is trying to keep perspective.

From Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad: Or the New Pilgrims' Progrss:

Substitute the words "Europe" and "Jerusalem" for "life" and this will inspire you...

"We are at home again. We are exhausted. The sun has roasted us, almost. We have full comfort in one reflection, however. Our experiences in Europe have taught us that in time this fatigue will be forgotten; the heat will be forgotten; the thirst, the tiresome volubility of the guide, the persecutions of the beggars--and then, all that will be left will be pleasant memories of Jerusalem, memories we shall call up with always increasing interest as the years go by, memories which some day will become all beautiful when the last annoyance that encumbers them shall have faded out of our minds never again to return. School-boy days are no happier than the days of after life, but we look back upon them regretfully because we have forgotten our punishments at school, and how we grieved when our marbles were lost and our kites destroyed--because we have forgotten all the sorrows and privations of that canonized epoch and remember only its orchard robberies, its wooden sword pageants and its fishing holidays. We are satisfied. We can wait. Our reward will come. To us, Jerusalem and to-day's experiences will be an enchanted memory a year hence--memory which money could not buy from us."

Time does pass and life's difficulties, one by one, fade from remembrance. In the midst of trials, try to remember that soon your pain will be less than a memory. In fact, you won't remember it at all.

is experiencing "saudade."

Unfortunately, we have no word like saudade in the English language. A friend recently told me about it when I was explaining how we often "pre-mourn" events in our life which have not occurred yet. I know that I do it quite often. I am usually sadder or more nostalgic about something when I am anticipating it happening, and not afterward. This period of my life is just soaked in a feeling that I described as "longing joy" in a poem I recently wrote. It is better to allow myself to feel joy and a little ache along with it instead of writhing in agony in the times I like to call "purgatory." I just can't do that anymore, thank goodness.

So, what am I mourning the momentary loss of? If you've been keeping up with my blog you know. He is currently residing in the brick confines of the not very far away MTC. Too close for comfort, if you'd ask me, but it sure does make mailing packages easier. :) I feel saudade for the distance between us, for the potential that we might not end up together, and for the potential that we might. I also feel an ache to complete parts of my life that remain open as of yet. I find myself feeling both sorrow and hope for future possibilities and that is when it is especially difficult to focus on the task at hand, like right now. I should be pouring over the details of the Brothers Karamazov, but I can't do it. Instead I keep picturing myself with six to eight children, covered in flour in the kitchen, and straining my ears to her my husband come home from work. I picture a house in the country, my little retro kitchen, a dog with freckles on its nose, chickens in the backyard, and a long two-grooved driveway up to the porch...


My mind is walking down this road right now to my home with a basket of blackberries. It is not that I am unsatisfied with my life right now, it is good, but it isn't that "icing on the cake" kind of good. It is "bubble bath on a Tuesday morning" good, which is fine. I just keep thinking forward to when I get the icing on the cake, hopefully, and my heart aches for that extra bit of sweetness in my life. I really have no where new to go with this post. I guess that is the point, saudade gets us nowhere, it is just a walk down memory lane. I don't think it is negative to feel it, I enjoy remembering and hoping, I just want to be able to plant my feet firmly in the present until finals are over and let my longing take over when I am home again, both literally and figuratively.

wants you to read...

this.

Go ahead, read my article. I hope you enjoy it. I would like to hear any feedback if you have some. Thanks. :)

woof.

This is a talk that was given by my missionary last Sunday. I just wanted to post it for those who requested a copy and give all who didn't hear it the opportunity to read it. It made me think more deeply about how I view the process of sanctification in my life. What am I willing to give up in order to do the Lord's will and in return receive the blessings he has promised me? I have to ask myself that constantly. Now is an especially poignant time for that question. I am so glad that he gave this talk. It was truly inspired.

on sacrifice

Sacrifice is an essential and eternal principle of the gospel. Although it isn’t everybody’s favorite word, it is a practice crucial to our salvation. I believe that sacrifice is one of the true tests of our discipleship in this life and the means whereby we can become refined and qualify for Eternal Life in the next.

Sacrifice can be defined as giving something to deity or the forfeit of one thing for another of greater value. From its etymology, or origin, we learn that sacrifice is a sacred doing—as in the context of priestly rituals. And with sacred meaning dedicated or consecrated, made holy, sacrifice could be considered an act concerned with dedicated or holy things, or perhaps the act whereby they become dedicated or holy. We can see this in our own experiences. Think of a parent’s sacrifice of time for their child, a missionary’s sacrifice of two years, something so great as one person sacrificing their life for another, or something so seemingly insignificant as someone sacrificing their seat on a crowded bus—it is that giving up of something of value that makes the gesture meaningful and not soon forgotten. It becomes set apart, sacred.

