Sunday Scribblings: My 2 Cents

The Sacred Grove


I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I have been my whole life—my parents are members and raised me in the church. When I was eight years old, I was baptized. I have always had a faith that comes naturally that is now deep and abiding. The thing I have a hard time understanding, though, is why there are people that have such a hard time being okay with these facts about me or millions of others who are living a similar lifestyle.

A couple of weekends ago, my husband and I went on a Youth Conference trip as chaperones. We went to Palmyra, NY to see some church history sites and watch the Hill Cumorah Pageant. It was quite a trip—three busses full, driving over eight hours each way. We had youth leaders on each bus leading us in games and songs and trying to unite a bunch of kids who are vastly different from each other, yet who are so much alike in ways that they don’t recognize yet. We had a guest speaker, Brother Bassett, who spoke to us each day and did an excellent job inspiring us to be better people than we were the day before. We said prayers and sang hymns. We went on tours and learned history. We danced and ate and sweated and slept.

The problem (and this is where my 2 cents comes in) was that several places we went, there were anti-Mormon demonstrators, yelling and carrying on. I walked peacefully with my sweet husband out of a tour and there was a man (whom I can’t describe because I refused to look at him and give him any acknowledgment) who was holding up a sign (which I did not read) and yelling. He was yelling as loudly as he could, to anyone who would give ear. He was yelling all kinds of lies about my church and what people in my church do and believe. Some of the things he was yelling were silly and some were sacrilegious. Some were belligerent and some were blasphemous.

The Pageant was wonderful. It is put on by volunteers of families and individuals, and the outcome is a pageant full of color and life and spirit. It was a great show. The volunteers/actors came down before the show in full costume and spoke with the people in the crowd. They were happy and polite and friendly and virtuous. As we walked back to the buses, shouting on megaphones assaulted us like slaps in the face. Once again, there were people full of hatred for us shouting their disapproval through megaphones—shouting lies and trying to spread hatred to others so it would spread like a virus. There were even children holding signs with hate-filled words upon them that stood outside the lot as we drove past.

I can’t believe that this sort of hatred is still being acted on toward groups of people in this day and age. I might as well have been a Jew during the holocaust, or a Native American during the American travels westward, or a black girl trying to integrate into an all white school in the 1970’s. I don’t understand how we can keep hating groups of people time and time again when individually, we are all the same. We all have blood running in our veins and thoughts running through our heads. We all have similar joys and sorrows. The differences come when some of us open our minds to love and others to hate. My heart was full of sorrow driving past a child around my own child’s age being taught to hate and then act on that hate. It will never be acceptable to teach hatred—whether at home or church or school or on the news or in books or through shouts in a megaphone (all of which, by the way, I have been witness to and had to rebuff my peer’s questions and insults as a result).

I fully support free speech, with which I am allowed to worship how where and what I may, but on this private blog, I will not accept any hateful comments.

*image borrowed from www.josephsmith.net

Bloggy Tour of Homes

I was asked to participate in the Bloggy Tour of Homes, and it wasn’t all that hard to convince me. I feel like the biggest physical, temporal blessing that I have been given is my home. I am soothed by my surroundings constantly. It is a consistent work in progress and I enjoy that process. I have a quote hanging in my entry way (which is all planned out in my head for a big make-over) that I love—it describes my feelings more adequately than I can:


To us, our house was not insentient matter—it had a heart and a soul and eyes to see us with, and approvals and solicitudes and deep sympathies; it was of us and we were in its confidence, and lived in its grace and in the peace of its benediction. We never came home from an absence that its face did not light up and speak out its eloquent welcome—and we could not enter it unmoved.
~Mark Twain

When I was in High School, I started having this reoccurring dream. It wasn’t a long dream, by any means, just a simple scene. I was standing outside looking up at the night sky, as I have found myself doing constantly, my whole life. There was an enormous tree to my left. But the best and most memorable part of this dream is the feeling I had while I was standing there. It was one of total peace, contentment and satisfaction.

