A Big Problem...

Two separate experiences regarding the same matter have recently brought my attention to a big problem this week. Yes, I have a problem. In different ways, two people have called me out on it, and it's really time to face it. It's frustrating because it seems that no matter how hard I try to change/fix it, I just can't seem to get past it. Almost like it's...permanently part of who I am. To make it worse, I've been like this almost since the day I was born. You may be curious about what it is and I have to admit that I'm feeling that maybe getting it out there will help the situation, so here it is:

I'm tall. Yes, you heard me. Despicable, I know. I feel so much better already just having typed that, feeling like this may finally be the beginning to my recovery. I will now relate to you the two experiences that really brought this all to light for me and showed me the true error in my ways.

First, I was walking down a hallway in a church located in a different state. A shorter-than-average man exited from the bathroom right as I passed. I could see from my peripheral vision that he was staring at me as we continued to walk in the same direction. Feeling uncomfortable, I finally turned my head to look at him. He was then so kind as to make me aware of my flaw and graciously said, "You're too tall." I replied, "Oh, really? I'm too tall. Well, sorry about that." I must admit that I did not have the humble attitude with which I now see the error of my ways and this caused me to respond somewhat sarcastically. The matter was ended as we went our separate ways.

The second experience happened just yesterday. I was at yet another church function where I sat down next to a girl who I know but am not close with. We had a fairly standard "small talk" conversation and sometime within the exchange the subject of my flaw was once again brought up when she asked how tall I was. I responded with my regular shrug and answered, "About 6'1" with no shoes." She was then so kind as to reply with an extremely heartfelt and sympathetic "I'm so sorry," with real pity in her eyes.

The reason I was so shocked about these two incidents is because I'd never heard anything like it before. Of course, I've always known I was tall but nothing in my experiences in life or with others had ever led me to believe that it was such a huge problem. Honestly.

•  Never once has anyone assumed I'm older than I am because of my height.
• My height is never the first thing people notice about me, without fail or exception.
• No one ever says "you're tall" out of the blue as though I don't already know it.
• People have never asked me if I play basketball because of my height.
• Shorter people never feel the need to joke about the "air up there."
• Strangers are much too polite to stare at me as I walk around in public.
• I've never had any problems with finding clothing that fits correctly.
• Shower heads are always high enough for the water to actually hit the top of my head.
• Travelling on airplanes is a breeze and so comfortable, especially when people lean their seats back.
• I never feel like I have to slouch at movie theaters or while standing at concerts because people never, ever make rude comments about not being able to see.
• Beds have always been plenty long for me, so my feet never hang off the end.
• Public mirrors never cut my head and/or feet off.
• I've never been asked to reach things off of top shelves at grocery stores by total strangers.
• "One size fits all" clothing is always a perfect fit.
• Nobody has ever called my (fellow sinner) friend and I "amazon women." In an elevator. To our faces.
• I've always been able to stand in the front row for pictures.
• I've never been used as a shade from the sun for short people.
• No one has ever whispered about "that huge girl" in the halls of my high school while I could hear them.
• Tall guys never go after the short girls.
• None of my friends have ever compared me to a giraffe (or perhaps on an unrelated note, a hippo).
• Adults never assured me that all the boys would catch up by high school, and all the boys totally did.
• No one has ever accused me of being shallow for wanting to date guys taller than me.
• No one is related to a couple in which the girl is taller than the boy, nor do they ever feel the need to tell me about it with a little *wink* *wink.*
• Hugging people is never, ever awkward.
• I've never googled the height of a famous man only to find out I'm a solid 6 inches taller.
• I always fit in every single desk I've ever tried to sit in.
• I've never been able to see over the tops of public bathrooms stalls/changing rooms...good thing because that would be really awkward for everyone.

You get the idea. But now what? What can we all do to help those who suffer? I know it might be hard to believe, but tall people usually have NO IDEA of the offense they are giving others, so it's important that every person of average or less-than-average height make it their personal mission in life to always tell tall people that they're tall.

