"Again to the sisters I say that you will be as highly respected, you will be considered as being as much in the line of duty, your efforts will be as acceptable to the Lord and to the Church whether you go on a mission or do not go on a mission" ~ President Gordon B. Hinkley, October 1997 Conference Priesthood Session.
Brother Bott played the recording of that talk to the class today. This is the lesson I have been waiting for, so I am glad that I made it to class, however late. I sat on the floor in the back of the stadium classroom in the law building listening with baited breath. Ladies and gentlemen, the prophet of God said this, in full accord with the apostles. It is scripture.
But not for me, I said. It's not true for me. I am still required to go, obligated to go. My heart kept rebelling against the amnesty. Finally my heart cried out, scripture! And I accepted it. Instantly my heart calmed, my mind elevated and the Spirit almost patted my hand as if to say, there thatta girl. It's all I've been trying to tell you.
So I have entered into a new phase of not-knowing in my life. For the last month I have not wanted to go on a mission. I don't know the reasoning. Perhaps because I made it a chore. But that does not mean that I don't want to go. It's just that I've always said I would go, and so I've kept saying it. That, however, is not a good reason to do anything. Feeling it my duty, a recent development, directed my path toward it, but the duty is not mine. The experience would be amazing, but, as Brother Bott said, "You will not do anything while wearing that black name tag that you will not do as a wife and mother; you will reactivate, teach, prepare for baptism, serve, etc. And there are sacred experiences you cannot have as a missionary that you are allowed as a wife."
So now I must make up my mind. I will make it up for me, with the Lord's help, but whatever the decision at whatever time, I have my Heavenly Father's blessing on it. And that's good to know.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Monday, February 6, 2006
pictures forthcoming
My mom’s face hasn’t changed in thirty years. I know this from the photographs. A few months ago my dad gave me a collection of all the things he had that reminded him of Mom. It took him two and a half years after the divorce to part with their wedding announcement. I have it. I have it in one of those gallon-sized zip-lock bags along with many other pictures of her. There are two that I love.
The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.
But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.
The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.
The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.
The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.
But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.
The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.
The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
my hope
I did not use to have a favorite prophet. And then I read the story of the saving of Alma the Younger. The angel appears to him and said, "Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith." And now I love Alma with a loyal devotion; not Alma the Younger, but Alma who is his father--he who prayed and anguished over the salvation of his family, hoping that his favor with the Lord may be passed in the form of blessings to another.
And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.
If you know me, you know why.
And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.
If you know me, you know why.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
on the top of the world
Work has become the place where I am most myself. Part of it is because I am confident. I am a dang fine worker and my supervisors and coworkers know it. I am not assigned a station in the dishroom. I am the rescuer, running from disaster to disaster and making it right. But there is something else that lifts my head and gives me the confidence to smile at the charmingly cute grill worker who walks through every day between the hours of seven and nine. It's the music.
I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.
The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.
Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.
I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!
I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.
The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.
Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.
I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!
Saturday, January 7, 2006
self
How many children have been accosted with the thoughtless remark, why can't you be like your sister? (brother works too, just less often.) Parents have no idea how cutting that simple sentence is. It tears apart a child's identity, creating self-doubt and abnegation. That is where we grow stereotypes, from those told to be someone else. Since when has self not been good enough?
I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.
But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.
Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.
Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.
But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?
I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.
But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.
Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.
Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.
But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?
Thursday, January 5, 2006
I have decided --and surely I am not the first person to do so-- that money sucks. If the love of money is the root of all evil, then surely the lack of it is too. Either way, it is always on your mind, gnawing at your subconscious, making you evil toward your fellow man. When I have money, I never give it a thought. I am quite altruistic and nonmaterialistic. But when I don't have money, I want it, I crave it like I will crave my body before the resurrection. Both hold the same purpose; they foster movement and growth. Without either, one is forced into limbo, neither being nor doing. It is a bad state.
Today I bought books, paid rent, paid credit-card bills and recieved two more notices from my bank about checks that over-drew my account. Only the presences of Emilie and Caitie kept me sane as I separated myself from nine-hundred dollars. Nine hundred that I don't have.
Today I bought books, paid rent, paid credit-card bills and recieved two more notices from my bank about checks that over-drew my account. Only the presences of Emilie and Caitie kept me sane as I separated myself from nine-hundred dollars. Nine hundred that I don't have.
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
Today Ted told me, Emilie and Caitie what kind of girls we are. You know, since there are apparently only four personality types. From what I gathered, three of the types are as follows. There are the fun girls, the type whose friend you become if you want to win her. There are the nurturing romantics who need to be told they are beautiful and wooed after the traditional manner. For me, one must insult me.
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