not-an-epiphany

They say it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings.
If that's true, a 450 pound woman just sang me an opera.

 I've always loved Esther. Every time I read her story, I learn something new about being.
A woman of faith.
A light to her people.
The preservation of what would become a small babe wrapped in a manger that would save the world.
Being the wife of King Ahasuerus would be no small feat. It layman's terms, she did what she needed to do. Seriously. I would not want to be married to a guy that "deposed" of his last wife. No way Jose.

That's a strong woman. A woman that let God mold her. She saw the bigger picture.

 I don't know exactly who I want to be. If I did, there would be little point to living. All I know is that there are hands in my life, creating and pushing and teaching me to be.

Being is harder than it sounds. It's easy to float along a river of ease, avoiding rapids and rocks. It's the easiest thing in the world to sit in the warmth of covers and sleep through life. It's easy to go to school everyday and sit like a deadbeat in classes, only to leave an hour later with nothing learned. It's easy to avoid feeling hard things.

I'm a mover. I'm not good at sitting in one place for long. Plus, as soon as I get comfortable I tend to get kicked in the butt. Or tasered. Just depends on the week.

 In my rushed life, I think I occasionally forget to sit still long enough to let my heart open. To belly laugh. To hug. To cry until I'm out of tears. It's in those moments that I see myself with real potential, not just a fleck of dust floating haphazardly waiting to land on Skippy the dog.

Basically, this overdrawn and nonsensical post means this:

I'm glad I can constantly be growing. And not like the mold sitting in that old tuna in the fridge. As my heart is tried, I feel myself going places that I never thought I could reach. Exponential growth, I think they call it.

I know you're probably sick of reading about my gratitude, because it doesn't make for the most exciting post. But seriously.
I have it all.
The world is in my hands.
[Insert evil laugh here]

Being, moving, creating.

I saw this posted on Jordan Hunt's blog today and it really got the wheels in my mind turning. 

I need some more goals...

and not just goals that involve eating tacos (I really like tacos, ok?)

I want to start a year long project. Something journalistic. Something revealing. Something that will push my limits.

Any ideas?

Headline goes here

I am exhausted.

and euphoric.

and all around really tired of not eating regular meals.

You'd think having a roommate who's a a dietetics major would help in my progress of becoming a healthy person. Then again, I don't know the benefits of having a super-fit-diet-conscious roommate if you only see her between the hours of 1:30-7:00 a.m. (This would be when she's sleeping and I'm not).

Yesterday my diet consisted of 2 packages of crackers, gummy snacks, chips, a couple tacos and some strange root juice. Oh, and no time in the Fieldhouse.

My mother may or may not be reading this and weeping for my soul right now.

There are 7493 things I could tell you about the first 10 days of school, mostly about woody plants and newspapers. But really, I just want to say this:

My life isn't perfect, but it's a work in progress. A giant construction site, if you will. Of late, I've felt hundreds of hands building me piece by piece, tearing down the old and creating something wonderful. There are times that I feel that I've lost control of my project. There are moments when I feel some little punks are trying to kick pieces of cement from my foundation.

But those moments are far and few between. Even though there is frustration and an occasional tear, I love that I'm being pushed. There is no other way to grow.

Thank you to the people who take the time to show me things in Indesign 28 times.
 To those who are teaching me to write.
 To those who buy me tacos in times of crisis.
To those who trust me with big things.
To those who listen to my pipe dreams.
To those see what I'm capable of, even when I can't.
To those who can make a hug so much more than a hug.

And most of all, to the contractor who guides the whole process along.

I am so blessed.

My life be like...

Well...
it was good knowing you. See you in a year or so.

Helllooo summe...oh wait.

Um. Today I looked at my calendar and it was August 5th.

PEOPLE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?  (No, it does not mean I have permission to type in caps lock).

Summer is over in three weeks. In case you don't know (and if you've talked to me in the past month, I'm sure you do) I love school. I can't wait for classes and papers and newspapers and spending late nights in the library not being able to breathe as I frantically run across campus....

But in the meantime...
it's time for another list. 

Thelastmonthofsummerlist
Go to the hot springs
Get a picture with an Idahoan
Eat tacos from at least 5 more places 
Go to a Bee's game
Make homemade pasta
Swim in Bear Lake after midnight
Pull an all nighter
Finish the Old Testament
Watch Anna and the King
Make a last awesome homemade meal with the soon to be missionaries
Go to Rupert
Watch a movie in a park 
Eat a food I've never tried
Read the AP style book
Tube in a river 



 Yeah. Who's in?