It might seem silly, or even rude sometimes but I promise we will all vastly appreciate the daily reminder of our height. If you can add just a hint of pity or even a little disgust to your voice, it can be very effective. Also, every time you talk to us, try to sneak it into the conversation somewhere so we have a chance of taking the hint. After all, it's scientific fact that our brains don't always function correctly due to the lack of oxygen experienced at our higher elevation, so our bodily proprioception is affected and we can't tell that we stand a head above everyone else.

I know that if we all come together on this issue, we can make wrong things right. Actually, maybe we can't because history and science tell us the world population as a whole is getting taller. Only time will tell if that's a change people can live with. So far, it's not looking good.

***Just in case anyone thinks I'm actually suffering either from bitterness or real anxiety over my height, I am not. Like I said, this has been my condition basically since I was born so trust me when I say I'm used to, and even comfortable with, being a real live amazon woman.*** 

****A search for "tall" in google resulted in the images you see here****

9/11

A history teacher I had in high school said that there will be times when things happen and where you are and what you are doing will be permanently burned into your memory. I doubt there is an adult today who doesn't remember what they were doing when they heard about 9/11. I was six years old and had just started 1st grade.

I'm not sure how much of my memory is correct and how much has been added by my own brain, but I remember waking up for school and my mom doing my hair. This was a little odd, because usually my mom didn't get us up in the mornings. I have memories of being in the family room with the TV on while she put my hair in a ponytail and being very quiet. I went to school and I remember a very somber mood among all of the teachers. I think we may have listened to the radio at some point in the day as well.

I remember knowing something very serious had happened, but I didn't really understand the magnitude of what it was. Flash forward and I'm probably apart of the very youngest age group to remember that day, and now kids in K-12 school are reading about it in history books.

Today as I looked at slideshows of images from that terrifying time, I started to cry. I cried because the pictures are surreal and raw and captivating and so unbelievably human. And as everyone posts about remembering, I wholeheartedly agree and join the hashtags and the posts that all ring out with the same message: "never forget."

Never forget because this actually happened.

I saw post after post that touched me as so many felt compelled to make public tributes to that time and the people who both lived and died, however, there was one post that bothered me. It was this:

Really? Is that why we want to remember? We want to remember with bitterness and anger and aggression? To me, this misses the whole point. To me, that is letting the "bad guys" win. I don't think we should ever forget this. I think we should print it in the history books forever, but not to make us bitter and angry about things that we cannot change. I think we should remember because in the profound words of George Pataki, "On that terrible day, a nation became a neighborhood."

Good people died that day, we should remember them. Good people lived through that day, we should remember them. That day revealed the true colors of so many, and what we saw was bravery and goodness. The absolute worst and lowest of all humankind and the absolute best and most heroic were displayed on the very same day, even in the same hour.

Nineteen of the vilest, most confused, lowest life forms thought they succeeded when they hijacked four planes and sent them crashing into the twin towers, the pentagon, and--because of brave passengers--a field in Pennsylvania. They took some lives immediately and some were taken in the aftermath, but nineteen sick men cannot crush the American spirit. I don't care if you believe in American anymore or not, I don't care if you believe in God or not, what happened in the aftermath of 9/11 was nothing short of a miracle.

I will never cease to be amazed at the incredible resiliency and goodness of the human spirit when it is needed most. And on this day I propose that we do remember. Not to hate. But to remember those who died without a chance to say goodbye to their loved ones, those brave first responders who died answering the call of duty, and the families and friends they left behind. To remember that while tragedy can be an occasion to come together with love and support, we can choose every day to live with the same purpose, compassion, bravery, and selflessness that so many chose on that day that changed us fourteen years ago.

Never forget.

