crystal clear waters of Panachal) and lows (having my purse stolen, ruining two cameras, getting the worst sunburn of my life, having the runs after eating a mango, and witnessing my beloved brother pine after the girl he met and fell in love with:)) but I vividly remember making the decision to order an alcoholic drink in front of my brother. I was coming to terms with being who I thought I was, and started testing the waters to see how someone I absolutely adored reacted to my controversial behavior.

Jon's reaction was filled with surprise, curiosity and mild disappointment, but the overall affect was still one of love and acceptance for whoever I was. I think his thoughtful reaction was the first step away from the direction I thought I wanted to go.

Instead of returning home, I spent the remainder of the summer in Mesa, Arizona, living with friends and once again working at the ubiquitous Radio Shack. Something happened during the six weeks I lived there. I got a glimmer of who I chose to be when I separated myself from the influences of home and BYU. I wasn't the annoyed, bored, and condescending person I turned into at BYU but neither was I the eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die person I felt determined to be at home. I was just me. Mostly fun, sometimes serious, but most importantly, comfortable around the people who shared my childhood beliefs.

That fall at BYU, I changed my life. I declared a new major - zoology, and started hanging out at an entirely different part of campus from my first two years there. I lived with my sister who never walked around singing broadway standards in her underwear, never performed an intervention involving Michael McClean music, never stayed in her bed all day not talking and staring at the ceiling, and never, ever judged me. I decided to read the Book of Mormon and this time, it was not for required reading for a class. I also decided to once again talk to my bishop.

I had the biggest headache of my life that Sunday afternoon I sat in the Wilk waiting for my appointment. The whole room bounced in sync to each heartbeat. As I walked into his office, he told me he wanted to begin with a prayer. He didn't know why I had come but he got down on his knees and offered a prayer that I would feel comforted and calm and that I would know that the Lord loved me. Tears poured down my face as more than a year's worth of pain flooded my heart. It hurt...more than I expected it to...but I had a lot of hope that it would be worth it.

That was a serious semester for me. I spent every morning from six am to 10 am at the BYU laundry working the mangle and then filled the rest of my days working my tail off studying for sixteen credits of pre-med classes. I also worked hard - very hard - to gain a testimony. If I was going to give up friends I loved and a lifestyle that still seemed attractive to me, I wanted to do it for a better reason than simply pleasing my parents. Or fitting in at BYU. Or because that's what good Lucy does. It had to be because of truth.

I finished reading the Book of Mormon about the same time my bishop asked me if I was ready for a temple recommend. I replied that I thought so, and he proceeded to ask me the required questions. We both cried as my answers revealed how much I had changed that semester. He handed me that piece of paper and I walked out of his office with a new heart.

Then something happened as I walked along the sidewalk to my basement apartment on Cherry Street. I received a witness, strong and real and perfectly clear, that I had truly been forgiven. That my scarlet sins were white as snow. That Heavenly Father loved me - me - and had the fatted calf roasting on the spit. I felt so amazingly happy. Not great date happy. Not awesome meal happy. Not even twenty-pound-weight-loss happy. No, I felt godly happy...and nothing can really compare to that.

I wish I could say "Happily Ever After - The End" after that, but I've learned that it doesn't quite work that way. There are still times I get frustrated and wonder if I'm just spinning my wheels worrying about the wrong stuff, but then I'm gently reminded once again that it's worth it. Apathy rears its bored little head every now and again and I have to recommit myself to what I know to be true.

I do know it. It seems unbelievable in this topsy turvy world to know anything based on faith, but I had an experience on a sidewalk that I cannot deny. I know the atonement is real. I know that Christ is my Redeemer. I know that Heavenly Father organized this world so that we could be participants in His plan and knowing how short our efforts would measure up, sent Jesus Christ to make up the difference. I know that He does not expect us to do this on our own, and has sent leaders and prophets, scriptures and temples, keys and understanding so that we will not fail. But, perhaps the most significant thing is, He gives us our agency so that we can choose for ourselves.

That freedom of choice can be a scary thing. All sorts of mistakes and consequences can sneak in, changing a whole life before that person knows it's changing. When I come across people who once knew or believed, but now dismiss the gospel as a thing of naught, I ache with longing for them to come to Christ. Again. And again. I ache because I know He will accept our efforts every time, until the desire to be anywhere but close to Him is gone.

