Starlit Paradise--Prom 2008

Well, let me just tell you, this was the dang weirdest prom I have ever been to (or heard of) in my life! I'll start off by saying I'm really glad I was there and I actually had a lot of fun :). I bought a new skirt and sweater for the occasion--new clothes are always fun (shout out to my mamacita for going shopping with me!). The music was pretty good (not always the most feasible dancing music, but pretty good). The food was great, there were TONS of modest dresses (I was so proud), everyone looked good and seemed to be having a good time, and I really did have fun "socializing" as Mr. Lacy instructed me to.

I arrived right on time. Pretty much there were a bunch of chaperone's and maybe three couples at the time. I actually didn't like "hanging out" with the chaperone's so just took a seat, waiting for the party to get started. I don't know how many of you know that I LOVE TO DANCE. Yep. Those weekly stake dances in high school really did something to me. I LOVE it. And, if I say so myself, I'm not half bad. So there I was with hardly any prom attendees and a wide open dance floor. I'm not going to lie, I was tempted. But, so early in the night, I couldn't expose my inner secret and "bust a move." The timing wasn't right.

Slowly gussied girls and tuxedoed boys started coming in. And standing in the dance floor. Or worse, sitting on the chairs lining the walls. No one was dancing--I was mystified. I started making the rounds--telling the girls they looked beautiful, the guys they looked sharp, trying to encourage them to dance. It worked with Jill and Dane. They actually didn't need much prodding. They went out alone--and they stayed out there alone. Get this: no one joined them. Weird. I honestly didn't know what to make of it.

And then it got weirder. Not only did more bright, shiny, and sparkley partners keep coming, but so did the PARENTS. Apparently it is the "thing" in small southern Utah towns for Prom to be a family event. I'm not joking. I think there were equal numbers of younger siblings, parents, and grandparents as there were high schoolers. The parents ate the food and sat around watching their youngin's not dancing. They really weren't dancing. The music was playing and they were in the middle of the floor--and occasionally someone would sway to the beat--but not real, honest-to-goodness dancing. More would come out for the slow songs--you know, doing the sway. I was starting to get annoyed. I staked myself by the refreshment table and started threatening people:

Me: Hey, Michael. You look sharp. Are you having fun? Why aren't you dancing?"
Michael: "I did dance once.
Me: Slow songs don't really count. If you don't get out there, I WILL.
Michael: (looking surprised) Uh, if you dance, I will. But really, guys can't dance. It's too embarrassing. The girls can dance if they want. I only do slow songs.
Me: excuse me??

I couldn't handle it. Honestly. More of them would dance for a slow song, but it still was pretty sparse. Finally, after a better danced slow song, as everyone started heading back for their chairs, I skipped my way out to the middle of the floor, calling out, "Hey, where do you think you're going? Get back out here and dance!" And I gave it all I got--spinning and hip-shaking, and well, dancing. They crowded around and cheered "Go Ms. T!" and joined in a little bit (I think they just don't know how to shake-shake it. So sad). I started right in the middle of the floor, but found once I got them dancing, I needed to work way outward to get the awkward stragglers on the fridges. I even danced over to a row of sitters and, while still giving it all I had, egged them on: "You goina' let the teacher show you up? Come, show me what you've got!" Remember, the dance floor was lined with parents. But I did everything I could to pull those kids out there. Amid laughing, whistling, cheering, and dancing, I tried to liven that dance up!

I think it worked a little bit. The music was pre-tracked, so the DJ didn't have much control over what came on next--which, of course, was another slow song, totally killing the momentum. In my opinion, there were WAY too many slow songs. And even songs that weren't slow songs they slow danced too. At 10:30 the juniors danced "prominad"--a choreographed partner dance. Parents took pictures. Then came the prom court and king and queen (all announced at prom--non of the all-week activities). After that it died down a bit. The parents started leaving (thank goodness) and the high schoolers danced more. I guess I would feel awkward dancing if the town was watching me too. Oh wait. The town was watching me. And I'm an outsider. And the "teacher." I sure am good at giving people something to talk about. Anyhow, the best dancing happened in the last half hour. I didn't get out there again (it was tempting). I really don't like just sitting and watching, however, so I started helping the moms in the kitchen (replenishing water, making up the sandwiches, cutting cheesecake). It was better than watching all those big swishy dresses be wasted on slow songs only.

