Sheep-ish

There's something about the metaphor of Christ being the Good Shepherd that just gets me. I love imagining me, a little lamb, peeking out of His side satchel; His hands patting my head, His arms holding me close.

Today I taught a lesson in church. The title of the lesson was "Feed My Sheep." The counsel came from President Ezra Taft Benson, the prophet of the Church a while back. He challenged us to shepherd those around us--to guide them to Christ's fold, love them, care for them, and feed them spiritually (and physically, if need be). I thought then of this story from another Church leader, John R. Lasater, about his experience with a shepherd in Morocco:

That's why this metaphor is so cool: because its mortal counterpart is so exact! Real shepherds do love their sheep. Real shepherds do know their sheep by name. Real shepherds never give up on their sheep, no matter how old or injured or broken they may be. For the good shepherds, each lamb is precious and priceless.

And He would die for us. He did. So He asks the same dedication and charity from us, His under-shepherds. He asks three times over, and many times more: Feed my sheep. We must be willing to answer.

Clean-ish

It was Halloween, and even though I'm twenty, I wasn't going to miss out on a chance to dress up.

My roommates and I disguised ourselves as the three girl emotions from the movie Inside Out: I was Joy and they were Sadness and Disgust. We had a great time spray-painting our hair and spreading colored eyeshadow all over our faces, making sure to gob some sparklies into our hair for effect. We had a grand old time at our ward dance party (even though the people who had never seen the movie were confused about what we were). We got home late, but reveled in the knowledge that Daylight Savings would give us another hour of sleep before 8:30 church this morning.

With that thought in our heads, we set to work de-costumizing ourselves. I took some makeup remover to my face and smiled to see my regular skin color underneath that shimmery yellow. Next was the hair, though, and my bright blonde had gone to bright blue. It was a two-person, roughly four-wash job, with me curled over the bathtub as my roommate scrubbed the back locks and I scrubbed the front ones. At the end of the whole process, I felt fresh, happy, and clean.

Because my brain thinks in comparisons and symbols (I guess I've spent too much time in English classes), I thought this was perfect:

The bad choices we make? Well, that's the paint. It covers us up and decks us out; it might seem fun at first, but then we realize it's just a mess that needs to be cleaned up. We need help to do it, too. The Lord Jesus Christ is the One who comes to scrub sin from our lives. With Him at our side, it is easier. But it still might require multiple tries, it still might take a lot of work, it still might be discouraging and frustrating and hard and disappointing when you look in the mirror and there's still blue lingering in your cowlick...

But when you're all clean? Mmm...that feeling is worth four washes and more.

Lacking-ish

There is a marvelous thing that happens twice every year called General Conference. The leaders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints all meet together and give discourses about what the members of the Church should do to improve themselves, their lives, and the lives of those around them.

On October third, one of the apostles challenged us to include in our prayers that night this question, posed by the rich young ruler  to the Savior in the New Testament: "What lack I yet?" The Lord, he testified, would tell us what we need to do to better ourselves. Maybe even more powerful, though, was what he added: We might need to first ask, he said, what we are doing right.

What a curious thought. But how important it can be! If we don't know what we're doing right, how will we gain the motivation to keep working on ourselves? It may be equally as challenging to try to accept our strengths and avoid pride as it is to accept our weaknesses and work on them; both challenges, however, create an opportunity for self-measurement against the Savior and thus self-growth.

What's cool about asking the Lord is that He always tells the truth. It might take more concentration, more listening, more looking and more being honest with ourselves than usual--but He will tell us what He loves about us, and what we can become. We just have to ask.

Hungry-ish

Participating in a fast is something that I really like to do. It makes me feel good, physically and emotionally, to deprive myself of things that I love and want for a higher purpose. But sometimes it's not even that hard, and sometimes I forget the point of the whole practice. That's why I decided to try something new--some awesome counsel that I received months ago, but never took until TODAY!

It's called a 24-hour fast. Some of you are thinking, Well, that's what I do every time. You guys are good. I'm not as good. So I decided to try it, 2:30 PM to 2:30 PM, all afternoon, all night, all morning.

It was hard.

Instead of being able to leave the tummy rumbles on the backest backburner of my mind, I was consistently and constantly reminded that my body was empty--and thus, the reason for its emptiness. I was consistently reminded that this was to show the Lord my sacrifice. I was constantly reminded of who I wanted to help and serve. I couldn't escape it. My throat was dry, my stomach void. I thought about the Savior because...because He was the only thing that came to mind after the thoughts of hunger or thirst.

I guess what that really does is expose my need to humble myself and think about the Savior more, but it was also a beautiful thing. It was beautiful to try to show the Lord that my spiritual well-being meant more to me than my physical well-being; to rely on Him for the ability to stand and sing and breathe and keep going when my body longed for a slice of my roommate's homemade bread and a cool drink from my holographic BYU cup.

Sacrifice brings blessings--and fasting brings blessings of the ability to go forward in life, regardless of the challenges that face us.