Like Alma, I can only describe my experience. I can never expect anyone else to fully understand, or appreciate that moment in my history. It was important enough, and incredible enough, however, for me to try.

And so I did.

To The Fathers In My Life

Thank You for teaching your son to work hard and live the gospel.

Thank You for teaching me about faith, hope and charity.

Thank you for being the kind of man that I hope our boys will want to grow up and become like.

Happy Father's Day

Like A Russian Spy

A year ago, when I was on my way to this lovely deseret, I jokingly(semi) told people that my mission in Utah was to infiltrate Amy M.'s world, become her BFF, and conspire to have the most beautiful pictures taken of my children and family...because isn't that what a best friend who is also a fabulous photographer does? Take pictures for other person and generously share all digital rights and ownership of the photos??

You see, in my non-talented-photo-taking-world, I see you, the talented, as something of a superstar. Photos document our lives which, when interpreted, means those with the best photos must have the best life. Right?

I admit there were many of you to choose from. Moms with gigantic lenses and fancy cameras once used exclusively at weddings seem to crawl out of the woodwork these days and like the skinny con in prison who needs to find the bulky bodyguard to survive, I like to have someone with a trained eye in my corner. Otherwise, my options are reduced to Kiddie Kandid portraits (oh wait...) and expensive and un-proven professional photographers who charge exorbitant fees for dark, unflattering outdoor family pictures (uhhhh......looks like I'm two for two folks).

Soon after I began blogging and during the click-on-every-possible-sidebar-link phase, I first noticed and admired Amy's unique eye for photography. No doubt there are better photographers out there (she assures me there are), and maybe my untrained eye doesn't know what is what, but there is a softness with color, an attention to detail, and altogether poetic quality about her pictures. I distinctly remember a particular picture she took of her husband that was a close up, and you could see her entire silhouette reflected in his eye. I loved it! I wanted to reflect in someone's eye (because I'm pretty sure with my dark browns - no one was going to be reflecting in mine).

I first met Amy at last year's blog party. Mission in mind, I found the evening ending without ever meeting her and forced myself to introduce myself on my way out. She was nice, humble and extremely normal for someone so talented. Shouldn't she have a magic third eye or giant brain or at least an obnoxious personality?

Not much happened for the next six months. During the fall, I sort of invited myself to a group called the blogger bookclub, which happened to have been organized by Lori, Amy's sister-in-law. I'd see Amy on those evenings, comfortable among the people she already knew, but never felt the moment was right to strike up a conversation. My cover was deep and I knew if I came on too strong, she'd guess my picture seeking motive and the possibility for glow-y, soft, breathtakingly beautiful pictures of my children would cease to exist.

Then in January, it happened. Amy and I ended up sitting next to each other at bookgroup and by the end of the night, the conversation wasn't wanting to end and a group of four of us (Amy, Amie, Chloe and myself) made additional plans for a girls-night-out type dinner.

Almost immediately, I figured out that there is far more to Amy than her aptitude behind a camera. She is funny. She is kind. She is sincere, thoughtful and never, ever dull. In a nutshell, through some late, late night chats, emails, a few lunch dates, playdates with our kids, more bookgroup evenings and the always entertaining evenings with Amie and Chloe, this undercover agent fell for her new friend.

Photo taken by Amy on her iphone after a lunch date. in early March. How sad is it that this picture quality is probably better than my own real camera?

I may have defected from my original plans, but I have gained something far, far greater. I have gained a friend. A true friend. And that is a mission worth accomplishing.

"True friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget."
Amanda Kunkle

Brainwashing My Young

Today, on a whim, I purchased a loaf of my most favorite brand of bread in college - the squishy and scrumptiously fluffy white Grandma Sycamore's Homemade Bread. Ah - the fond memories I have of pressing a slice of that bread into a dense ball and then taking bites out of it. Those days are long, long since gone.

I haven't purchased gluten-y bread for over a year now, but I admit that I'm beginning to rethink how the gluten-free zone works around here. With food prices what they are, and two children to pack lunches for, sandwiches are seeming more and more necessary and rice bread is expensive to buy and frustrating to make. I admit I haven't tried that much, but I'm no baker to begin with and take away the ingredients that guarantee success (gluten) and baking bread becomes that much more of a disaster.

So.....I bought a loaf of "normal" bread. Contraband bread. We were out and about this morning....wandering around the neighborhoods of West Valley City while the van was getting it's blower motor resistor replaced (just one source of the tears of frustration I shed yesterday), and we stopped by the friendly neighborhood grocery, Harmons. After picking up a box of donuts for the boys, I snagged a loaf of the good stuff just to try it out. You know...see if I could become that mom that didn't dread lunch time once again.