Seriously, I think I need to devote a Friday class period to teaching these guys how to lose their self-consciousness and DANCE! Because, for real, I showed most of them up. And I'm the teacher!

The new outfit (and new handbag made just for the occasion!)

PS to my dear, beloved Blandingites. I hope you are in no way offended by this post. That is not my intention! I also hope you join with me in encouraging the high schoolers to dance!

You're Entering Navajoland

About two weeks ago I told you I got out to see some of the beautiful sites of San Juan County. It ended up being such a fun little drive and adventure. We went to Valley of the Gods--just a few miles south of Bluff (which is 25 miles south of me), the Goosenecks, and down around Mexican Hat. It was a perfect clear-skies day with good music, good company, and beautiful red rock scenery. I recently got the pictures and wanted you to see some of the incredible sites just a hop, skip, and a jump from my house.

We found this sign in Mexican Hat and thought
it was pretty funny :).

Valley of the Gods

One enormous rock precariously perched and looking like a little push will do the trick!

This is the view from when we climbed up one of the tall rock pillars. You can see our car and some guy's camping spot (and the dirt road) below.

The Goosenecks. Pretty incredible, huh? It is just a long winding river at the bottom of this incredible canyon.

I loved getting out and seeing what is near by. I really do live in the middle of nowhere... but it is a beautiful part of nowhere :).

What do women want?

This question plagued Sigmund Freud who eventually concluded that women want to be like men. Mary Pipher, in her book Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls, asserts that "each woman wants something different and particular and yet each woman wants the same thing--to be who she truly is, to become who she can become" (26). Of course, I agree much more with Pipher than with Freud. But still, this question has in many ways haunted me as well. What is it that I, as a woman, want? I often feel contradictions of the world around me. I want to be loved, yet independent. I want to be successful, but not intimidating. I want to develop my talents, but not seek after fame or vanity. I want to be a wife and mother, but not obsessive about getting married. I want to be happy, but not fake. I want to take care of myself, but not swallowed by media's imposing images and demands. The swirl of wants sometimes leaves me wondering which way is up.

And yet, having been taught the Gospel of Jesus Christ, I feel like I should be able to make sense of it all. In the past year I have been pondering and studying just what it means to be a Daughter of Eve, a Daughter of God, and a woman. I have attended the temple, studied in the scriptures, and discussed with roommates, friends, and family. I have read every talk from the General Relief Society Broadcasts, conference addresses, and BYU devotionals that I could find posted on the internet and in the Eternal Marriage manual, pertaining to this subject.

When I first starting studying in earnest, I was living in a student ward--a ward, unlike most at BYU, with a large percentage of returned sister missionaries and older single sisters. Many of the sisters in my ward were angry at being single—to the point of defiantly feeling that they no longer cared if they ever got married. Others, perhaps not so defiant, were lonely and felt no sense of direction in their lives.

I now find myself living alone in Blanding Utah—as you know—teaching high school English. Every day I teach beautiful young women who are struggling to understand who they are and to not base it on their appearance. They are bright, beautiful young women who are trying to do and be good. But they spend hours each day getting ready. They worry more about their appearance than, it seems, anything else. I worry that when they lose the battle in front of the mirror there will not be anything left.

No matter where I find myself or who I talk with, I am troubled by the women around me. We, even many taught the doctrine of the restored gospel, seem to be tossed to and fro on every wind of doctrine that would whisper we are something other than what the brethren, the scriptures, and the spirit teach we are. It seems that Satan’s lies are so very close to the truth that it is hard to decipher them. Even—or most especially—in an LDS society, we seem to be giving in.