My momma

It's my momma's birthday today. I'm not good at the whole "speaking words of affection" thing, so I'll write out my words and hope that she knows I mean them even if I don't say them out loud. Let me start out by saying my mom is amazing and I'm so happy she was born on this day in 1957. Also, let me say that mothers in general are incredible people. A woman who has children is a woman who has decided to put herself second forevermore, and that's pretty cool. 

I'm going to brag about my mom and I don't want anyone to think that this means I don't admire and respect other women or other parenting styles, I'm just appreciating my mom for being the perfect woman to raise me, so here are just a few things about her that I'm grateful for:

I'm grateful we didn't fight. When I would hear girls in junior high and high school talk about their moms, it made me sad a lot of the time. I can't count how many girls would say that they had a huge fight with their mom and they were screaming and yelling at each other over some issue. I know these girls and their moms love each other, but I just couldn't even fathom having that kind of relationship with my mom because we never fought. If I'm looking at the past through rose-colored glasses, she can correct me but I don't recall a time fighting like that. Now, I know there were times I didn't do what she asked and she got frustrated and upset with me but we have never been in a fight. 

I'm grateful she was mature. My mom was 26 when she got married, and 37 when she had me. There is nothing wrong with getting married and having children younger than that, but my mom had some things figured out by the time all of us kids came along and that's been pretty awesome. Part of how she was raised played into this, and probably her own personality as well, but she knew how to pick her battles. There were some things she just didn't pressure because in the long run, it just wouldn't matter and I'm grateful that she had the maturity and faith to let us kids figure some things out on our own. 

I'm grateful she gave us responsibilities. In order to keep herself sane, I'm sure, us kids actually folded our own laundry growing up. Monday's were laundry days and when we got home from school she'd be sitting there sorting the clothes into baskets and we'd fold them in the living room before taking our things to our rooms and putting them away. We got up in the mornings on our own with an actual alarm clock and were responsible for having things ready to get to school. We had dish duty one night a week and if it didn't get done, no night games for you.

I'm grateful that she kept a nice house. I always see things about a clean house being second priority to happy kids, or things about a messy kitchen and undone laundry meant that a mother is focused on more important things, like her children. But for my mom, it wasn't either house or kids, it was just both. I think that having things clean made my mom feel more calm and less stressed and I never really appreciated when I was younger, but our house was always clean. Sure, we had toys and jackets--oh, and socks and more socks--laying around but one of our "10 item pick-ups" would take care of those things in no time. We didn't have a super nice house, or even super nice things, but what we did have my mom took good care of. When I think of our kitchen, I think of my mom with her yellow rubber gloves on, scrubbing our sink with bleach to make it look nice. People would come to our house and comment on our beautiful new piano which--if I'm correct--is much older than me. That's because my mom took such good care of it.

Speaking of music, I'm grateful she loved music. And not only did she love it, she is an incredibly talented pianist and can sight-read music like there is no tomorrow. I've always been jealous of what I thought was just a natural gift--and part of it is, I'm sure--but not long ago I read a journal that she kept in college while she was studying music. Each entry she made mentioned how long she had practiced that day and she literally spent hours upon hours developing that beautiful talent. I love to hear my mom playing the piano.

I'm grateful she cooked. One staple of my childhood was family dinners. When we were younger, they sometimes ended with people in tears, but we ate together every night and my mom cooked. We hardly ever ate out and that means she's cooked around 6500 dinners for me in my lifetime. We are talking fresh food from scratch practically every night. That's not to mention other meals, especially desserts. Man, my mom makes some mean baked goods. When I came to college some people were marveling over the fact that I made a cake from scratch, and I was marveling at them because I don't think my mom has bought a store bought cake in her life.

I'm grateful she read and cared about education. A good number of our family home evenings were spent going to the library. Her love of reading was instilled in all of her kids. I also remember asking questions like "how do you spell 'choir'?" and she would always reply "how do you think you spell 'choir'?"As infuriating as it was when I just wanted a simple answer, it taught me to *gasp* actually think for myself a little. One thing I always appreciated in school is that she trusted me. She didn't hound me about grades or homework, she assumed and trusted that I'd do what I had to, so I did.