At lunch time, I set up my new gluten-zone laboratory. I was very, very careful making the sandwiches. I scooped out an ample amount of peanut butter and put it into a separate bowl. From that bowl, I dipped and re-dipped a knife to spread onto the bread, thus eliminating any possible contamination of the peanut butter. I put the bread on paper towels. I washed my hands afterwards before reaching into a bag of chips, but then thought better and simple poured out a portion size of chips on each boy's paper towel. Ta-da!

I left the boys to enjoy their delicious sandwiches and after a half hour or so, I came downstairs after checking on Jay (he's home sick today. I was sick, sick, sick on Sunday and he apparently got the last of my germs floating around) and found not one, not two...but three unfinished sandwiches left on the table. I asked the boys what was up; didn't they like their lunch?

"Not really." Seth says as he walks over to the table to clean up his mess. "Is it gluten bread?"

"Yes. It's real bread. Didn't you like it?" I innocently assumed.

"No. I like the gluten-free bread better." Seth replies while he throws half of his sandwich into the garbage can. "Me too!" Sammy chirps in.

Unbelievable. Jay would be so proud of his boys, if he were ever to find out about this conversation. But he won't. He'd have to read this blog for that to happen, which he rarely does, and never to this point in an all-text, ninth paragraph down post. Insert evil cackle here.

No, I've decided, as the person in charge of the kitchen, that for economy and my emotional well being, I need to have normal bread in the house. I need to have the option of toast for breakfast (in a second toaster, of course) and cheap, easy sandwiches for lunch.

Now I just need to reprogram my boys - before it's too late.

A Bedtime Story

Jay is working tonight and then leaves tomorrow for a conference in Vegas for the remainder of the week. To get me through intact, I thought I'd read my kids a story tonight to reinforce what I pray they already know. It's good reinforcement for me too.

Alert: more irony ahead.

I Love You Even If
by Danielle Denega Illustrated by Dubravka Kolanovic

Mama, do you love me even when I misbehave? (Hmmmm)

Yes, precious one. No matter what you do...I still love you. (even if you tear my loving head off....Henry)

Do you love me even when I jump, jump, jump on the bed?

No matter what you do...I still love you (look, that nice mommy redirected her deviant onto a trampoline outside. I'm going to write that one down)

Do you love me even when I nibble, nibble, nibble all the treats?

No matter what you do...I still love you. (I like how Henry left this page alone. It must be the calming effect of the acorn.)

Do you love me even when I spill, spill, spill my food on the floor? (No! Oh wait....yes?)

No matter what you do...I still love you. (Although, it's really, really hard when it spills on carpet!)

Do you love me even when I scribble, scribble, scribble on the wall? (Drum roll, please)

No matter what you do...I still love you. (I find it grotesquely ironic that this page remains unscathed. If you only knew how many walls I have scrubbed pencil, crayon, and marker off of. The easier number would be to count the walls that haven't been marked. Three? Maybe? But, thanks to Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, I can be that mama elephant!)

I love you when you jump. I love you when you nibble. I love you when you spill. I love you when you scribble.

No matter what you do...I still love you. (And I really do. I love this book. Jay's mother gave it to Henry for his birthday. It's just so...appropriate).

Earlier in the evening, I filled up both bathtubs with bubbles so all my dirty boys could get clean. While I was playing with Henry, I almost had a major disaster on my hands. I forgot about the master bath's water running, and stopped it just in time. Seth and Sam had a blast in all the water. This picture is actually after letting quite a bit out. It was at the rim!

Precious

Silly

Silly, but not as successful at it.

The kid means business with his floss.

Ready for a goodnight kiss?

We like to tag team. Secretly, he loves it.

Goodnight!

It's Like 10,000 Spoons, When All You Need Is A Knife

We are 23 days and counting until move day which has required me giving several "30-day notices" over the past week. One notice I was particularly stressed about was to my gym, because I remembered there being several items of proof necessary to cancel.

I always keep my card in the middle console of the van, because I have always driven to the gym (it would be a better story if I walked or biked, but isn't the point of a gym to sweat indoors??). After our trip to D-town, I couldn't find my card anywhere and had to use my driver's license several times to get in. I asked the friendly towel folder at the front desk for the cancellation number and once I called, was told I needed my membership number to cancel. Of course.