Proud-ish

For the past couple weeks, I have been studying a lesson that I had to give today at church. The lesson is entitled "Beware of Pride," so you can kinda guess the topic.

The good ishes that happened during these weeks were all opportunities for me to see the pride within myself and fix it. So sometimes they were more like embarrassing ishes, or oops ishes, or forcing-myself-to-ask-for-help ishes. But they all taught me something more about pride, and something more about humility--which, in turn, taught me something more about Jesus Christ, who is the greatest example of humility to ever live.

Take this ish for example: I had to teach a mini-vocabulary lesson this week in one of my classes, pretending to address a beginning French class. I was super nervous but it ended up being fine. I did my PowerPoint, I felt all teacher-y. I sat down. Then the student instructor who was evaluating us let me know: the whole time I'd taught the class the wrong article for one of the vocabulary words.

Yeah. Oops-ish.

But I was glad, because at least I learned in front of my peers and not while teaching 101 to a bunch of wide-eyed French newbies.

It was a learning experience just like most every experience in life is; in the context of the lesson, though, it became a building experience. I wasn't just learning about humility--I learned that I could be humble if I tried to be teachable. I learned that I could recognize the not-so-great things in myself and change them to pretty-great things, as long as I caught myself in the act.

And that's what good ishes do. Even if they are embarrassing oopses that force you to confront your own weakness...they teach you to be good-er.

Missionary-ish

It was my last full day in France and I still had my French Book of Mormon, but I had a plan! I'd made a list. I'd prayed. I'd fasted. I'd done it all. I knew the name. I knew my friend. And now I had to act.

When the time came, though, things weren't as cool as you would think. Nothing that came out of my mouth was profound; in fact, I hardly said anything at all. I just handed it to her and...that was about it. Nevertheless, the feeling that came afterward as I was contemplating the event that, That wasn't even me. None of it was me. I had nothing to do with it! It was the Lord. He's the one who worked in me to 1) give me a desire to follow a challenge to give a Book of Mormon to someone, 2) go to France for this internship in the first place, 3) ask my internship partner for advice about giving it out, 4) make the list, pray, and fast, AND 5) do it. It was all Him. He just gave me the chance to be a part of His work. What a loving Man.

So the cool part wasn't me. But part of the cool part was definitely her--my friend. Arguably the only real French friend we'd made outside of the Church during our time in France. And when I told her I had a book to give her, she didn't hesitate. She took it. She said immediately that she'd read it. She acted excited, even. She let the pages fall through her fingers and noted that I'd written "quelques petits mots" at the front. She thanked me, hugged us, and wished us well. Then she left. Then we left.

But none of us, I'd wager, will ever be the same. I'm no fancy shmancy gospel preacher, but giving a Book of Mormon to someone could be one of the best decisions you (I, we, everyone) ever make.

Because it's the truth. And I know it.

Late-ish

I awoke to my doorbell ringing and looked at the time on my phone. It was terrifyingly 8:49: our train for Marseille left at 9:24. I opened the door to see my internship partner standing expectantly in the hallway. I must've been a sight in my pink-patterned pajamas, undone hair, and puffy sleep-eyes. I clearly wasn't ready for the day, and I spoke in English to top it all off.

"I just woke up."

As if she couldn't tell.

In a miracle of all miracles, we made it to the station at about 9:22. We took our seats on the train in relief and then watched as a family trooped in and sat down near us. Three little boys--10, 6, and 4 I would later hear--confidently took their seats and their mother followed after.

I tried to be covert as I watched and listened to the scene that played out as the train sped along. 6-year-old boy (after having chosen a seat behind his family next to a random guy) decided to take a different row all to himself, and played a game of pretend. The 10-year-old sat patiently in his seat across from his mom, quiet and polite. Little 4-year-old in the window seat sat quietly, too, moving only occasionally to put his head against his mother's ample shoulder. Despite my attempted subtlety, my gaze crossed hers twice or thrice, and we shared a grin each time. Her teeth were bright against her skin and her eyes were pleasant and content.

What a beautiful family. What a beautiful family. I felt blessed to watch their interactions during the one-hour ride: they were all full of love. Mom had to correct the boys every once in a while, sure. But how they smiled! How they enjoyed each other! That's what a family should do; that's how a family should be.

I'm glad we weren't late for the train. We would've missed them.

Broken-ish

It was just another regular normal typical internship day...cleaning tile.

Another volunteer, an older-ish guy from the Czech Republic, had put in some new tile at a vacation house that Les Petits Frères owns near the beach. He didn't want anyone helping him--except for us, the American girls, who he decided to trust to help him swab up the extra chalky grout on each carré. We'd already done another room, in fact, with much success.

This room, on the other hand, was more difficult despite its relative smallness. The white paste refused to give under our water-and-vinegar-soaked towels. We were using the metal spatula a lot more to scrape chunks of grout from the corners, passing it back and forth across the room. So it wasn't surprising when my internship partner asked for it and I slid it a couple feet across the floor to her. What was surprising--and slightly horrifying--and completely stupid in hindsight--was when the metal spatula caught on a raised tile and chipped the side.

