birthdays

Tonight Nora, Jason, Jamie and I celebrated with my dad his birthday. This leads me to one thought. My birthday. And yes, it's in twelve days. Remember that.

rainy days and mondays

Over a year ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was the day I recognized my failure in so many fields. I went to my dad for comfort and on the drive home, the Carpenters' Rainy Days and Mondays played in the background. Even as I sobbed, I sang along. This year, the anniversary of the day went rather well, and I let it pass. I thought that was the milestone I had to reach, and I admit to being slightly disappointed that it was so nondescript. Today, however, I realized that today is the day I was meant to reach, and I feel that it truly means something that I listened to Emilie sing that same song as we drove home from my Dad's house. I wondered briefly to myself whether Heavenly Father would inspire someone with Carpenters' lyrics, before I nodded with certainty. Of course He would. That one chorus told me so many things that I needed to know.

I didn't get an A this semester. No, not a single one. I haven't received my grades yet--I even have one final remaining tomorrow night--but I know my performance. I did not meet the criteria for an A. I cried when I sacrificed my last possible chance to see that letter on my transcript this semester. Sharing the Gospel is graded almost entirely on the Honor System. We graded our own finals and merely reported the result to Brother Bott. Then he handed out an evaluation where we ranked ourselves on all the various requirements for the course. Reading assignments completed takes twenty percent of the total. All I needed was to give myself a fifteen (I have perfect scores on everything) but I couldn't do it. I probably only read half of the material. Ten. I took away my own perfect grade. Had I lied, I would have hated to see that glowing jewel on my transcript--the Tell Tale Heart comes to BYU. I know I did right, but I am disappointed. I am not hurt because I want to show off my report card, or because I know others lied to get grades they didn't deserve. I simply wanted the A.

Nobody who has known me will believe that I cried when I found out the A was gone. I do not care about grades. I never have. What I care about is that my efforts get acknowledged. I have never put effort into classes and so I never obsessed about what that final letter said. What it testified to was not who I am but merely how I did in one class. That's even true this semester; I am pulling straight B's. But Sharing the Gospel was different. I learned that material. I know it. More importantly, I internalized what I learned and let the class make me a better person. If my grade were based on how much I gave to and took from that class, I would have a grade higher than A. But I did not finish the text book. So I guess I am merely sad that I will not get official credit for what I've done. It is a petty thought. I chided myself for it on the entire walk home from this perfect final.

Your success is between you and the Lord, someone told me in my heart. I know, I said, and that is when I started to cry. But I wanted the A. I pleaded to Him to inspire the heart of my professor to know that I'd done my all to give me the grade anyway. I wanted it for me, I whispered; and then I cried harder when I realized I'd given it up precisely because of what I had learned through the Spirit of that class. It stung, giving up the reward I wanted, even though it was for the only One who knows how truly far I have come this year. Is it okay to cry, even though I would not take it back, even though I feel it is my thanks to Him for helping me become who I am? Is it still okay to cry?

Emilie held me for a moment or two before my dad came to give me his car. She and I drove him home and are now primping to go out to celebrate. What are we celebrating? If you are answering to yourself that it is the car, then you know me none at all and should not be reading my blog. It is not even the money that had chased away so many future moments of worry. It is a celebration of perspective.

This semester has been the greatest time of my life for becoming who I am and liking that person. I successfully balanced a full load of school with an intense work schedule. I slept well each night and woke early in the morning. I made my bed. I read scriptures and I am learning to pray--really pray. I think, I hope, that I have acquitted myself well with family relationships and with friends. I have a sense of honor and a hope that someday I will be humble. I have learned more about the Atonement. I dress well. I handled money decently well. I have learned a lot about who I am. This above all.

Last year I didn't have definitive answers to anything about me. I liked most things in moderation and nothing in particular. Now I know. I know that I love oldies music. My favorite genre of movies is family films, but I also like westerns. I like studying human interaction, but I hate the word "culture" (thanks to anthropology). I take too long in the shower. I don't like wearing makeup, not even when I am dressing up. There are exceptions, I guess. I want to be a mother when I grow up, and write whenever I have time. I want to write my fiction, but mostly I want to write personal histories. I love family history. I grumble when woken up from naps. I don't like swimming. I wear pink. I love hiking. I work off the reward system, especially if the reward is cheese. I think I would like volleyball and want to learn. I hate hiphop music, and country is only good when sung by male voices. I can be scary when protective. I am Texan through and through. I cook well. I am nice.