Thankfully, I found it several days later and called immediately. The first time I tried calling I was disconnected after nearly ten minutes of holding not once....not twice....but three times. The next time, I just put the speaker phone on and started doing chores but the customer service rep came on after only 20 seconds and I had to make a mad dash to the phone before they hung up on me.


Membership number in hand, I explained the reason for cancellation and was told, in broken English, that my membership would expire in April 2010. I knew full well that I did not sign up for a two and a half year membership and told her she was wrong. I explained several times that where I was moving to did not have a 24 hour fitness and I was not interested in keeping my membership. She kept saying that it didn't matter, it would just expire in 2010 and that it was already paid. Again, I knew full well that I did not pay upfront for this membership. I signed up for a new year's special that waived the first three months dues and added another month for free if I did the two personal training sessions. I paid a $50 initiation fee and planned on two months worth of $45/month dues.

We continued to go back and forth until she finally put me on hold and came back telling me that they had no EFT (electronic fund transfers) information for me and it would be impossible for them to continue to charge me so I really didn't need to worry about canceling my membership - it was paid for. I went to view my online bank statements and after going back several months realized she was correct, there were no payments to 24 hour fitness, even though that is how I signed up to pay...with XCEL Fitness.

Something happened when the gym got bought out by 24 hour fitness - something glorious. Somehow, my bare boned membership to XCEL transferred over into the full VIP 24 Hour Sports Club package that includes free daycare, free access to all clubs nationwide...until 2010!

I bugged her about it or a few more minutes, and then hung up - membership intact - wondering about life's little ironies. If you remember, when I was pregnant with Sam, I did sign up and pay for a membership to 24-Hour Fitness...and I never used it! I've been going to this gym several times a week and could continue to do so - for free - but we are moving! And, believe me, there is no 24-Hour Fitness in D-town.

A little tooooooooo ironic? Yeah, I really do think.

Did this video make you uncomfortable too? All that convulsing in the car? Loved the song - hated the video.

Some of My Own Sunday Thoughts

I love Jill's Sunday Thoughts. I often think, "This....this is the essence of blogging." And yet I rarely comment on her Sunday Thoughts posts. I'm not sure exactly why. Sometimes, I just can't justify leaving a congratulatory "way to go on the nice thought!" comment, and to truly say what I feel sometimes can't be summed up without a blog post of its own.

Those who know me know that I hate, hate, hate copying. I've been wanting to do a Sunday Thoughts post for months but haven't because, in my backwards-sense-of-pride, writing about my beliefs, my spiritual experiences, or even curiosity about theology....just like someone else does....seems tacky.

I decided to start today, regardless of copying, and regardless of my own need to guard this side of me from mockery or disdain, because I found myself sitting through church not thinking the best things at all. Here are a few of my un-deep Sunday thoughts:

• Let Us Oft Speak Kind Words To Each Other isn't really a song for organ accompaniment.
• As cute as children's testimonies are, I still don't think they are appropriate in sacrament meeting until they can say them without audible prompts from a parent.
• "shhhhhhhussshhhhing" your kids is often as loud, or louder, than the noise they are making.
• there is a serious design flaw when the chapel has to open completely up to a gym. It's loud back there!
• sitting in an uncomfortable chair for a good gospel doctrine class outweighs sitting in comfy high council room chairs for a bad one.
• my husband is awesome and always...always (well...if he's there) changes the poopy diapers at church.
• I need some new skirts.
• there is no excuse for going over-time in Relief Society on a fast Sunday when you have church from 1:30 until 4:30. I'm really done, done, done at 4:30.

So - kind of a meager start. I want it all to mean more. If I'm going to go, and I am, then I want to search, or patiently wait, for the moment. The moment when I can go home and say, "hey...I found myself thinking about this today." It will be so much better than me walking out to the car complaining about the sister who stands up with one minute left and proceeds to give a five minute health report (i.e. testimony).

With effort, I will say that there was a possible moment during the lesson in gospel doctrine (of which I lately discovered a far superior class than the one I've been attending all year because one of the classes takes place in the Relief Society room and I hate the relief society room chairs and sitting in them for two straight hours seemed to be more than I could take. Instead, I've been attending the much, much more boring class held in the high council room in order to enjoy the nice, wide, armrest chairs. However, as I walked into the room today and glimpsed at the nice but extremely unprepared and boring man teaching, I realized that no chair, in spite of its being soft and comfortable, was worth sitting through his lesson.) was great. The lesson's topic was Abinadi and at the lesson's end, the teacher talked about how Abinadi died not knowing if what he had said had been worth it. He only knew it was the truth and the right thing to do. But because he did say it, even unto his own death, Alma believed.