Are you kidding me? I whispered, breaking out of French in frustration and fear. I knew how hard Czech Man had worked on this (all by himself, no less) and I was supposed to be being careful with his project. So, wondering what he would do, I called out to him. "I ruined your tile," I told him in French when he stepped into the doorway.

To my great relief, he didn't even look surprised. "Don't you worry one more minute about it," he said in his halting French. "It's not your problem, it's a problem with the tile. But next time, could you crack one on the edge over there?"

We laughed, and to add to my comfort, I found other chipped tiles as I continued cleaning. I wasn't the only one making mistakes around here. But I was the grateful recipient of the forgiveness we all seek, for the little things and the big things, from our friends and from our Father in Heaven.

Junior-ish

This week I have been praying to know who to give a Book of Mormon to.

Actually, I've been praying to know that for a long time.

Once upon a time, before winter semester ended, a guy in our ward challenged us to give a Book of Mormon to somebody. No timeline, no check-up date. Just a challenge for life. I started praying, got lazy, then started again. I wanted to do it. I've never done it before. And when I knew I was going to do this internship in France, the thought came that why not give someone a Book of Mormon (or, rather, un Livre de Mormon) here?

But this week, as I prayed, I kept feeling like I needed to ask my internship partner about it. So I finally did, and when I did, I understood why the feeling had come.

She spoke plainly about the gospel and about how it worked giving out copies of the Book of Mormon when she was a missionary. She suggested that I make a list of people and then pray about who from that list. She then read me D&C 84:85 and 88, testifying that the verses were true, and that it had happened to her on her mission--that words came like *that* when she needed them, and that they weren't even hers. She added that I could fast about it, too.

Good advice, clear and Spirit-filled. Just like a senior companion is supposed to give.

Prayer-ish

This week, a good ish that I'd already noticed came into full focus.

When me and my friend/partner/companion have meals together, we take turns praying over them in French. It's nice to have one little moment where 1) I don't really have to feel embarrassed about my French--even if sometimes I still do--and 2) we get to talk to the Lord plainly in the way we know how, since no one we interact with on a day-to-day basis shares our religion.

What I'd noticed and greatly admired was that my friend/partner/companion says detailed and sincere prayers. Every time.

On Monday we'd gone to a little morning meeting about day trips coming up. The trips include taking some of our old people to a little villa and doing some activities with them like bingo and karaoke. And during the meeting the other volunteers brought up watching the movie Les Intouchables. My friend wrote in the margins on the schedule packet in front of her, "It's rated R, I think." I nodded. I'd heard that it was an awesome movie to see--edited. After the meeting, she looked it up, and indeed, there's a whopping twenty-something of the worst swears, not even counting the other words they'd thrown in in between.

So my friend took charge. She asked one of the other volunteers if the movie would be edited, explained our feelings, and voilà. He said it probably wouldn't be, that we could go to the beach instead while they watched it.

But the best part was, in the afternoon over our food, she thanked the Lord for it. She thanked Him that the volunteer understood, that we could go to the beach instead of watching the movie. For me it was all a relief and a happy circumstance indeed, but I hadn't even thought to pray about it.

I have more than a few things to learn while here in France.

Work-ish

Marie is an old French woman who we joined for lunch on Friday. She's eighty-something, I think, but as spunky and independent as ever. She worried me with the way she waved the knives around for cutting her rotisserie chicken and watermelon. But though she's more active than most if not all the other old people we visit, she still does what the rest of them do--that is, she tells us all of her pains and suffering.

For Marie, the big stuff is behind her, but boy is it some big stuff: her husband abused her, she lost a daughter, she lost a grandson, and now she lives with some bitterness toward God for those difficulties. She asked us exasperatedly, If He's there, why doesn't He show Himself?

My friend answered with exactly what was in my head: He doesn't show Himself because He wants us to have faith. Marie responded that she knew, but that it was tough. My friend testified again: But He's still there.

I'm glad we could be there as witnesses to the Lord's love and power. Marie needs what we all need--hope--and if we can help give some to her, we'll not only be doing what our internship requires. We'll be doing the work of the Lord. And that is most important.

Hot-ish

Today was my first time attending church (in its fullness) in France.

The hot topic nowadays is the temperature outside (Haha. Get it? Hot?) because hoo wee, it gets a little steamy in our non-AC-equipped apartments. So naturally, several of the members posed a question like, "Il fait pas trop chaud?" ("It's not too hot for you, is it?") to which we would respond, "Si!" ("Yes it is!"). Then, after meetings were over, we watched as they set to work asking around for a fan that someone could spare for us to borrow. One man insisted that his family could give us one of theirs, and set up the whole thing: his daughter would pick it up from their house and drive it and us back to our apartments.