That is the dream in its entirety.

There were a few years in there that were pretty hard. Nothing seemed to be going as planned and I felt overcome at times with our trials. This dream came again, and I knew that eventually, things would be okay. I knew that I would be at peace. I knew that this was my Father’s way of comforting me.

One day I woke up in my tiny apartment and thought: What are we waiting for?!? We need to buy a house! I was a woman on a mission. I was overcome with the feeling that it was time. After looking at a good amount of houses, we walked through THE house. We loved it. We made an offer, and in the middle of the negotiations, the sellers backed out telling us that someone else had made an offer that matched their original asking price. We were devastated. But for some reason I felt peace. I kept telling the hubs, “We prayed about it, and we got an answer. I know it was our answer. I can not doubt. I don’t know how it will happen, but I feel like it’s our house, and we will live there.” We waited and waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only about two weeks (in which our realtor probably got sick of our moping and comparisons with THE house). Then the sellers called us and asked if we were still interested.

The night we moved in, there were boxes all over with pathways to move through from room to room. I was exhausted. The kids were finally asleep in their new bedrooms, and I was laying on the couch remarking that it already felt like home, when I decided to see what the view of the stars looked like from the back patio. I walked out the sliding glass door and turned to view the night sky filled with my constellation friends, and suddenly, I was in my dream—the huge tree to my left, the peace and contentment that all was right. I turned to see if I could see myself watching from the angle I had seen it so many times in my dream, but all my eyes showed me was the ivory siding staring back at me. I knew we were in the right place at the right time.


So, my friendly bloggers who have never seen where I live, welcome to my home.

My Front Door



No one actually uses the front door, though, so I feel like I need to show you the entrance that actually gets used:





what a difference a season or two makes...

Where the Bloggy Magic Happens




Main Living Area (where the family hangs out)







(What, didn't you want to see it at Christmastime??)

Kitchen--the Heart of the Home





My Choice

This is where I was when in my dream (enormous tree to the left that I wish you could see better), and where my family and I spend vast amounts of time.

For more bloggy tours, click here!

Thoughts after a recent conversation with someone I LOVE

How come some of us get easy as pie kids and some of us…not so much? I mean, seriously. They come a certain way, if you have children there is no denying that fact. So how come there are only some of us that can give the advice on babies that cry for four hours at a time, and others have babies that are “perfect?” It was horrific and exuberant when I became a mother. On the one hand, I felt such astounding love and affection; on the other I felt completely overwhelmed and exhausted and stressed and depressed. I thought it would come more naturally, but how could it come naturally to comfort a baby for hours on end when she’s screaming for no apparent reason?



Now, I look back years later and I can see my strength. I can see that I am a better mother than I would have been. I can do anything. I can run rings around the “perfect” babies, and have—I’ve had one. (And let me tell you, they don’t stay perfect forever, just in case you were wondering.) But seriously, is it necessary? It makes you question so much: Am I a really bad mother? Do I need this trial because of something I have done, or because I am a certain way? Am I a bad person for feeling resentment toward my baby and toward other moms who have no idea what it is like to go through something like this?



I guess it’s like any trial. It doesn’t really make sense, but it can make you stronger. Things turn out all right, and you end up just fine and love, love, love your children. (But it can also limit the amount of children you are willing to have!)

SPC : Me as...

a woman who is never alone, but has love surrounding her.

Name That Song

The Rules:

1. Please DO NOT guess in the comment section. E-mail me (see my profile page for my e-mail address).
2. I really send a prize, so be honest and fair. (If you can sing it when you read the lyrics, you know it.)
3. Previous winners may still play.
4. Be the FIRST to e-mail me with the correct song title & artist and win.
Good Luck!

This month's lyric is:


We could ride the surf together
While our love would grow
In my woody I would take you everywhere I go
So I say from me to you
I will make your dreams come true
Do you love me do you, surfer girl?