Our teacher used an example of a returned missionary who claimed his mission was a failure because during his two years, he had only managed to baptize "one backwoods twelve year-old boy in Tennessee." Some genealogist or statistician went back and traced the lineage from that one twelve year-old boy and calculated that over 1,100 people were presently members of the church due to that one baptism. He ended by reasoning that although the things we do, or what we say, may seem to have little effect or benefit, we may actually unknowingly touch the hearts of those around us and that impact may have extraordinary results.

I immediately thought of something I read online this week that helped me look at something differently. While frequently is certainly an overstatement, I sometimes look at my stomach, with its permanent, although faded, stretch marks and think, "my body is ruined." Not that I foresee any midriff baring or bikinis in my immediate or long-distance future, but, truthfully, I used to love my stomach. Hips and thighs are a completely different story, but pre-children, I had pretty awesome abs.

The editor of blog Segullah, a website which consists of blog posts produced by really good LDS women writers, wrote an article for meridian magazine about a time she was tired and uncomfortable at seven months pregnant, and started tuning out a particular sacrament meeting talk about pioneers. She admits that as soon as the speaker announced the topic, she inwardly groaned and continued to wearily wrestle and negotiate with her five busy children. However, when the speaker mentioned a well-known story, about three young men who carried the bodies of the exhausted women and children across the frozen Sweetwater river, she thought for the first time, "Your sacrifice is like unto theirs."

This is how the author eloquently put it:

I sensed within myself the chasm that separates the pre-mortal spirit world from the earth, and how there were spirits waiting on that bank needing to cross to the other side. And how I was carrying them, one at a time, to the opposite bank, so that they could continue along the path to Zion.


While the world doesn't seem to view motherhood and childbirth this way, this idea...this sacrifice...being equated to such a selfless and heroic historical moment resonated with me. My stretch marks are a result of three pregnancies that brought my children from the spirit world into this life. That's pretty heroic. I know some women manage to be heroes without leaving ugly, permanent markings on their abdomen, but it helped me hate my own markings less. Well..this week, at least. In any case, I appreciate that this woman had this thought and shared it!

While I doubt any of my deep thoughts about comfortable chairs vs. better teacher will leave a wake of change and introspection, I certainly agree with the idea the gospel doctrine teacher left us with. We can never fully know all the consequences of our actions - for good or for bad.

I hope to be brave enough to continue being a copycat, at least with this undertaking. Most importantly, I hope by writing this, I end up influencing myself.

Memorial Day Weekend 2008

In spite of some almost winter like weather, our traditional Memorial Day celebration in Denver ended up being a great family trip.

Like all holiday weekends, time off was hard to come by and Jay had to work all day Friday. We decided to drive part way to Rock Springs that evening...stay in a hotel with a pool so the boys could swim and have less of a drive the next day which would leave plenty of time to get to Denver Saturday afternoon for the Rockies/Mets game. Unfortunately, like every time anything is planned on a Friday night, Jay got slammed at work and we couldn't leave until after 7:00 pm. Luckily, I never told the boys the pool at the hotel was open for 24 hours and we simply checked in...changed into pajamas and shushed Henry for the next hour until he finally gave up and went to sleep.

One of the things I put down on any "about me" lists is that I love to travel. While I wouldn't consider myself a liar, I have to admit that I only partially like to travel with children. It's so difficult to consider every need, every weather condition, every accessory that makes an outing less...hard. I swear I checked the weather forecast before I left, but there was nothing in the forecast that included 30 degree weather with snow showers. So, I foolishly packed for late May weather...shorts and t-shirts.

37 degrees!

Just some snow covered barrenness to look at on the way.

And what are my kids dressed in? Appropriate summer clothes, of course.

The drive down to Denver was windy and frigid. We had our heat on in the car! Thankfully, the weather warmed up considerably the further south we went and the baseball game was actually hot. Being fully prepared for hot, we slopped on the sunscreen and watched the Rockies get destroyed by the Mets in the first inning. Not the most exciting game to watch, but it's always fun to go to a Major League game, in my opinion. Henry was good for most of it, but needed a stretch long before the 7th inning so we headed over to the "kids area". Lamest thing I've ever seen. They make how many millions of dollars each game and they can't even install something with two slides? As Henry has never known how to share....or how to wait for his turn....or how not to push when someone is in your way...he was causing some bedlam of his own and we shortly left this nightmare.