I never knew I was nice and good. I think I believed the cynical cruel things I said about myself before; I was just waiting for that day last year to prove that I was a failure inside just waiting to break free. Now I know that I am a success who needed to learn it for herself. I love my job; I am good at it and my bosses know it. I have become spiritual, more than merely religious. I love the Book of Mormon, and I love seeing Heavenly Father's Hand in my life. I have hope. My first instinct with people is to forgive. I like serving. I love my family--so help me but I do. I am smart and able to do well in school. I know my priorities, and I know my friends.

I looked back over this semester in personal interview with my Lord. I walked away from campus crying over a second-rate grade, but the whole way home I felt this burning that I have learned to recognize as the Holy Ghost (this is perhaps my greatest achievement, though I am far from being where I ought) whispering words of comfort and approval. At first I thought it was confirmation that I had done the honorable thing when signing away my A, but I know it was more than that. It was a testimony of what I have just related, that who I am is pleasing to the Lord. He is not unaware of the great growth I have undergone. Most importantly, I believe that Heavenly Father loves the person I am for who she shows the potential to be. This is what I have wanted for over a year.

This is my A.

my tree of life

If someone were to tell me that the little white tree, standing firmly and delicately in the middle of those tall wild things near which it is growing, had been planted only this morning by the hand of God just for me, I would not doubt him.

friendship

Hope, trapped in the box
Pandora opened for us,
Came when you called her

I came too. We lay
Our heads together touching
Hearts, hands, tear-stained cheeks

You gave me your strength
And I gave you my sorrow
Then you let me sleep

little

An acquaintance came over to my apartment yesterday as I sat with my laptop, writing. I gave a distracted answer to his questions after my well-being. At least I think that is what he meant by, "wuz-up," in this case. Oh, are you writing in your little blog?

Oh how I wish Tarythe or Ted had been there for my facial expression, because I am sure only they would have seen my reaction. Debby might have picked up on it; she and Spencer sat on the other couch.

I turned my head and smiled at this visitor. How charmingly condescending of you. But, no, I am not writing in my little blog. I am in the process of writing a little story that I hope someday to turn into a little novel. And how are you? I wanted to add. Did you receive your little rejection letter from that little university you wanted into?

Debby and Spencer squirmed in the background. I smiled again and went back to dreaming my little dreams of being a little writer.

perry como, quoted by russel m nelson

Because you come to me,
with naught save love,
and hold my hand and lift my eyes above,
a wider world of hope and joy I see,
because you come to me!

Because you speak to me in accent sweet,
I find the roses walking 'round my feet,
and I am led through tears and joy to thee,
because you speak to me!

Because God made thee mine,
I'll cherish thee,
through light and darkness, through all time to be,
and pray His love may make our love divine,
because God made thee mine!

foolish

This is not an entry dedicated to the stupidity of this holiday. The only thing I can say is that the French got something right; they took the day a step further and involved fish. Poisson D'Avril. Nice. But, back to my point...this is just about one of those stupid things I have learned to do as part of my daily routine.

On Monday I gave my blog address to Kevin. I know this blog, so while I knew there were rather exposing statements I felt vulnerable letting him read, I also saw how much more there was here. I felt safe. I got his email Thursday morning. He had read the entire thing--all 100 plus entries! And his focus was on finding himself in the paragraphs. His email told me just how much he had found, and I blushed with discomfort wondering what in the world he must think of me. I tried to remember everything I had said about him. I ran distracted. I tried eating soup with a fork.

Ted laughed at me when I told him; if you didn't see this coming then you don't know Kevin. I know! I cried. I just didn't think I would be this awkward about it. I don't wish it back. I do wish I had been more prepared for having him comment on my words--you know, he didn't even say anything mean or embarrassing or revealing. I'm just being overly-sensitive about my blog, as always.

The problem is, any mention of my writing and I feel completely mocked and a little foolish--like when I got caught playing "make-believe" when I was little. Utter humiliation. I didn't even let Ted read my blog for the longest time. I didn't share my writing until only a few months ago, so I am still not very good at handling response. Oh well, I guess I can chalk up my over-reaction to one more foolish thing I've done regarding him.