Funk

I was five years old when the gunshots started.
As I sat in the warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt, my small body trembled. 
I imagined men with guns and eye patches, waiting just outside my window.
They would break in and yank me out of my ivory bunk bed.
Before my mind could ponder what they would do next, I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, hardly letting my feet touch the cold floor, for fear they would hear me escape.
I tiptoed into my parents room, tears streaming down my small cheeks.

"Don't worry," they told me, stroking my hair. "It's Chinese New Year. Those sounds are just people lighting fireworks."

I was nine years old when my room turned into an ocean.
The warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt disappeared.
The bed I was on was suddenly floating.
A figure was coming towards me.
With every second it got closer, and my skin grew more ice like.
My heart stopped as the face finally came into view.
There was Lord Voldemort, wand in hand.
As his slit-like mouth pronounced a curse on me, I let out a blood curdling scream.
Just then, my father appeared by my side.

"It was just a dream," he said, taking me into his arms. "Just a bad dream."

I was fifteen years old when I woke up convinced I was on my death bed.
 My entire body was drenched in sweat.
My insides ached so badly I didn't dare move.
All I could do was sit in the warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt and utter prayer after prayer.
Mustering every ounce of strength in my body, I crawled slowly out of bed and up the stairs.
Waking my parents out of a deep sleep, I told them my stomach was going to explode.

"Darling," they said, probably trying not to laugh. "You just ate some bad food. Wait a few hours and everything will be fine."

I was nineteen when I thought my heart was breaking.
As I clutched at the worn threads of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt, my body, no longer small but still fragile, quivered.
My eyes were swollen and the beat of my heart that echoed in my ears seemed unsteady.
I could hear yelling outside my window.
Frantic screams of college voices.
I looked for somebody to tell me everything would work out fine.

But all I got was cold air, and the echo of my roommates watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I made it to the top of the world

Covered in clots of mud, bleeding, bruised and breathless I grabbed his hand as he helped pull me over the final wall of ice. As we stood side by side, it was almost as if we were looking at the rest of our lives. For five minutes we remained hand in hand, not saying much of anything, yet letting our silent prayers say everything. Like a leaky water balloon, I felt my heart start to use my tear ducts as an overflow. Heavenly Father had painted a picture with a viewing only for us. We were standing on the edge of the world. Everything below us- the trees, the buildings, the city- seemed to speak of the power of God. It was as if he was saying “This is yours. Go and do.”

Want to convince an atheist that God exists? Have them hike the Alexander Basin.

It’s no small miracle that I made it to the top. In case you don’t know, when it comes to physical things I can be a little bit of a baby. I’m no Pillsbury dough girl, but taking a hike with me is about the equivalent of playing a baseball game with Ernie Lombardi. Slow.

Two miles into the hike, the trail disappeared under a thick layer of snow. Beyond the snow was a giant hill…and more snow. Okay, okay. To use the word hill would be underestimating the monstrosity before us. It was a small mountain. If I can be completely honest, my first thought was this:

“That’s a nice sight. Glad I don’t have to climb it.”

Feel free to use your imagination to envision us on this mountain.  

There was no way in this life or the next that I was going to climb a mile up a giant ice covered hill without a trail. In his wisdom, Rhett knew that I wasn’t just going to tackle the hill all at once. He led me up the hill a little at a time, without me realizing that I was actually climbing the sheer side of a mountain. Every 20 yards of so I would pant and ask for a break. It took every ounce of personal stamina to claw my way, sometimes on my hands and knees, through the mud and snow. After a half mile of hill, I didn’t think my body would take another step. Sensing my frustration, Rhett offered me his wrist. I think he dragged me half way up the mountain. He must have had a better sense at what was at the top (as per usual) than I did.

If we had gone by my limited vision, I would have missed one of the most breathtaking moments of my life.

When I stand on my knees, bruised, broken and disheveled, Heavenly Father sends those stronger than me to drag me up mountains. More often than not it’s kicking and screaming (I'm working on it), but somehow I always make it. Someday when I lie at the feet of my Heavenly Father I’ll have a little dirt under my fingernails. I’ll be scratched, scarred and sweaty. Yet, I live for the moment when I finally reach that peak, when he can say, “Well done, my child,” and take me into his arms.

I am blessed.

(oh, and Rhett only lost his phone one time during our five hour escapade. Success.)