I'm grateful she was pretty hands-off. My mom just kind of let me do my thing. She was, and is, always willing to step in and help me out if I need it, but if she wanted to meddle or nitpick or nag she kept it to herself. She let me try things and do things my way and learn from whatever the results were. Maybe it was a bad idea and sure to fail, but even if she knew it, she didn't say it and let us figure that out on our own which is more valuable than any amount of convincing. She wasn't the mom to get involved with the teachers or coaches to figure my problems out, she let me do it or let me suffer through it if I wasn't willing to figure it out myself.

I'm grateful that she did hard things. I got to watch my mom handle some pretty rough things in life, and learn from her example as she did. While being a grandma is one of her greatest joys, I know she never expected to be a full-time mom to little kids again, but she stepped up to the role when she was needed and I'm amazed by her strength and grateful she got the opportunity to be so close with two of her grandsons.

I'm grateful for her support. It cannot have been easy to raise me. I wasn't crazy or difficult in the ways that people typically think of teenagers, but I was crazy and difficult in other ways. I've got a bit of creative ADD. I jump from one project to the next, each idea a little crazier and more complicated than the last, but she never stifled it even if she didn't understand it. She's also been supportive of me in my volleyball career. She isn't a crazy fanatic who's never missed a game, she just cares. And each year she and my dad found some way to get the money to pay for me to play club volleyball having no idea if it would actually pay off or not.

I'm grateful for her testimony. One of the things I think of first when I think about her is her morning routine. Every morning she would shower and then as she got ready for the day, I could hear the old Book of Mormon tapes playing and I would sometimes listen as a reader retold the stories of Nephi and Alma the Younger. I knew it was important to her. She's been faithful in every calling I've ever known her to hold, even when she desperately wanted to do something other than be a pianist for once.

I'm grateful she's my mom and that I had the privilege of growing up with her to guide me. I'm grateful for her bringing my five awesome siblings into the world and working every day for us to have the best upbringing possible. I'm grateful for her testimony and example to me. 

Most of all, I'm grateful because I am who I am because she is who she is. And she is my mommy.

There is a place

There is a place in Arizona.

It's east of Show Low in the White Mountains.

It's out of the way and you'd never go there unless you're looking for it.

There is extremely limited cell-phone service, no TVs, and no internet.

Even though there are a few things it doesn't have, there are far more benefits than costs. It's a pretty dang cool place.

It's a place where meals are eaten at wooden picnic tables built in 1948.

It's a place where sand volleyball is being played at almost all waking hours.

It's a place where four cabins built in 1948 and four built in 1960 are still used and slept in.

It's a place where horny toads are caught by kids and held prisoner in corrals made of mud, sticks, and rocks.

It's a place where hiking up our "mountain," Sierra Trego, is always harder than it looks.

It's a place where you can win beanie flipper contests.

It's a place where you write down your family line back to the common ancestor to get treats.

It's a place where swinging on the rope is done at the risk of broken bones and skinned up knees.

It's a place where you drive to the top of a mountain called Greens Peak and then run down it...why? Who knows?

It's a place where we hold 3K run, and you do it every year against all your better judgement.

It's a place where it rains randomly a few times a day, usually at the most inconvenient times.

It's a place where you play family feud and do skits of your ancestors lives at the evening program.

It's a place where you get way too intense playing "gaga ball" because that little kid is out gosh-dang-it and don't you try to cheat you little punk.

It's a place where you drive ten hours through the night to get there. 

It's a place where in-laws and outlaws alike are welcomed as long as they're family!

(At the risk of getting too cheesy) It's a place where you see loving families and dedicated parents who work together...shoot, I crossed the line.

It's a place where said families tease and joke to no end.

It's a place where you stay up late at night telling new stories, reliving old ones, and laughing until you cry.

It's a place where you update every. single. person. on the past year of your life, sometimes more than once.

It's a place where I recognize all the faces but I don't know all the names.