The small ward that encompasses the entire city of Toulon seem to be a tight-knit bunch. A member of the bishopric introduced us and welcomed us to the ward family in sacrament meeting, and we're not even missionaries or permanent members or anything. So I guess it was just natural for them to take care of us. Needless to say, we uttered several "Merci"'s and "C'est gentil"'s throughout the day. And my apartment? It's full of cool air and warm feelings.

Home-ish

Anybody who's ever been to a foreign country knows that it's kinda hard.

You have to deal with different customs, different tastes, different language, different food, different streets, different people, and different differences, and sometimes it just seems altogether too...different.

That's what I was feeling yesterday at the end of my first week in France. I yearned for comfort, for familiarity, for someone who spoke English and someone who loved my country like I did and knew it was Independence Day like I did.

So what a blessing it was when my attention was drawn to my window around 10:45 last night. Fireworks. Someone was setting off fireworks, somewhere a ways away on the beach. I ran to tell my internship partner next door. Then I went back to my spot by the window and watched. I watched, and heard my friend singing softly "America the Beautiful," until they finished and the sky was black again once more.

I was still in a foreign country, but suddenly home was much closer than it had been before.

Awake-ish

The little boy in the airport was dead OUT. Asleep, asleep, in the deepest deepest sleep. His mother cuddled him for a while, then lay him beside her with his head in her lap. His back curved over her leg and his arm hung, totally limp, off the bench.

I was so tired. The sun told me it was the morning, but my body moaned, "Oh my gosh, I didn't get more than a wee four and a half hours of sleep last night, and now I have to do daytime all over again..."

The boy woke up with the happiest smile on his face. Wherever he had come from, however far he had to go, he was beaming and ready to go.

The lesson for the girl working in France for the next two months: Wake up with a smile.

Ten-ish

Another ten-hour trip means another chance to find the good ishes in the world!

Like that nice man who politely steps to the side as you walk into the gas station store, smiling under his sunglasses and nodding as you pass.

Like that view from the mountains near Jacob Lake (misty green carpet nestled under red-rock plateaus) reminding you of that scene in Cars where Lightning and Sally overlook lovely and empty Route 66.

Like having just enough cash--within cents--to fund your lunch so you don't have to use your card.

Like the pretty periwinkles and the sunflowers that dust the roadside.

Like being relieved when the signs proclaim "Phoenix 36" much sooner than you expected them to.

Like two funny little brothers and one awesome dad who spent ten hours driving to Utah a few days ago, just to turn around and drive you back.

I should spend more ten-hourses noticing the good things.

Faith-ish

I have a daily quote book that I flip through, and it was one day this week that this one came up: "You need never be discouraged or afraid. The way through difficulties has always been prepared for you, and you will find it if you exercise faith." (Henry B. Eyring) The next day when I went to flip to the next quote, I didn't. I needed this one. So I kept it up for several days.

The best part was when it came true on Thursday. I had volunteered to speak French for this foreign language-judge training conference at BYU, and I was so excited. To get it over with. These things are definitely classified for me as "difficulties" in terms of President Eyring's quote.

I waited in the hallway until the French door opened, and who would it be but my old French professor herself! Things seemed a little worse (because she's intimidating) but they were so much better (because she likes me and she's nice). Then the man practicing to be a oral proficiency-judge-guy sat across from me and began to ask me questions.

I felt calm. I felt a smile on my face. I felt embarrassed a few times when I forgot how to say certain things...but I felt okay. My heart wasn't even pumping fast. It was amazing. It sounds silly, but I cannot explain to you how much of a miracle it was. There were at least seven other people sitting around us--to watch him, granted, not me--but I could speak. The way had been prepared, and I could SPEAK!

Afterward Madame took me outside to tell me what I could've done better and to declare me undoubtedly an Advanced-Mid language speaker (that's like, high!). She told me I was ready to go to France.

Maybe I am.

This-ish

It's like this: everyone knows Heavenly Father loves them, but have you ever wondered what your real purpose is in life? Have you ever thought, Hey, I've heard that if I don't do my thing on earth, someone will take my place. And there are people who could. So what am I even here for? 

So it happened like this: I had searched "individual worth" on lds.org and clicked on and read through several of the results. The ninth one down was a Young Women lesson. So I read it thinking about how glad I was that "Come, Follow Me" is the new thing.

Then I found a quote I'd heard before, embedded in its context, and it all goes like this: "My dear friends, you are a royal generation. You were preserved to come to the earth in this time for a special purpose. Not just a few of you, but all of you. There are things for each of you to do that no one else can do as well as you. If you do not prepare to do them, they will not be done. Your mission is unique and distinctive for you. Please don't make another have to take your place. He or she can't do it as well as you can. If you will let Him, I testify that our Father in Heaven will walk with you through the journey of life and inspire you to know your special purpose here." (Comes from a New Era magazine article entitled "Your Life Has a Purpose" by Bishop H. Burke Peterson.)

I was astonished, like this:

And the lesson was like this: When your heart is sad, and you need help, ask for it. The Lord will answer, and miraculously lead you to a 1979 New Era article from a Young Women lesson.

Or something like that.