We live in a society today where the word feminist is a pejorative. And while I cannot support many of the ideals of "feminists" as the word is used at large, I feel that we have a responsibility to stand strong in defending womanhood and motherhood. To me, a true feminist denounces pornography and anything that degrades or reduces the female body to an object of worship (including movies, music, ads, etc.). A true feminist fights for the female right to develop her talents and skills in order to bless the lives of others--both in the home and the community. A true feminist does not fight for "equality" between the sexes, but respect, understanding, and partnership. A true feminist does not seek to be lifted on a pedastool to be worshiped or idolized. A true feminist respects and acknowledges men for who they are (and can become). A true feminist understands that her identity cannot be divorced from her ability and need to be a mother--both literally and figuratively. A true feminist does not degrade or demean the sacrifices and art of keeping a home and building a family.

In the midst of my own personal struggle to understand and discern truth from error, I am grateful for so many good women around me who already demonstrate the ability to exercise faith and set the world's definitions aside; who have helped me identify the attributes that throughout time have been signatures of womanhood. I have come to the conclusion that I do not yet truly understand what it means to be a woman, a Daughter of God, or a Daughter of Eve, but I feel I am getting closer to understanding the truth—and the magnitude of it. I am grateful for the search it has led me on, and for the quiet whisperings of the spirit that help me know—even if I do not fully comprehend—that I am loved and watched over.

What are your thoughts? Where is my understanding or perspective lacking? How have you seen this to be true in your lives? What is it that we, as women, want? How do we balance the demands all around us?

Happy Easter!

I love baseball

I really do. There is just something magical about the lights, the organ music, the smell of hot dogs drifting through the air. And your favorite team suited up and lookin' good. This week I went to Provo (oh how I miss Provo sometimes!) for spring break and to see FIVE (count them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) BYU baseball games.

Most of you know that Blake, my "little" brother, pitches for BYU. I loved sitting above the home team dug out and picking his head out of the line of players. I loved getting to see him pitch; although, I am not going to lie, it was really stressful. I loved dancing to Kacey Ko's music every time he came to the plate (yo yo yo yo yo!) and jumping to my feet when Thomas Bills hit a beautiful line drive down the third baseline, ensuring the victory after extra innings. I loved going down to the clubhouse after the game to congratulate the players and going out to eat afterward. Yes, congratulate. Because we won every single game this week. I loved sitting by Whitney (Blake's girlfriend) and my mom (religiously keeping score) or Chad (looking a little tired after just waking up). I even loved the sun (not the burn) during those two afternoon games. I loved the enthusiasm of the fans (except Mr. obnoxious super fan), the chilly air of a night game (and being bundled up in a down blanket). I loved the stress of a tight situation, and the relief of a save. I really do love baseball. Probably I love it most of all because it is such a family sport. Ok, my family's sport. It is something that we all love together. I loved being there with my family and cheering for my brother's team.

Blake warming up Friday night. (note: I am a big fan of the hiked pants)

Mom, waiting for Blake in the clubhouse after a sunny Saturday afternoon game.

There's our boy. We loved it when we could see his number! (Wednesday afternoon game.)

Chad and I getting incredibly sunburned (today--4 days later) the swelling has finally gone down.

Whitney, me, Mom (note the score card in her hand), and Chad at the Friday night game. It was cold!

Blake and I in the clubhouse after the Saturday afternoon game. What a good lookin' brother!

Elvia Alvarado

"We're not going to solve our problems through handouts. Until we change the system, all the charity in the world won't take us out of poverty." --Elvia Alvarado (Don't be Afraid Gringo: A Honduran Woman Speaks from the Heart)

This morning at Barnes and Nobles I stumbled across this book (quoted above)--dictated by a Honduran campesina (peasant) and her struggle to organize the campesinos and fight for their rights to own land and to live descent lives. Interestingly I have been thinking a lot about Honduras lately despite being home from my mission (where I served) almost three years. I started reading the Book of Mormon in Spanish again. I even watched a movie in Spanish instead of English the other day. And I have been thinking about the lives they lead there--the way they view the world. Reading her story has brought back floods of memories. I am still horrified by their extreme poverty--impoverished children, diseased water, lack of resources, lack of land, endless cycles of abuse and malnutrition; I am still saddened by their skewed values--intense machismo, lack of fidelity between men and women; I am still frustrated by the corruption--both political and religious. And yet, as a people--particularly those in the pueblos and campos, they are so strong. I have rarely met such determination, such work ethic, such resiliency.