Notice Henry's position in line.

Do you recognize any of the other kids from the previous position? Henry is fussing here because I scolded him for pushing so many people out of the way.

But what does getting scolded matter if you get your way in the end? All smiles and poor orange t-shirted boy still hasn't gone.

Even Henry felt the situation got a little hairy at times. But, there's always pushing to get where you need to go.


We had great seats for the game. Near first base!

Dad and older brothers got new Rockies hats for the game.

Henry thankfully fell asleep after the play structure fiasco. This was a self-portrait. I never intended to self-portrait my bosom, but to get the sleeping babe, there was just no way around...it.

We stopped to eat at our favorite Vietnamese restaurant on the way to Jay's brother, Rex's, house. So good. And they even understood what gluten free meant so Jay could eat too.

On Sunday, we went to Rex and Bekki's ward and I met another blogger, Kari. It's that crazy, small, blogging world that amazes and slightly terrifies me, but she was adorable and fun to meet. You can't do your best gabbing at church, so the conversation was short, but it was still fun to meet her. Their meeting was unbelievably sad and touching as a 12 year old girl from the ward had been killed in a car accident on Friday night. The temple president and matron were there to speak, not because of that but just due to incredible timing and tender mercies, and the music and talks had me, who didn't know this family at all, in tears.

Later that afternoon, our old friends from Medical/Dental school, came over for dinner. Seth and their eldest, were only two months apart so we had frequent play dates together. Now Jason serves on the High Council with Rex and circles of friendship continue to overlap and weave together. I was finally introduced to Dance Dance Revolution and my eyes were opened to the fun and joy of that game. We had a great time.

I'm so buying the game!

Seth and Dallin. If I was in the mood to create a mess, I'd find some older pictures of these two together when they were two and younger. Both have grown up to be cute boys.

Monday was race day. Jay, Rex and my nephews, Michael and Jacob, left early due to their early start times and I drove Bekki, Erin and Seth over as they didn't start for nearly two hours later. Unfortunately, I got lost on the way and Seth missed his start time so he began at the same time as Bekki and Erin. Jay ran his 10K in 45 minutes and then "jogged" back to the start line (about two miles) and then walked/jogged the 10K again with Seth. They did it together in 1 hour and 42 minutes and Jay was very sore that night and the next day. He's barely been training for the 10K and his body was not used to 14 miles.

Jay and Seth finishing the race!

I watched in the stands but was miserable because it....was....freezing! I would have much preferred walking the whole thing but as strollers are not allowed, I knew it would be too hard for Sam and knew I couldn't emotionally coax him into finishing while packing Henry (who for certain would have spent most of the time trying to work his way out of the backpack). Normally we stay for the Memorial Day tributes, which is my favorite part, but after a couple of hours of being cold, me and the little kids had had enough and we left. The rest of the evening was spent relaxing and playing games.

Rex and Bekki's family after the race

Jay and Seth with their goody bags.

A goofy picture with Sam, who kept himself warm with Jay's jacket.

I'm cold. But Henry sure look cute peeking out of his cover.

Tuesday we had planned on spending the entire day at Elitch Gardens, an amusement park, but it was cold and rainy again so we stayed at Rex and Bekki's all day and tie-dyed shirts and played games. Tie-dye has never been my favorite look, but it was so much fun to choose the colors and design that I love all of our shirts. Jay thinks he looks like a Ronald McDonald on crack, which he kind of does, but at least we could always find him should he get lost:)

Rex bought several bags of donuts the morning we left. Guess who was in sugar heaven?

Just a few more for the road.

We decided to wear our new shirts home. Hey...the family that tie-dyes together stays together!:)

The drive home on Wednesday was long. Interstate 80 is jam packed with truckers so it feels like you're traveling on a two lane highway. They always feel the need to start passing another semi on some hill, but then, of course, can't actually pass them and I end up following a truck at 40 mph up a hill. Despite the frustration, we made it home just in time for Salt Lake's rush hour and to our house where my mom had a hot ham dinner waiting for us.

We were the only family members to make it to Denver this year and hope more manage to make it next year. It's a great tradition and one we hope survives for years and years.