Antonio-ish

Tuesday I headed out of class to head to the Joseph Smith Building, where the weekly devotional would play in its huge auditorium. I was tired and not looking forward to writing a rough draft research paper and creating a PowerPoint presentation for Thursday. I was tired. I was...tired. The auditorium (how many seats does that thing have? At least 500) was almost completely empty.

Good ish #1: I opened my email to find a video of my niece from my sister. I plugged my earphones in and eagerly listened. Repeating after my sister, the little toddler told me "hi" and that she loved me. I watched it over and over and over and over and over.

Good ish #2: The devotional started, and I kept my earphones in to block out the way-too-loud volume they had goin' on. The speaker quoted the most amazing quote from George Eliot, referring to the famous violin-maker: "[God] could not make / Antonio Stradivari's violins / Without Antonio." (Listen to the whole talk here. It's worth your time.)

Why, that's blasphemous! I thought at first. Then I was like. Wow. Wait. That's. Actually true. I was amazed, because we all know that Antonio couldn't make Stradivarius violins without God--but do we ever consider the reverse? That He needs to use us to make wonderful things? Not because He is weak or incapable, but because He wants to do great things with us.

He wants us to do great things.

Drive-ish

This week I got to drive ten hours from Utah to Arizona.

Weeeeee.

But really, it was actually quite nice. The scenery through the mountains is positively serene, and every time I go through, I want my own log cabin snuggled up against the green hills and some cows nibbling the green grass. I want to stop and do everything that the little signs advertise: fly down the zipline, explore Moqui Cave, take a gander at Montezuma's Castle, eat at the little diners that beg you to try their "Ho-Made Pies." All I've ever done is drive past.

Driving past is nice, too, though. We go from the verdant hills of northern Utah to the brush of southern, to the pink and orange strata of northern Arizona rocks, to the cactus of the Arizona desert. Ah, yes. I love it all, green to brown and trees to bushes.

What was especially lovely about this trip was a period of a few hours where me and the driver sat in silence. Not uncomfortable silence, just...quiet. Quiet punctuated with light conversation and laughter every once in a while. But mostly just quiet--quiet, and the breath of the scenery pressing lightly on the car's window glass.

It felt like a moment of slowness in the middle of an 80-mile-per-hour life.

Lion-ish

Today I went to a lovely devotional that gave me just what I needed.

The lady who spoke began with a story about a zoo in Argentina. It wasn't a fancy zoo. It was a dirty zoo. And it was a petting zoo. At least inasmuch as you could PET THE LIONS. The reason why this wasn't dangerous (well...it was probably still dangerous) was because these lions ("kings of beasts" she called them) had been trained since birth to cower to these annoying yappy dogs who would nip at their heels whenever they flicked their tails or shook their manes.

We have yappy dogs at our heels, too, she said. Dogs that keep us from living up to our potential and being happy in life. And she listed a few: lack of confidence; incomplete knowledge; the thought that it is "too hard, too far, or too much"; and feeling unworthy or beaten down by life.

Her message was the same for each doggy annoyance: take your massive, king-of-beasts-ly paw, and swipe those tiny things aside! "Chase 'em away," she said, "you're the king of beasts." You don't have to pay attention to them. You are so much bigger and so much more powerful than that.

I decided to be braver and do something new. It is something that will be hard for me, but really, not that hard, and it will make me better. I'm not such a cool and fancy lion, but that doesn't mean I can't push away one yappy irritation at a time. Indeed, I never was a fan of those types of dogs.

Eyes-ish

Our writing professor told us to partner with someone we didn't know. I stood up and looked around only to sit back down in my seat and partner with the guy in the desk next to mine, who I hadn't yet talked to. He introduced himself. Responded when I asked about his family. Otherwise, he didn't seem very keen on speaking.

The next assignment was rather surprising and most likely put a little heat beneath our cheeks: we were to sit as close as we could to our partner without touching and stare into their eyes. Just stare. Until the professor called time.

What.

Yeah.

So we did it. And for what was probably two minutes, I found myself an inch away from my brand new acquaintance, staring into his eyes. (They were brown, and quite lovely, by the way.)

I tried to create a cool experience out of it--"It was an intense moment"; "It made me ponder about life"; "We fell in love"; ANYTHING--but it was pretty tough. At one point, out of habit, I glanced away, but then quickly snapped back into position. The seconds went on. I took to staring at my reflection in his glassy pupils; it was easier than actually looking at him. His eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth across mine.

It wasn't until after the timer sounded that I really thought about it.

Back and forth, back and forth, what was he seeing? What was he looking for? And did he find anything? Was there even anything there to find?

It is difficult to give ourselves to other people. Awkward, too. Sometimes as awkward as staring into their eyes from an inch away. But if we tried to look, to see people just a little bit more--and to let them see us--maybe we'd find something worthwhile.