As a "welfare sister" I was called to not only teach the gospel, but to work with the members in building the principles of self-reliance and caring for the poor and needy. It was an overwhelming task--for more reasons than I will elaborate on here--to say the least. In a nut-shell, we were to help the people attain greater self reliance in the areas of education, employment, food storage, physical health, resource management, and spiritual, emotional, and social strength. The goal was to help them become more capable in one or two of these areas so that they could then help others.

To me, this is one of the most beautiful principles of the gospel--the idea that we attain in order to give. Providing in the Lord's Way: A Leader's Guide to Welfare describes it this way:

"In the Doctrine and Covenants, the Savior explained that the Saints should give their offerings for the poor to the Bishop. The Bishop keeps these offerings in "the [Lord's] storehouse" and uses them as needed "to administer to the poor and needy" (D&C 42:34; see also 42:29-36; 78:3-7, 13-17; 82: 14-19).

"The Lord's storehouse receives, holds in trust, and dispenses the consecrated offerings of the Saints. In form and operation the storehouse may be as simple or sophisticated as circumstances require. It may be a list of available services, money in an account, food in a pantry, or commodities in a building. A storehouse is established the moment faithful member consecrate to the bishop their time, talents, skills, compassion, materials, and financial means in caring for the poor and building the kingdom of God on the earth.

"The Lord's Storehouse, therefor exists in each ward."

I love this passage. It seems so clear here. Why do we get an education? What should we be doing with our health and strength? How should we be using our resources? Probably not just on ourselves. The Lord gives, so that we can give. So much of why we are here is to lessen the disparity between what we have been given and what others have been given. In fact, He declared (D&C 104: 13-18) that He will provide for His people in His own way... that the "rich shall be exalted and the poor shall be made low." The idea being, as I understand it, we become equal. Those rich in health care for those poor in health. Those rich in compassion care for those poor in spirit. Those rich in knowledge, teach (share, give) those lacking. Isn't missionary work those "rich" in the spirit or testimony sharing with those who have not yet received it? Not for the intent to prove their superiority, but because we really are equal. And interestingly enough, those to give (or are "rich" made low) tend to not fall to the level of the "poor," but rather bring them up. And the system as already been set up--as simple or sophisticated as circumstances allow--in each ward and branch of the church.

And yet, even in the church, we are far from this mark. As I read Elvia's words, I was reminded, that this is the ideal system. This is how it is supposed to work. And yet there are so many places in the world where it just isn't happening. Honduras just being one--and one that particularly matters a lot to me. What are we doing about it? Of course, as Providing in the Lord's Way suggests, it starts in our own wards, and really, in our own homes. In her book, Elvia keeps discussing the problems in the individual homes of the campesinos. It is in the home that there isn't fidelity. It is in the home that there is fear and mistrust. It is in the home that there is lack of respect and compassion. So of course, we must start in the home.

I don't know where I am going with all this--since it is a complex issue that cannot be wrapped up in a blog post or a cliche ending. But I have been feeling ansy the last few days. I have been wanting to worry about something bigger than my own fears or insecurities or sunburned legs. I am grateful for the reminder that "it's not about [me] anymore." There are bigger, more important issues at hand. And there are things--large and small--that we can do to change them. It starts in our own homes, in our own wards, and in our efforts to change what Elvia calls "the system."

Exclusive St. Patrick's Day Party Invite

A very Happy St. Patrick's Day to YOU!

ps. I don't know what my deal is with taking pictures of myself in the mirror. Sorry. I was bored... what can I say? But, hey, I am rocking out to some good Mana. I wish you were here!

pps. For all those curious: nope, not a drop of Irish blood in me. Despite the red hair. So I can't blame the Irish if I have a feisty streak in me....

The ABC's

In honor of Juliana (ps, I love that you post so much more on your blog, Jules!) and in honor of finals week ending (we won't talk about how many papers I should be grading right now), I will humor you all with my ABC's...