It's a place where time stops and even though there are a few more kids and gray hairs than there were last year, it never feels like anything has changed.

There is a place in Arizona.

It's east of Show Low in the White Mountains.

It's out of the way and you'd never go there unless you're looking for it.

It's called the Whiting Homestead, and it's where family is.

4th of July

So I'm a day late because I've been trying to formulate what I want to say in my head in a way that makes sense and conveys how much I think we have to be grateful for in this country without being naive or rose-colored. 

I was camping for the weekend so this year I didn't see much by the way of actual patriotic celebrating...not even a single live firework, depressing I know. But as I was thinking about the holiday, nothing is so hilarious, self-fulfilling, and the ultimate paradoxical reality that we can't celebrate being American without stuffing ourselves with food and blowing things up in the sky. For one day a year we pull out our stars-and-stripes in every form imaginable whether by face paint, clothing, or decor and place our patriotism on parade for a solid 12 hours before going to bed, waking up and complaining that nothing is right in this dumb country of ours.

Is there anything more American than that?

And it might be a little sad that we take so much for granted, but at least for that one day we actually have something to celebrate. Even if we only take a few hours, we know for every second of that day, the 4th of July, that we live in the greatest country in the world.

Each of the other 364 days in a year, we can find something to complain about but all it takes is a little perspective to see that we have every reason to celebrate. 

Do we realize that the reason we have the privilege to complain or even just express opinion at all on public platforms like social media is because we live in America? There are countries where people die for anything spoken against government and country.

Do we realize that we don't need to draft men into the military because there are enough people in our country who choose to go through the rigorous mental and physical training it takes to protect and fight for us? There are still over 30 countries that draft 18 year old's into their military.

Do we realize that any person can learn anything they want to in a country with a 99% literacy rate with 0% difference between genders? We have free public libraries with access to books and computers, public schools, and other endless resources for those who seek them while there are still countries with less than 50% literacy rates and huge discrepancies between genders.

It's easy to forget how blessed we really are here in the USA, when comparatively with the world we have it pretty darn good. I'm not writing this ignorance of issues, or under the pretense that everything is perfect and sunny here in America. We have corruption, crime, and lots and lots of debt. But what I'm trying to say is that in general, as a whole people, we're pretty darn unique. 

As I was driving back from camping through the canyon on my way home to Logan the song "God Bless the USA" by Lee Greenwood came on the radio. I've remembered all the lyrics since my class sang it in 4th grade for some kind of patriotic event. As I sang along (softy that I am) I got all choked up as I loudly proclaimed:

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free"

I thought how significant that sentence was just then when I wasn't feeling too positive on America's overall outlook for the future. The point of the 4th of July isn't to pretend like we've got it all figured out. It's to celebrate independence and freedom. And if nothing else here in America, "at least I know I'm free." 

If seeing our flag waving in the wind or little kids in jeans with flags painted on each cheek doesn't move you at all, you may need a little reevaluating, because this country was built on the blood of men and women who believed that there could be a place where certain human "inalienable rights [which include] life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" could be achieved. We sure as heck aren't perfect but to only focus on the bad and negative and wrongs in our country is to do a disservice to every person who has fought in the last 239 years to preserve those inalienable rights. We are blessed with freedom. 

And that is worth blowing some chemicals up in the sky.

A Kind of Funny Story

So a couple of weeks ago, I went to my institute class on a warm Wednesday night at 7:00. When I emerged at approximately 9:00 pm, it was a complete downpour. I'm serious, I have never seen anything like it in Utah before. My car was parked across campus so I had a bit of journey to make it back to dry safety. 

I started running out the door and within seconds I was completely drenched. I'm telling you, this was torrential rain pour. I ran about twenty steps before I realized I was wasting energy. I slowed to a walk and heard a very loud *squish* *squish* sound. I looked down and couldn't see my feet. 