New-ish

He was a tall boy with a light blue shirt--almost purple in the shade--and light red cargo shorts, carrying a bright green game box. His father had a beard and sunglasses, and didn't appear to be impatient until the box opened and some cards slid out onto the sidewalk. Oh no, the boy said. Let's just go back to the car. His dad, frustrated, insisted he go pick up the cards. The boy obeyed, and as he leaned down to pick them up, more cards fell out.

A girl was walking toward them and turned to help gather the cards. The dad opened the box his son had set down and shuffled the remaining contents around. "Really?" he said. "You put them in like this?"

"They're Apples to Apples cards," the boy told the student. She smiled, replied with something I couldn't hear, and went on gathering. Together, they put the stack back in the box. The dad thanked her; she smiled some more, and walked away.

I see such acts of kindness more frequently than I ever have before (maybe because I pay more attention?) but they never get old. Kindness is always new, and bright, and good--sometimes too much to not notice.

Uke-ish

I had just spent the evening trying to learn how to play a song on the ukulele. My friend, who I was with, already knew it, and had to watch patiently as my clumsy fingertips tried to find the right strings to press.

The song is called "Les Champs-Élysées." It's a French song (if you couldn't tell) about someone's experience on the street with the same name in Paris. They walk happily along, meet a stranger, and end up jamming out all night with them and a band of random guitar-players. It's a fun song.

So, with my Christmas-gifted uke, I was trying to learn the tune, too.

The best part came when the night had dwindled away and we were about to get ready for bed. My friend suddenly suggested that we should go upstairs in our apartment complex to sing the song for our other friend. I agreed excitedly and, still carrying a mason jar of water, went upstairs.

We knocked and her roommate answered. We didn't disclose our plan, but asked her to get our friend and pulled the door to a mysterious mostly-shut position. When she appeared, we began! ...Aaaaand then the tempo was too fast, so we began again!

She played, I sang, she joined in on the chorus, and our friend's roommate recorded the whole thing on her phone. After the last note, we bowed to the roommates' claps and left to our respective apartments.

It was a good night.

Endings-ish

If there is one good ish about endings, it's that they make you appreciate things more.

I think of the people I know now and it's like, wow. Goodbye. Goodbye to them. Goodbye to this year, when I got to meet them and become a tiny part of their lives (or, rather, they became a part of mine). We have been happy and smiling and grateful and talkative and friendly throughout the year. But the end of the year makes us -er: happi-er, smiling-er, grateful-er, talkative-er, and friendly-er. Because we now see through the lens of the future, we are sad to see the past go. That's the funny thing about endings: you didn't realize how much you didn't want them to happen until they do.

I'm not saying I won't be happy when finals are over--good grief, that's just blasphemy. But I will be sorry to see these my friends and classmates graduate, move schools, move apartment complexes, and join the next part of their life while I join the next part of mine. Separately.

They've made my life good-er, though, and that I'd say is a happy ending indeed.

Easter-ish

This is from the view of the fictitious Rachel, Mary's best friend from childhood.

I had purposely stayed at the back of the crowd in order to avoid seeing Jesus. Watching them lay him there on the wood, seeing them drive the stakes into his hands—the hands I had seen and touched and held before—it would be too difficult.

            Mary’s lot was far worse, however, and she had surely kept as close to him as she could.

            I stared at the ground as I pressed through the alleyways, pardoning myself past the people milling about in the morning air. They didn’t realize that their Lord was dying right now, just outside the city. My swallows came more frequently as I tried to keep the sobs from spilling out of my chest.

            One broke free when I came to a crossroads. The dirt before me still bore an inch-deep scar all along the path through the alley and around the corner. His cross.

            I crouched to the ground and held my face in my hands. The people stepped on the fringes of my dress, stepped right on the cross-made furrow with their filthy sandaled feet. My Lord, I cried within my heart. My Lord, my God.

Spring-ish

In between the BIG good ishes (going to the temple, turning in an outline, registering for fall classes, watching the General Women's Broadcast) there is one itty bitty good ish that is yet impossible to ignore.

We call it

THE WEATHER.

Coming from a land that has little in the way of weather (*cough cough* Mesa, Arizona), it is so much more pleasing to come to March and April being in Utah. Even after an exceedingly mild winter, you can feel and see every change that marks the coming of spring.

The ducks waddle in pairs and nestle in the shadows in the grass. The popcorn trees exploded--overnight, apparently--with tiny round white petal-kernels that pepper the sidewalk and rain down whenever the wind blows. The breeze still has the slightest bite to it, urging you to stay in the sun's sight whenever possible. Green grass. Blue skies. Walks are perfect, as are short sleeves.

I call it

beautiful.

The loveliness thereof makes us think of the tie between spring and the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. And is it any wonder? With so much life bursting forth from the ground, the sky, the water, how could we not remember the One who created this beauty as a symbol of His own life and renewal?

Mother-ish

"Are you busy? Stressed? You never texted me back after I sent you the video of Kate. Just making sure you are okay. :-)"

You've heard this before: It's a mother's job to worry. I don't believe it. Not one bit.