A - Attached or Single? Single
B- Best Friend? Tasha and Sara and Paige and my mom
C- Cake or Pie? cake: I remember one summer going to a million weddings. Around number 7, I started going just for the cake. I don't eat it very often, but I do like good cake (with good frosting).
D- Day of Choice? Hmm, Saturdays probably--it's when I get most things done
E- Essential Item? my laptop
F- Favorite Color? RED of course. Someone new came to my house today and said "Wow! You do like red." Pretty much everything I own is red--it has a mysterious way of calming me down.
G- Gummy Bears or Worms? Gummy Bears: they remind me of G and G Snowball's house. I like any candy that is fruity.
H-Hometown? Westminster, CA
I- Favorite Indulgence? Kettle Corn and peppermints (the little red and white stripped ones people often associate only with Christmas--I am currently addicted)
J- January or July? BOTH. I love seasons. When it is January, I love January; when it is July, I love July.
K- Kids? I hope to have a lot (6-8?)--but we'll see once I start having them if I still feel the same way :)
L- Life isn't complete without? a good book
M- Marriage date? Not a clue
N- Number of brothers and sisters? Three sisters (Sara, Tasha, and Paige) and two brothers (Blake and Chad)
O- Oranges or Apples? Oranges with breakfast and apples with lunch (I really do eat one of each almost every day)
P- Phobias and Fears? Hurting people. I know it is inevitable, but I hate (HATE) it.
Q- Quote? "I do not believe sheer suffering teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness, and the willingness to remain vulnerable." --Anne Morrow Lindbergh (Gift from the Sea)

R- Reason to smile? Today is Saturday; it is officially spring break; next week I will be in Provo and get to see 5 BYU baseball games; today I actually got out on a Saturday and visited some San Juan County "sites"--and it was very fun!
S- Season of choice? All of them. I just like seasons, period. I love living in places that change every few months.
T- Tag three people? Kd, Katy C, Kiera. But if you don't want to, hey, no pressure!
U- Unknown fact about me? This is hard. Some of you probably know I don't own a TV (and don't want to). Let's see, I hate to cry. Despite how much I might cry at a funeral, I really hate it (especially in public). I am scared of singing solos (even though I am in one week! Pray for me). And I am really awkward around boys (mostly if they are "potential' boys--if you know what I mean. I ball up.)
V- Vegetable? All of them. I don't cook them enough lately--but I sure do like them!
W - Worst habit? Snoozing my alarm clock
X-ray or Ultrasound? I've never had either--but I am guessing I would prefer an ultrasound

Y- Your favorite food? Currently? Popcorn. Of real food? Warm homemade corn tortillas with chismol
Z- Zodiac Sign? Can't ever remember... and don't care!

Why I hate finals week...

I have discovered that I hate (HATE) failing kids. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it. I want so badly for them to do well. I want them to learn and think and understand the world in new and unique ways. I get so frustrated with this system of learning that uses grades to motivate students. I know, I know, if there weren't grades, I probably wouldn't get much work out of them. Or wouldn't I? In an ideal world will we all want to learn and seek after learning? Or is that only possible once we have graduated from the realm of teen-dom? I don't know. But it pains and stresses me to see that look in their' eyes when they come in the last week of term and say, "Ms. T., I'm failing. Failing. What can I do? Please, I'll do anything." And yes, I know that I cannot let them do anything. I cannot condone pure procrastination or a semester's worth of zeros on assignments.

I understand it with my head. But my heart--the part of me that wants to make people happy--begs me to give them another chance. Perhaps it is the hardest for those students who come every day, sit quietly in their corner, turn in occasional assignments, and probably don't understand a word of what I am talking about, no matter how many times I try to explain and reexplain. They want to do well. They just don't know how to do well. It is so beyond anything they have ever seen done in their family or in their own academic careers. You have to be "one of them" to go to college, to get good grades, to do well, they say and shrug. So when they come and stand before me with that pained look and ask that question, I don't always know what to say. When should I be merciful and when should I hold to my guns? How can I let one student turn in a late assignment (even for a good reason) and not the other (even for a bad reason)?

Sigh.

So apart from the grading and the intense, high-stress, testing environment, what I hate most about finals week is the emotional strain of having to look that kid in the eyes and say, "Yes, you are failing. You didn't turn in... or do... or do well enough on... And now, there is nothing you can do." Mostly it makes me want to crawl in a hole and not come back. But I keep thinking, there's got to be something I can do to change the system. To helps kids realize that they are capable of not failing and creating the path for them. Any thoughts?