Let me clarify: I was wearing some very comfy pants made out of a stretchy knit. Now completely saturated with rain water, they expanded to the approximate size an obese elephant would wear and at least doubled in length, I swear. So there I was sloshing across campus soaked to the bone, holding up my pants at the waist while they got longer and longer until my feet were totally swallowed up inside them with room to spare.

I got to my car and tossed a jacket on the front seat to avoid turning the driver's seat into a sponge and quickly drove home. I walked around the corner of my house to see that the cement stairwell leading to the door of my basement apartment was filled with at least four inches of water. I knew there was a drain somewhere in there so I swam waded across the mini-pond to find it clogged with leaves.

I grabbed a small plastic broom that I had left out and started swooshing the leaves away from the drain to let the water go down. Finally when I felt I could open my door without letting a tidal wave of water into my living room, I walked in, shut the door and leaned back on it to take a breather and drip a puddle onto the floor. While resting against the door with my eyes closed, I realized that I heard water.

Well, duh...it's raining. But I mean, I heard water pouring. I take my pants off--don't worry, I had my volleyball spandex on underneath--and leave them at the entry to avoid creating a river on my carpet and run down the hallway to my room where I look to the window and see at least 18 inches of water sloshing against the window, as well as a steady stream pouring into the room through some sort of leak in the window sealing or something.

I grabbed a big plastic storage container and ran outside to the backyard where I had to pry off a window-well cover and then proceeded to jump into 18 inches of cold rain water. This is the moment when the reason that my window-well is so full of water becomes clear: by either crappy design or damage, there is a giant gap in the rain gutter on the roof. 

How do I figure this out, you ask? I figure it out when I jump into the window-well and suddenly I'm standing under a waterfall. So now I'm soaking water in from both ends. I'm standing in 18 inches of water at bottom of my window well, in my spandex and a t-shirt with a waterfall pouring from the roof and I start shoveling water out with a large rectangular storage bin. 

At first I was angry, grudgingly filling the storage bin, lifting it out and tipping out onto the lawn, repeating these actions over and over with rain from the roof pounding on my head as I worked. But then, I started to think about how ridiculous I probably looked and I just started laughing. 

So now, not only am I shoveling water out of a window well with a storage bin while torrential rain pours upon me, I am also cackling maniacally at how ridiculous I must look. I'm sure it was quite the sight. After probably fifteen minutes, I finally got the water to below the window level and remembered that I had soaked carpet in my room. So I leave my bin in the window-well to hopefully collect some water while I run inside.

I realize I only have one towel for dirty stuff and I'm not about to use my shower towels to sop up rain water out of my carpet, so thank goodness I have a stash of 2 million t-shirts. I lay out the towel and t-shirts on the floor and walk around on them to soak up water. Then, when they're all full of water, I toss them in the dryer and head back outside where the rain has not slowed down which means my progress in the window-well has been partially undone.

I repeated this specific process several times before the rain lightened up and I was too exhausted to stay up and continue drying and sopping with one towel and some t-shirts. So I collapsed into bed and slept soundly before waking up to a beautiful, clear, sunny day, the weather clearly mocking me with it's bipolar tendencies.

 I had morning weights so I got up and went straight there before all the events from my ordeal the night before came rushing back. It felt weird, almost like a dream. When I got home I went to the back yard, just to check my sanity and sure enough...evidence of my struggle:

The poor lawn took a beating where I poured out all the water.

And the plastic bin with just a few inches of water in the bottom. 

Being the nerd that I am, I tried really hard to come up with some sort of symbolism or some meaningful comparison to make this story worth telling, but I've gotta be honest and all I can come up with is this:

If you're ever having a bad day, just imagine me standing at night half-dressed in a window-well full of water cackling as I try to shovel it out with a storage bin while more rain pours in from the roof.

....yup, that's pretty much all I've got. 