It's a mother's job to love--to love so hard that the problems of her children get absorbed into her own soul. It's not her job to worry. It's her job to love, and love makes her worry.

It's good that mothers worry because then we don't have to worry all by ourselves. This is especially helpful when we are young, teenager-ish, and very unable to hold so much worry (or responsibility) at once.

I wish she didn't have to worry. Because I am young and teenger-ish, though, I give her much cause to do so.

Cause to send me a sweet text on a Friday morning to make sure I am doing alright.

I'm doing fine, Mom. Because of you, I'm doing just fine.

Dance-ish

On Thursday, I got to go watch my friend's roommate dance in a dance competition.

"Smooth" was the category, under which fell dances like the tango, the waltz. The partnerships were spray-tanned and hair-sprayed; made up with the darkest eyeliner and the shiniest sparkled hair jewels. The dresses splayed like birds' wings as the girls spun--hot pink, whispering blue, white with black embroidery. Their movements bled one into another like a long silken ribbon.

The individual partners dances gave way to group dances; to music with beats that echoed in my skeleton and punctuated the dancers' gestures. Twirl, pose, stomp, twirl, and twirl and twirl and twirl until surely they will topple over--but they don't.

They are so free, and I am almost free just watching them. If only I could get up and join them myself:

Smiling like mad. Glitter radiating from my bare arms. The shine from my earrings perforating the stage light. Eyelids gliding over my contacts in pleasure, pleasure only half-faked for the stage. Blind to the audience, but alive in my own shining sphere of spotlight.

Few things are so like dancing--singing, writing, drawing, laughing. These things let us open our souls to the world and vacuum up all the good that's in it, and release some good into it, too.

I'm taking a ballet class this summer.

Let the vacuuming begin.

Dream-ish

This week, my brother got his pilot's license.

It is one thing to reach a goal or make it to a milestone in life, but it is quite another to fulfill a dream. See, my brother has been dreaming about being a pilot basically since his toddler years. He drew planes, he wrote about planes, he memorized the names of planes, he collected model planes, he hung the model planes from his bedroom ceiling, he kept his model planes and probably has his favorite ones on a shelf somewhere in his new apartment (he's married now, by the way).

His dreams are real. He can take one of those Cessnas up by himself, for himself, and sail the sky with elevators and ailerons flapping in the wind.

He dreams of sitting in the cockpit of a Boeing seven-forty-something and carrying his passengers through the sea of endless, sunshiney blue to their destination. He dreams of clicking the intercom speaker and telling his passengers, "If you look under your seats, you'll find a free pizza! ... Just kidding."

He dreams still. I so admire that.

Start your dreams, or start your dreaming. Life is short and long and fun and hard and full of possibilities to fulfill whatever you can come up with. So start.

Courage-ish

I tried to listen to the Senegalese man at the front of the auditorium, but even though he was speaking French, his accent was a little funny and my vocabulary didn't match his.

My friend, sitting behind me, tapped my shoulder. He had to leave for a class. That meant it was almost 4:30. Which meant it was almost 4:50. Which meant it was almost 5:00. Which meant it was almost time.

An urge to use the loo struck me across the face (or, bladder?) once the presentation ended and I was leaving the auditorium. But I couldn't stop! It was too late! I needed to make my way up to the third floor.

I met my old French professor at the elevator. We took up a brief conversation (in French, of course) while waiting for the old lift to make its way down to us. He was pleasant and encouraging when I explained the situation. He left me on the third floor at the professor's office.

I had to wait a few minutes for the previous meeting to end. Then, it was my turn.

My turn for the interview. The interview in French. The interview in French, the language I've studied for years but still don't speak very well. The interview in French, the language I don't speak, for the Les Petits Freres des Pauvres internship in France this summer.

Me? Go to France? Me? By myself? During a summer? This summer? Me?

My heart was beating, my mind was whirling, my thoughts were praying.

But, oh good ish--the interview wasn't in French.

Five-ish

The truth is, five years ago today, I almost died.

It's not really frightening anymore to think about because five years is very much a milestone year point. Five years, ten years, twenty-five years--and then suddenly, the actual event is just a string amidst a tapestry of experience. This is especially true when it is easy to forget that a metal defibrillator sits below my left collarbone and when my heart beats with a steady thump-thump-thump day and night and day and night and day and night. The truth is, one day five years ago it stopped doing that.

Life is a gift, and one that I sometimes feel I don't deserve.

Because the truth is, life doesn't need me.

But the Lord knew that in order for me to become the person I can be, I needed life. That is why I'm still here.

This week, my friends did a good ish by giving me these cute cards--five each, to commemorate the five years. It was a good ish because, again, life is a gift. It is a gift because of what is in it.

Bad-ish

My tagline says "Good ishes happen every week." Which is quite true. Sometimes, though--well, most of the times--bad ishes happen during the week, too.

Honestly I don't really have bad days, but Friday was a bad day. (Mind you, the evening was much better. We're talking about the day, however). Granted, most everything of the bad-ish-sort was my own fault.