Things I would rather do than grade papers...

**Not listed in order of importance.**

1. read
2. blog
3. clean
4. sleep
5. talk to someone--anyone
6. lesson plan (wow, I know)
7. cook
8. eat
9. go visiting teaching
10. stare into space, thinking (my usual distraction)
    

At least 150 papers and finals to go...

HELP! Upward Bound

Ok, I need to submit my books lists by the end of this week, but I really have been in a quandary of what to do with this little class. My classes could be as small as 2-10 students. Here is my new idea: do something with a theme. We read two to three books over the month. Since most of them will probably be freshmen or sophomores, I am totally ok with doing adolescent lit books--particularly if they have some good meat. I NEED HELP knowing what would be good, since I really haven't ever taught a class like this. Read through my two themed list and PLEASE TELL ME WHICH list and which books would most interest YOU. Let me know of other books you would suggest as well. Here are my ideas:

THEME: WHAT IT MEANS TO BE AMERICAN:
House on Mango Street by Sisneros
The Absolutely True Diary of a part-time Indian by Sherman Alexie*
Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin*
Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neil Hurston
Sony's Blues by James Baldwin (short story)
Parts of Invisible Man by Ralph Waldo Ellison
something by Gary Soto (Jesse or Living Up the Street)*
Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse


THEME: COMING OF AGE or GROWING UP:
The Chosen by Chaim Potok
The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros
An Indian Boy's Story by Daniel LeFrance*
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd (would this fit?)
Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
I am the Cheese by Robert Cormier
one of Robin McKinley's (Blue Sword probably)
Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse (ok, I know this is young, but SO good)
Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson
Something by Chris Crutcher (like Ironman*)
The Things they Carried by Tim O'Brian (lots of language)
Go Ask Alice by Anonymous (lots of language)

PS: pretty please, leave a comment. I want your feedback! Thanks :)
*I haven't actually read this yet (but heard good things)

you are my sunshine

I remember when I was nine years old, my parents announcing to us five kids that they were going to have another baby. Her name was to be Paige Elise (quickly changed to Paige Christine). My mom wasn’t even pregnant yet, but we were certain we would have a little sister. We went to the beach and wrote her name in the sand where the waves would wash it away and make her come true. I could think of nothing better that to have a little sister.

The day Paige was born, Tasha and Jessica Vogel, a neighbor friend, and I walked home from school, and looking down the street discovered Grandma’s car where Mom’s should have been. We knew our little Paige was on her way. Tasha and I squealed (as 10 and 11 year olds do) and raced home. I remember it as one of the longest days of my little life. We waited and agonized by the phone, waiting for the news.

When Paige was a baby, we all loved her. I would sneak into her room—despite Mother’s orders to not go near it—and look at her perfect face through the crib bars. I would wait outside the door, wanting for her to wake up so I could get her and hold her. To me, she was the most perfect baby I had ever seen.

When we moved to the house my parents now live in, Paige and Tasha and I continued to share a room. Tasha and I had the bunkbed and Paige the little girl bed adjacent. I have always slept on the bottom bunk—with Paige’s bed just at my feet. I don’t remember how or when it started, but Paige would often get in bed with me. Even when she graduated to a big-girl bed (still adjacent to mine)she would sneak in next to me. We would read bed-time stories and she would just stay. Or I would be up studying and sometime in the night she would show up. I usually made her sleep on the inside—where she (poor thing) practically fell down the side. I would often find her wedged between the wall and the bed in the morning. If I didn’t make her take the inside, I inevitably would be wedged in the crack. She sure does know how to move around in her sleep!

Paige has never liked being the youngest—although we all love her for it. She hated most of all that it meant losing her sisters to college and growing up. She was only seven when I first moved out of the house. She cried hysterically. She still cries when I leave (even if I am only home for a day). I can understand why, however. We just have so much fun together! I remember summers and vacations home reading aloud to her—The BFG, with accent of course, countless fairy tales, The Twits. I would always sing to her You are my Sunshine or dance with her in the middle of our bedroom. When she was little I loved to carry her. She would come running and jump into my arms and wrap her gangly legs around my waist and we would spin in circles.