Sunday Scribblings: Thief!

Some no-good thieving varment has been eating my herbs.

8.2 miles

A drive that takes me all of 12 minutes
can take me to contentment.
On the days when grey is veiling color,
the distant storm threatening to break loose,
it is a haven that brings inner peace.
On the days when stifling heat
drains all the energy
and leaves it helpless on the floor,
it is a retreat that can leave you
refreshed and shivering.
entertainment or solitude
relaxation or rejuvenation
the ebbs and flows of life
are always more enjoyable
along the sandy shore.

SPC : Me as...

a mother of a two year old

one who has a two-year old must display a sense of humor; patience; comforting tendencies; foresightedness(knowing that although the tantrums may last a lifetime, they will not always be this frequent); the ability to go to bed late and wake up early; have eyes that constantly follow the various and lively goings-on of a toddler; hands that remove harmful objects, replace with entertaining objects, and swat mean greenheads and mosquitoes away from sweet tender skin; have the ability to find lost objects of affection always remembering that little people fit in little places; sing while rocking (whether on tune or not is not applicable); read in soothing, yet animated voice; be able to tolerate annoying voices of the characters on PBS while cleaning house and preparing food; accept that cleaning up after and preparing food for said child is never ending; take moments for oneself before you completely loose it; remember to take in joy fully when joyful moments arise.

ssshhhhhhhh...it's okay....ssshhhhhh


more self portaits here (links along the sidebar).

Sunday Scribblings: With Baggage

It was finally Christmas break. I had just spent my first semester at Ricks College (now BYU-I). Ricks was in a tiny town in Idaho—the middle of nowhere, it seemed, but we made the most of it by being as social and creative as possible. I had never been away from home like this before, but luckily my older sister lived just a couple apartments away and I lived with my best friends. That semester is a blur of laughter, boys, and fun. Finals week was very stressful, mostly because I was ill prepared and a horrible student. When my last class ended, the only thing I wanted to do was go home to California. I felt utterly exhausted and the bliss that only comes from being completely stress free and taken care of by loving parents was calling my name.

The closest major airport to Rexburg is in Salt Lake City—a four hour drive. I packed my rather enormous suitcase full of four weeks worth of clothing and essentials, and off we went. We were going to stay with my Grandma for a night and she’d drive us to the airport. The plan seemed simple enough.

The time came to catch the beloved plane that would take me home, but things started to go wrong. The traffic was terrible—some big game had just gotten out, and in the packed, snowy streets where we were supposed to meet my sister, nothing seemed to move except the minutes on the clock. My heartbeat quickened in the anticipation. I had been waiting too long! I started praying, pleading continually that I could make it home tonight, and my stomach started turning in knots. By the time we got to the airport, I fear that I didn’t even say goodbye to my sweet Grandma, let alone thank her for all her trouble—I grabbed my baggage (this was before the convenient days of built in wheels—we actually had to heft the suitcases around clumsily) and ran to the desk without looking back. There were four of us—Brooke, Wendy, Jocelyn and me, and they told us that we were too late to check our bags; that we better run if we wanted to try to make the plane. Today, they wouldn’t have even let us try, with all the security measures, but on that day in the Salt Lake City airport, we took our baggage and dashed to our gate. Unfortunately, the gate where our plane was sitting was at the furthest possible gate from us, and each of us had a ridiculous amount of luggage. We were sweating immediately and panting as we struggled down the never ending terminal. Brooke grabbed one of those huge carts on wheels that the curb side checkers use and we all piled our suitcases on and ran a few gates dragging it behind us, but the airport staff did not look kindly on us. We left the screaming attendant and his carriage behind as we strode down the hall with our incredible amount of baggage, struggling with the sheer weight and all the ridiculous winter clothes on my sweating back. Finally, we came to the final stretch and I followed suit, kicking and throwing our suitcases down the escalator before us, not having any care of the staring people or the breakable contents of our bags. I scrambled to gather my things and burst through a crowd to the desk and asked in a desperate screech, “Did we make it, did we make the flight?!?”