Impatiently Waiting

**Warning: this is a serious post filled with a lot of not-very-serious High School Musical jokes/references.**

I was watching High School Musical the other day (yes, I'm twenty and yes, I still watch that movie). It got to the part where Gabriela wanders the empty halls of East high and sings her heart-wrenching song in front of Troy's blown-up sports poster face. Know which part I'm talking about? Cool, we can be friends. Have no idea what I'm talking about? See below:

Anyway, after the song is sung Troy and Gabriela part ways for approximately six minutes and eighty-four seconds of the movie. And I skipped it. I'm not sure why. Yes, I've seen the movie before so I've already gone through the agony of wondering whether they'll be able to work, work, work this out. we'll make things right, the sun will shine...oops, that's the second movie, but man, doesn't everything just lead back to High School Musical?

So I know they get back together, but what, I couldn't wait six minutes and eighty-four seconds for it to happen? Then this got me thinking about things that have absolutely nothing to High School Musical and I zoned out for the rest of the movie, lost deep in thought. 

We can't go back in time, but we can't speed it up either. We can remember the past, and hope and dream for the future, but I think there is a limited amount of remembering and dreaming we can do before we start to lose grip on reality and forget that we have a life to live...and it is right now.

Maybe I'm the only one dealing with this and the rest of ya'll just have it all together, but I do this a lot, mostly dreaming. The thing about my little day dreams is that I filter out all the bad stuff. I know exactly what to do and say in every situation in my head.

Then I get all excited. Oh my gosh, it's gonna be so much more fun when __________. Man, it's gonna be so great when _________ happens. I'm so excited for __________to be different. Whatever it is, it's going to be so much better that what I'm doing right now. 

Then tomorrow comes, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and pretty soon it's a week, month, year, later and nothing has changed. And I find myself thinking

How can that be??? I imagined this point in my life so much better than it actually is!! I feel normal, just like I did before...what is going on? This isn't how it's supposed to be. 

And it's all because I was trying to skip the "bad" parts. I find myself watching these movies and I can't even make it through the whole thing without skipping the "boring" moments. If I'm so impatient to get through a two hour movie to the happy ending that I can't even watch the whole thing, how am I going to make it through life?

There's a great scene in Letters to Juliet where the grandma is looking for an old love and they pull into the driveway of an incredible mansion sitting on a lot of beautifully manicured gardens. Her grandson says "you got to skip the messy bits" and she replies 

"Life is the messy bits."

So in movies, we almost always know that they'll get past the messy bits and have a happy ending. It's pretty clear. But in life, it's not always so cut and dry. 

I sit wishing and wanting and waiting away the "messy bits" until...what?

Marriage? then kids? then money? then kids leaving? then travel? then retirement? then, then, then. But I've realized that life doesn't have a culminating moment. Where we've finally figured it all out. Where we don't have anymore question or problems. Where now that I've checked off this, this, and this, I'm good. Because if we keep a list that says "I'll be happy when..." we'll always have some box that remains unchecked.

While some might find this news a little sad, I find this sudden revelation freeing. I don't have to sit around waiting until certain things have happened before I can be happy and at peace. In the rare moments when I just sit and appreciate what I have and where I am right now, I realize that I've got it pretty dang good, and I've got every reason and right to be happy where I am now. 

Not because I can skip the "messy bits," but because I can always find two sides to my story. It's like a spinach and strawberry smoothie that gets blended up into one off-colored, delicious life drink. We can choose whether we focus on the icky brown color we see, or we can choose to savor the taste of the strawberries. Either way, they are blended together and we can't separate them. And though we might not want to hear or believe it, the spinach is actually good for us, even if it doesn't taste very good and doesn't look appetizing at all.

I know there will be times when this concept just won't seem very clear. There will still be times when we think:

But seriously, this time if I just had __________ then I really would be happier. Why can't things just be better right now?

And it might take us a little while to come around, but we just need to sit down, take a deep breath, and hopefully realize over and over again that we can decide to be happy, content, and at peace with our life right now and no circumstance can make us otherwise unless we choose to let it. 

So let's do this. Because we're all in this together, right?