Our new tradition is slumber parties. When I went on my mission the bedroom officially became Paige’s. She opted to get rid of the top bunk (she never liked it anyway) and spice the room up with posters and pictures and Chinese lanterns. The only problem is that when I go home, I don’t exactly have a bed any more. The solution? Slumber parties on the floor. We have it down to an art: one big thick blanket on the bottom, lots of pillows, four or five blankets on top, the portable DVD player or my laptop, a stack of movies (BYU Pride and Prejudice being a repeated classic), and a book or two. I love coming home and slumber-partying with Paige. We have, on occasion, attempted to reenact our share-the-bed stage—but it wasn’t as comfortable as when she was five and didn’t last beyond a night.

Paige has, since she was a little thing, been my “little twin.” We share red hair, green eyes, and freckles on our lips. We are now almost the same height (she’s outgrown me by an inch!) and can share shoes and shirts. People honestly can’t always tell us apart. I love that I have a twin—especially one as fantastic as she is. I love her spunky and feisty personality. We always joked that I was the saucy little redhead (from Grandpa Snowball’s song)—and that she’s the sassy one. She has always had so much more personality than I ever had. She is wild and energetic and fun. And yet, she loves to read and is thoughtful. She has great taste. I love coming home because I love being with my Paige Christinie (you are a little beanie… I want to put you in my pocket, or wear you like a locket…). Despite my inability to cry at our partings, I miss her between visits. And I am always reminded of just how fantastic she is when I come home.

And today is her birthday. Happy Birthday! I love you, Paige Christine.

Sing! Sing! Sing! (pg 253)

Within a month of moving to Blanding, I was called to be the Primary Chorister. My conversation (the weekend before I moved) with the counselor in the Bishopric went like this:

Brother Nielson*: You play the piano, don't you? You're musical?

Me: Yes. Well, I'm not that great [note: I was worried choir pianist was on his mind, and I don't quite think I am up to that task yet]. I play hymns. Yes, I'm musical.

Brother Nielson: And you like kids?

Me: [laughing] Yes, I love kids. And I can play primary songs.

Brother Nielson: Great. That's just great. We are really looking forward to you moving down here. Don't worry, I have something in mind just for you!

Me: Ok [still laughing].

Needless to say, I was not called to be the primary pianist as I had thought, but the chorister. I remember as a little primary girl telling my chorister (whom I thought was beautiful and perfect in every way) that I aspired to her calling someday. Well I don't know if I jinxed myself as a 10 year old or what, but my first real calling in a family ward took me there--and I wasn't as confident as I was back in my primary singing days. I was pretty nervous, in fact.

In the past six months, I have learned a lot with my little primary kids. I think someday I will come up with a creative idea on my own (rather than found off the internet--if you are looking for some good idea sites, let me know). I have definitely had some rough weeks, but a lot of fun in the meantime. Here are some my favorite things about being the primary chorister:

1. The kids love you unconditionally (no matter how bad I do or how dumb my game was)
2. I get to sing and sing and sing on Sundays! I love singing
3. we have fun
4. When we sing Once there was a Snowman they get so low they lay on the floor and laugh. I love it.
5. The kids love singing
6. I get to experiment and it is ok (whereas in my high school classes I also get to experiment and there is a little bit more pressure from the 16-18 year olds)
7. Preparation often includes coloring (i.e. I have an excuse to color on Saturday afternoon)
8. we play games!
9. They sometimes know the song better than I do--and so I can always count of one of the older girls if I suddenly can't remember the words
   
10. The gospel is often the most beautiful and simple through primary songs
11. When we sing wiggle songs, it inevitably includes jumping up and down on one foot, and this never fails to make me laugh
12. There are few things more beautiful than a room full of children singing their best (sitting up straight, folding their arms, looking at me, and meaning what they sing)
13. I love singing! (did I already mention that? It's true)
    

*Note: Brother (Mr.) Nielson teaches next door to me at the high school (he teaches sophomores and French, I teach juniors and seniors English). I was originally going to rent a small house he owns, so had already met and talked to him a few times. I thought this conversation, however, was the funniest!

bad news

Here you have it...
Today I was officially asked to chaperon the SJH Prom.