“We haven’t started boarding yet. We are having trouble finding a wheelchair for a passenger that is still on the aircraft.” I put my head down and immediately started to weep. Wendy was talking with the woman behind the desk and showing her our tickets, and I feel arms pulling me around and I turn and am enfolded into a very comforting chest while I sob for a few more sweaty minutes. Finally, I look up and find that I am in the arms of my friend Dave Lee, and I look around and see many passengers staring at the spectacle, many of them acquaintances headed home for the holidays.

for more baggage, click here.

SPC : Me as...

This is me as a swim instructor. As a girl who has a lot on her mind as I play swim instructor and wonder when it became so hard to be in a good mood without trying really really hard. Maybe when I started having kids because they wake me up too early and we all stay grumpy for the rest of the day when no one has had enough sleep and someone is always crying or fighting or compaining on days like today and I loose my brain and keep writing run-on sentences until I finally realize that I need to go to bed and it's only 9:20.

Me as a grumpy swim instructor... who just went to Wal Mart to buy new goggles so the little swimmers would start swimming under water better and had to endure the crying and writhing of a two year old who makes going into any store a nightmare. (Just breath...)

Me... as a swim instructor.

(And maybe tomorrow will be a little better.)

for more self portraits, go here.

Sunday Scribblings: Hotel Stories

When I heard the prompt, I immediately thought of Carrie's post from like a year and a half ago. (I'm on a mission to get her back into blogging, because she kept me laughing.)So, from my friend who no longer blogs, but who I still love dearly:

What To Do When You're Locked Out on the Balcony in a Swimsuit

Let me walk you through it so you don’t do it again.

While in Cozumel, you decided to spend your morning off out on the hotel balcony sunbathing. You have just showered and have put your hair in the very large blue curlers you purchased at the Mexican Wal-Mart the night before. You don your gorgeous rich-lady black Calvin Klein maillot and stepped out onto the balcony. Trying to be considerate of the hotel utilities, you close the sliding glass door behind you.

After sitting on the hot, south facing balcony for all of five minutes, you get thirsty and rise to get a drink. You tie your pareo modestly about your generous hips, grab the latch, and pull. Nothing happens. At first your mind does not even register the implications, so you pull again. THEN you realized…”Crap, I’m locked out.”

You have a moment of blankness that lasts anywhere from 2-25 seconds, then you say out loud, “Well, that’s just great. What do I do now?”

You take stock of available options:

1.Break glass
2.Jump from fourth floor using gauzy pareo as parachute
3.Look to see if hotel neighbors are also sunbathing (you probably should have considered this before jumping, but you taste a hint of panic in your throat like rising bile)
4.Ask someone to help – preferable someone close, like a passerby
5.Scream for help until someone sees you then ask them to send up the bellboy to unlock the door

You begin to weigh options like: “How much does this hurricane proof glass door cost? And can they just add it to my hotel bill? Could I break it with this plastic chair and/or side table? How fast does an object fall? How many feet per second? How high is the fourth floor, really? What if I tried to jump into that tree? Does that dog peeing in the alley speak English? Could he go for help? Why isn’t anyone else sunbathing? It’s a gorgeous day, for crying out loud! Where is everyone on the streets? Why does the back of this hotel have to face nothing? If I scream at those men way over there, will they think I’m up to no good?”

But wait, someone walks into view… You get really nervous like you are about to audition for a play. You have to dare yourself to speak. After all, you DON’T speak Spanish. Do it… He’s gonna leave! DO IT!

“Oh-lah? Sen-your? Si! You!” Wave your arms, now! He’s waving back, he thinks you are friendly… “No! Wait!....Uh…. pour-fa-vor…uh…mee poo-er-tah ehss no ah-bee-ehr-tow…!” He has no idea what you’re talking about because from where he is standing, he can’t even see what you are gesturing to. Repeat emergency message two or three times: “Pour-fa-vor…mee poo-erta ehss no ah-bee-ehr-tow…!”