I woke up late when I wanted to wake up early. I got interrupted in my scripture study by two texts--one from my mother and one from Verizon Wireless--both telling me that I need to send in my broken phone or else pay for the new one they gave me. Panicked, I set to work trying to figure out how to erase my old phone and send it in, figure out where to send it and how. Then my mom was like, you can go get your passport today. My cousin was going to the post office to renew his, it was a perfect time. But I also had to do homework and finish writing an essay for an internship application. I did almost no homework. The application essay didn't get finished until Saturday. I waited in line at the post office for about an hour in vain--no passport for me yet.

Perhaps it is because I am just me, perhaps it is because I am a girl, perhaps it is because of both ("me" rather implies "girl," you know)--but I was stressed and upset and down as all this passed throughout the day.

But as I said before, it only lasted a day.

Bad ishes are temporary. They are much more temporary than good ishes, because once they are gone we are much more apt to cast off the memory of them, as it is unpleasant. A bad day comes along every once in a while, but it is only that.

Only a day.

Follow Up/Through-ish

About Tuesday of last week, I started feeling that one feeling (that little niggling feeling that suspends somewhere between my heart and my stomach), but deeper, and more niggling.

I had written on my planner "SNIP" because I knew I needed to follow my own advice and visit someone. I even had someone in mind! But it took a while to actually follow through.

AKA two days.

Nevertheless, two days is a long time when you have a niggling feeling between your heart and your stomach. It borders on guilt as if anticipating that you won't follow through in the end.

Luckily for me, I did follow through, on Thursday night around 7:00. I took a piece of the treat my friend had made. went over to the girl's house (conveniently next door to mine). I saw a guy at the table through the window, though, so I passed by her door and scurried into my apartment. It didn't matter: the feeling in my stomach was no longer niggling, but determined, set, decided. So I went back out, telling myself it didn't matter about this guy, and knocked on her door.

The guy was just a guy--he was leaving as I came in. I set the treat before her and asked about her life.

The conversation was short, just skimming the surface of details about the week. She loved the treat. I expressed my willingness to help her whenever she needed it. Then I left.

Just a few short minutes. I don't think she'll remember it for the rest of her life. But I think it helped.

Point-ish

This week I had two pairs of friends come visit me, each pair on separate occasions.

They may have come on church assignment, but that's not the point. Far from it, in fact.

The point is that I had two pairs of friends come visit me! On separate occasions!

If only we could all understand the influence we can have in others' lives if we just go see them. If only I could fully understand. I know how great I feel when people snip a decent half hour out of their calendars just for me, yet how often do I snip one out for others? Boy, do I need to sharpen my time scissors.

Notes, hugs, and friendly smiles can do wonders, but there is something special about a one-on-one, ya know? (Or a two-on-one, in my case.) A special sense of support. Of care. A person wants to know that you have prepared and wanted to come see them. Or that you didn't prepare at all and just wanted to come see them! Good gravy, if that Dollar Giver didn't have the right idea... We need each other! So take your scissors to your planner for this week! Cut out a half hour, or five minutes, or two hours--just enough time to serve, love, visit, minister to someone. You'll really be helping lift the weight of the world from their shoulders.

Snip.

Happy-ish

Today I have been so happy.

The reason this is such a good ish is because weeks can get crazy in college. Trying to get homework done, going to bed too late, waking up too late, having trouble concentrating, wanting to be a better person, visiting people, wishing other people would visit people, wasting too much time, not taking enough time, trying, deciding, praying, walking, listening, practicing, writing, doing, living, breathing--

There's just so much to life, and sometimes, I am sad or worn down. I know that I don't have the worst life ever. Not even close. But for me, for where I am right now, for who I am right now--sometimes it's hard.

Yet here I am, sitting in my friend's apartment, tired, but softly, freshly, oh-so momently content.

Not everyone is happy. Not everyone knows that they can be happy, or how to be happy. So how could I not be happy that I get to be happy?

Who knows what this week will bring. Who knows!

It doesn't matter though. Not yet. Because right now, I am happy.

Songs-ish

Today I decided to go singing at a rehabilitation center with a church group.

Well, actually, I decided on Tuesday night to go singing at a rehabilitation center with a church group.

I was on my knees in prayer thinking about the notes I had taken about the devotional that day. Elder Don R. Clarke spoke to the students about doing what the Savior asked us to do--one of the things being to care for the widows.

Care for the widows? I asked myself. How?

It quickly came to me--the church group that goes singing at the rehabilitation center on Sundays. Surely there are widows there at that rehabilitation center. There are plenty of elderlies there.

So I was on my knees in prayer and there was that feeling--that little niggling feeling that suspends somewhere between my heart and my stomach. It's a feeling that says, "You've already chosen."

So I did.

And it was a blessing. We sang hymns to a few of the seniors (one of them, I believe, was a widow), and the music lifted us up and away in the testimony of Jesus Christ. It was a special experience to be with these fragile people and to play tunes of praise on my vocal cords. A wonderful combination for a wonderful Sabbath.