I remember thinking it was fun but totally (TOTALLY) overrated in high school. In fact, I refused to go my senior year. I even said to the junior class president just a week or so ago: don't even think about it. I don't want to. There was probably a twinkle in her eye I didn't notice as she devised her plan. My conversation with the junior class adviser went like this...

Mr. Lacy: All the juniors requested you to chaperon Prom. They all want you to. You were special requested.

Me: NO! Anything but that! Please!

But I can't say no. Dang it. Why am I such a people pleaser? I am going to kill that girl come Monday.

Saying goodbye

I hate goodbyes. I always have. Usually I ignore them or pretend they aren't happening. When I first went away to college a few months shy of 18, Paige was seven. Up to that point we had shared a room and love of good bedtime stories. She cried and cried when I left. I still can't go home without Paige crying when I leave. It is almost a ritual. I hate that she cries makes a big deal out of my departure and she hates that I don't cry. She hates that I try to ignore what is going on. I almost can't help it.

When I left on my mission, I thought I had made it through the worst after walking through that MTC chapel door and tearfully waving to my family. Little did I know. Every six weeks missionaries go home. Every few months I moved to new areas. In Latin culture it is rude to not come and say goodbye when you are leaving. I tried to explain that I hated it; I would much rather slip away unnoticed. But more often than I not I would still go through the ritual so as to not offend the people I so dearly loved.

If I thought coming home was the end of "despedidas," I was wrong. At the MTC I taught English-speaking missionaries (coming and going every three weeks) and welfare missionaries (coming and going every week). The goodbyes continued: pictures, hand-shaking, occasionally a gift or note from a departing missionary. I did my best to smile and not think about it.

I was honestly angry with my roommate who--with good intentions--planned a "going away" party for me when I moved from Provo to Blanding. I didn't want people to come over and tell me goodbye. I didn't want to believe my life was changing as much as it was or that I might not see or email or call or hear from many of the people who had been such an integral part of my life. I did my best to just pretend everything was like it had been and to not have many "official" goodbyes.

Up until this month I haven't really had to face anything more permanent in the way of goodbyes. I had no idea how hard death would be. It felt so permanent to realize I couldn't see my grandpas again in this life. To see the lifeless body and the lid closing down and to see both my grandmothers left with empty houses. If I thought I didn't like goodbyes before, I have found that I don't like this kind even more.

Needless to say, this has been a hard month for me. I hate drama, but I feel like I have been on an emotional roller coaster as I have come to grips with these new alterations in my and my family's lives. Yesterday, at Grandpa Torgerson's graveside funeral, my dad had asked me to talk about where Grandpa is now, in the spirit world. My dad had asked me to mostly to give comfort. As I thought about what to say and how I could give comfort when I was so obviously needing some myself, I was so grateful to know that while death does seem more permanent, it really isn't. I just sometimes struggle to see outside the box and remember that in the long run this life is meant to be short. And saying goodbye is part of it.

I am just grateful that again I was able to go home and to say goodbye. As much as I hate it, I think it would have been harder if I didn't.

The wind

Today has been an exceptionally windy day in Blanding. I can hear it even now whipping around my little four-plex. Every time I step outside it tugs at my skirt and swirls my hair up into tangles. It is biting and relentless.

For some reason, I love the sound of the wind. I love its howl and fierce, persistent drive. But what I really love is to be in my own little haven as it wreaks it's havoc. I am grateful that I have a place I can go to escape it's clawing fingers. It reminds me of Wordsworth's famous lines, "The world is too much with us, late and soon..." The wind seems to me a tangible reminder of the howl of doctrines, the swirl of worldly perspectives, the bite of bad decisions. I am grateful that my home is a place I can go that is safe from the storm.

It reminds me that no matter what happens in life, there is a safe harbor. I do not have to be bogged down by life's decisions and demands if I am able to find a place to "be still and know that [He is] God." I am grateful not only for my physical home--this quiet and clean little place that is my sanctuary, but for a figurative home base--a source of power and strength that I can always go back to, so that I may face the howling winds and not be blown away.