The man kind of nods and you add: “Pour-fa-vor…noo-meh-row…kwa-trow…zeh-row…see-eh-tay…!” You can’t even speak Spanish but you make an effort to roll your R’s to show him that you really are trying.

He nods and then walks off. “Phew!” You wipe the ever increasing sweat from your brow. It won’t be long now.

Or will it?

You now have the attention of the guys way over there and they are laughing at you. Boy, you have never felt so stupid, white, and stupid in all your life. You hold out your arms and shrug your shoulders at them in an exaggerated pantomime meaning so say “Oh, well… these things happen (to stupid white people who don’t speak Spanish or think to leave the sliding glass door open a crack when they go out onto the balcony half naked to sweat in the sun).” They return the gesture and laugh more.

You evaluate how much money is your wallet and begin to assign prices to the rescue effort. You’ll give the bellboy a couple pesos, and you’ll give the man who came to the hotel a few pesos. For their trouble…

So you wait… and wait… and wait…

The longer you wait the higher the prices go.

An hour later, you have been pressing your forehead to the locked glass waiting for someone to come through your door. You can feel the eyes of the guys way over there burning into your sweaty white back as they watch the drama unfold. You feel really embarrassed that you haven’t been rescued yet. You feel like the last kid waiting after ballet for your mom to come pick you up even though class ended like an hour ago, and the teacher has to wait for you until she comes.

You start to feel the “audition” nervousness again. Bite the bullet, you know you have to…

“Oh-lah!” Even louder this time, to make it to the guys way over there. “Pour-fa-vor… mee poo-ert-ah ehss no ah-bee-ehr-tow…!!!” They get it. “Noo-meh-row…kwa-trow…zeh-row…see-eh-tay…!!!” Roll those R’s!

One of them gestures “What?”

You shout your room number out to the whole world again: “The stupid white woman is living in room 407! Did you all hear that? Take advantage of the stupid woman in room 407!”

They give you the ubiquitous OK sign, they walk off, and it’s back to waiting.

Only fifteen minutes of pressing your head to the glass and you are rescued!

The price for being rescued has inflated now to everything you’ve got in your wallet. After demurely throwing on your pink pancho over your drenched-without-actually-swimmingsuit, you dive for your wallet and hand the confused bellhop 50 pesos.

He volunteers the story that an hour ago, some man walked into the hotel lobby saying a woman was locked out on her balcony, room 407. But maybe due to his poor English or your excited state, it sounds like that wasn’t good enough, and they didn’t take it seriously until three young men walked into the lobby saying the same thing.

It doesn’t matter. “Are they still here? In the lobby?” you ask.

“Well, si, of course,” he says as if they are expected guests.

Both of you look at your outfit and decide that visiting the lobby right now is not in your best interests or of ANY interest to the hotel. You press 200 pesos into the bellhop’s hands and say, “please, please, give to boys!” You figure if you speak really bad English it will be conveyed easier.

He agrees and leaves.

You are so relieved! You need to shower again because you are so sweaty, but decide you deserve a pina colada for your good Spanish speaking efforts and for rolling those R’s.

But first, you must stop by the ATM incase you lock your self in the bathroom.

Good luck.


posted by Carrie Ann @ 7:24 PM 4 comments

Thank you, Carrie. For more hotel stories, click here.

Grateful Friday

~for my sweet children who keep me on my toes
~for my sweet husband who loves me back
~for chocolate
~for sunscreen
~for prayer
~for ponytails and sunglasses
~for my ipod
~for beach friday
~for google

Poetry Thursday

The challenge this week is to share a "poem that deals with an intense personal experience." I've never really talked about this experience before, but for some reason, today I'm posting a poem about it that the whole world can view. Go back to high school with me for a minute...