Awesome is not synonymous with married.

**This is definitely geared toward those people living in/knowing about the LDS culture**

**This is for people who are not married, but isn't meant to belittle married people IN ANY WAY**

There is a word that can instill an entire spectrum of emotions in people. For some, excitement and anticipation. For others, dread and apprehension. Some might be sick of the word, others may never tire of it. Some people post about theirs on social media all the time and we would like to punch them in the face  kindly tell them to relax with the mushy posts. If you haven't guessed it yet, I'll spell it out for you:

m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e

Yup, that word. As saints of the latter day, we hear about it a lot. It's kinda the main point of life. Okay, not really the main point...but since we believe it is central to our salvation, it's a big deal. This is something that's been on my mind a little for a while. But first, I just need to introduce the context a little bit. 

I am in a fantastic singles ward right now. The best way I can think to describe us would be this: we are a group of people who are weirdly passionate about a myriad of things, and we all get along fantastically. Seriously, we're great. Anyway, I was talking the other night to someone and I was saying how much I loved our ward and I said:

"I don't even know why our ward is a singles ward because everyone is seriously soooo amazing. We have such great people in this ward, how are we all single????"

And then I thought, that's silly. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I hear things along those lines all the time and don't even think twice about it. Hear what things? Well, things like:

"How is _______ not married? I mean, seriously, she's amazing!!"

or

"He is honestly the sweetest guy, how is he still single?"

You've probably said/heard these things too. So all I have to say is this:

AWESOME* ISN'T SYNONYMOUS WITH MARRIED.

*Insert any other complementary descriptive word here

Now, I don't consider myself extreme in really any of my views, so I'm not saying that phrases like these are tearing us apart from the inside out, and the only way to be saved is to eradicate these phrases and we're all going to die in a zombie apocalypse if we don't. But I think sometimes little thoughts like this sneak into my head and I think

What does that married girl have that I don't?

(Well she's got a husband, for one thing.)

Almost like there is an "awesomeness game" in which our wonderful married peers have some secret cheat code figured out that bumps them up a level. Or like there is a certain amount of awesomeness needed, and once you reach that level of achievement, you'll quickly find another who has reached their awesomeness requirement and then you get married. Or how about this one:

Don't look for the right one, be the right one.

Uh, great. Don't get me wrong, it is wonderful to always be looking for ways to improve ourselves, but if the search is because we think there is a magical quality which--once attained--will bring marriage with it, we'll be left feeling inadequate and incapable. It's dangerous to start tying marriage to ANY of our qualities, whether physical, mental, or spiritual. 

If I was prettier

If I was smarter

If I was more fit

If I was more kind

If I was more funny

If I was more spiritual

If I was more

If I was more

If I was more

If I was more

It's a dangerous cycle to say that if we were more of anything, then we'd be worth loving enough for somebody to marry us. But here is the good news:

  

We are worth loving right now, and we are loved right now.  

We are loved enough for our brother, our Savior Jesus Christ, to suffer in a garden for not just our sins, but our heartaches, our struggles, our pains, and our sufferings. 

Yeah, we have a brother who loves us enough to die for us. 

And you didn't have to earn that love, you are worth that love. 

So here's the thing, a person can read their scriptures every darn day, attend the temple weekly, go to all their church meetings, magnify their calling in their ward, serve others, continually work to improve themselves, and still not be married.

But they're so awesome, how are they not married?

You're darn right, they are. They are awesome. And God knows they're awesome. And they should know that they're awesome. And they should keep being awesome. Because being awesome, humble, sweet, caring, selfless, dedicated, faithful, honest, helpful, and positive are no more synonymous with marriage than ocean (yes, that was totally random) is synonymous with marriage. While many married people possess these qualities, they are neither a requirement nor a standard for being loved and/or married.

So by all means:

be awesome.

Because, while being awesome certainly is not a requirement for marriage, you'll have a whole lot more fun on your way there if you are.