Forever Altered

We’ve been pretending that this doesn’t exist.
Now we’ve both said it out loud.
Can we still pretend?
If not, how do I make this choice?
I sit here, propelled toward you
seemingly without a choice,
like a negative charge
toward her positive match.

The last conversation I had with him,
I told him I loved him and hung up the phone.
Could it be true
while here I sit
and my soul aches
because I didn’t meet you first;
didn’t love you first?
How could I have known then
when I promised him those things
that this would come next?
How could I be ready
for this kind of love?
I never knew
it could rock you to the core;
that it could set you on fire;
that it could infuse every thought and emotion.

If I leave
was it all a lie?
It doesn’t feel like a lie,
but to him it will.
Our language needs more words
to describe “love.”
Now I see obvious differences—
I love you both.
It is not the same love.
If I leave
will you come with me?
His best friend
and his girlfriend.
How do we do that
to someone we both love?

I am only a person.
Am I supposed to resist
a soul altering love?
Am I to wish
that I didn’t get myself
into this situation?
Because then
I would be missing
this.
And right now
Nothing else matters anymore.
But
this.


To read other poems from Poetry Thurday participants, go here.

Celebrating Independence

Don't they look thrilled to be having thier picture taken?



This is always a good way to celebrate independence. The man can cook. This was some good eatin'.



There. Do you feel like you celebrated with us?

Sunday Scribblings: Two Peas in a Pod

My oldest daughter is just like her father. I’m always telling her, “You and daddy are like two peas in a pod.” In fact I learn about one from the other and visa versa. If I have a frustration with one, I go to the other to try and figure the other one out. The older my daughter gets, the more obvious this has become. I used to think she had pieces of me, but if she does, it’s neither here nor there, because trace amounts pretty much equals nothing.



They are both very cautious and never even get close to the boundaries. When hubs and I went to the Grand Canyon, for example, it nearly gave him a heart attack when I would get close to the edge to take in the drama of the huge drop. He would tell me to stay away from the edge and remind me that they put up those ropes for a reason. They are not rule breakers or risk takers. They have massive amounts of integrity. If, for example, I get everyone into the car, in their car seats and all the bags loaded in, and there is something that was hiding underneath all the chaos that we forgot to pay for, there is no time to be tempted to just drive away—daughter #1 is making sure that I take it back into the store and let them know what happened. They are both manipulative, and they would both be very mad at me for even thinking that, let alone write it for the whole blogosphere to read, because it’s not something that they mean to do. It comes naturally, and most of the time it works and they get what they want. I love them in spite of this—in fact, I probably have received many compliments and favors because of this. They both have depths of love and loyalty. Neither of them is ever content to stay at home for extended periods of time. There have been times when I have gone for days without leaving my home/yard, but that is only when they were at work and school. Just a quick trip will do, but if they don’t go somewhere, they get very grumpy. They are perfectionists, noticing details that I don’t take the time to notice. My final draft is often my first draft, but not my little loves’. Daughter #1 has received many compliments and much praise for her neat handwriting. Both are thoughtful and pensive. Both like their clothes to fit just so, to be tucked in just right and prefer to be clean and tidy, a far cry from my dressing habits. I have seen each one organize their own spaces and it’s hilarious to see them place objects in a specific order that is only known to them. I am very unorganized and will probably put them both in the loony bin. They both have a hard time jumping into the cold water and would prefer to stay on the sand than swim in the sea. They both get grumpy when they have waited too long to eat. They both love steamed clams and lobster, and share many similar tastes in food.



The similarities are endless and I learn more about each of them daily. I am lucky to have these two peas. I will always have loyal love in my life, I will never get too far off track and will balanced out of my sloppy ways. There will always be insightful conversation in my life. Because of their influence, I push myself harder and do things a little better.



Yesterday we had our first harvest—peas, of course.

For more Sunday Scribbling, click here.