So what is it that we sacrifice? Seeing as how God has given us everything, there doesn’t seem to be very much that we can give back to Him that He doesn’t already have. Under the Law of Moses, the children of Israel were commanded to sacrifice the firstlings of their flocks. But then, when Christ came to the Earth and performed the Atonement, he fulfilled that commandment. In 3 Nephi 9:19-20, we learn what it is we are asked to sacrifice. So, we must give to the Lord a broken heart and a contrite spirit. As it was with the Israelites and their unblemished firstling of the flock—an animal of great worth—so too we are asked to give something precious and of high value to the Lord. This is the difficulty of sacrifice. If it were something easy to give, it wouldn’t really seem worthy to be called a sacrifice.

I would like to touch on three points or applications of our sacrifice of a broken heart and contrite spirit. They are: sacrifice and faith, sacrifice as a Christ-like attribute, and sacrifice as a process of sanctification.

Sacrifice and Faith

Firstly, sacrifice and faith. Although we speak often of faith in terms of mustard seeds, I have learned over these past few years that faith is perhaps the bravest act of our lives. To trust in a Heavenly Father we can’t see (at least not directly), in a plan we can’t really remember choosing, in records written thousands of years ago, and in those noble men who lead our church today requires a great deal of courage. Thankfully, we have the Holy Ghost to witness the truth of these things, and to confirm our faith. But even this is a presence more felt than heard. To choose to follow the Lord’s commandments and align our lives with the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is a sacrifice. It is sometimes difficult, uncomfortable, unpopular, and only partly understood. And so we sacrifice in faith, believing in “things which are not seen, which are true” (Alma 32:21).

Faith itself is a sacrifice—a sacrifice of our wills and our need to know everything in whole. Here I would like focus on that first offering that we sacrifice: the broken heart. I like to think of broken here in the context of training horses. As some of you may know, a “broken” horse is one who has become obedient, who’s wild and resistant will has been tamed. We need our hearts to follow that example. We give to the Lord a broken heart—a heart that is willing and obedient. That means we need to give up what we may want for ourselves and submit to the will of the Father. We bridle our hearts with the commandments and give the Master the reins. In this way our heart becomes an acceptable offering to the Lord; He does not want a wild or proud heart, for such a heart cannot accept His word.

This may seem like an unfair arrangement, but like that horse, we may just lack understanding. I’d like to mention again that definition of sacrifice: the forfeit of one thing for another of greater value. A broken heart, like a broken horse, is willing to be led. We may not understand where the Lord is leading us, but if we allow Him to direct our paths, I promise you that it is toward something more fulfilling and more beautiful than we could have ever guessed or could have come up with ourselves. I know this because I have seen it—and continue to see it—in my own life. Whatever plans we had for ourselves in our willful hearts pale in comparison to the great plan the Lord has for us. If we only knew.

And so we make the sacrifice of faith, and we sacrifice in faith, putting our trust in the Lord. In Hebrews 11, a profound chapter on faith, speaks of so many prophets—Enoch, Noah, Abraham, and others—who sought to do the Lord’s will, making great sacrifices because of their faith. In verse 13—one of my favorite scriptures—we read that, “…(read scripture). It continues on in verses 14-16 to say, “…(read scripture).” Like those prophets we believe—we must believe—that the promises of the Lord will all be fulfilled, and that we are meant for something greater than this life—that city that God has prepared for us.

Sacrifice as a Christ-like Attribute

Secondly, I would like to explore sacrifice as a Christ-like attribute. Why do we sacrifice? That question was put to Adam after he and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden. The account can be found in Moses, chapter 5, beginning in verse 6. (read scripture.) There, then, is certainly one reason to sacrifice: because the Lord asked us to. Like I just said, we have to trust Him. However, the angel goes on to explain a second reason and the true purpose of sacrifice. In verses 7-8, it reads, “…(read scripture).” So, sacrifice is done in remembrance of the atoning sacrifice of the Savior.

It is maybe easier to see the connection between animal sacrifice under the Law of Moses and Christ’s atonement because of the similarities of physical death, being the firstborn, unblemished, etc. But in a very real way, our sacrifice under the new law, also speaks of the Atonement. Christ certainly had to offer a broken heart and a contrite spirit in addition to his life and his body. Submitting to the will of the Father, he showed us a perfect example of sacrifice.

So, since we aspire to become like Christ and follow the example of His life here on the Earth, we too must sacrifice. It is an attribute that we should emulate, as much His other attributes of love, service, and righteousness (which all seem like synonyms of sacrifice, when you think about it). Now I’d like to give some attention to our second offering, that of a contrite sprit.

A contrite spirit means a spirit that is penitent or repentant. Like the broken heart, the contrite spirit is submissive. It is indicative of a desire to be righteous, to turn from wickedness and walk in true paths. When contrite, we might ask, like David in Psalms 51:10, “…(read scripture).” A contrite spirit means we are willing to change—to alter our natures, our choices, our behaviors, and our habits in order to become more like Christ. Now, I know that this process doesn’t happen overnight. The Lord is not asking for a spirit that has repented of everything, and is therefore perfect. We are always in need of repentance, and if we were perfect, we wouldn’t need a Savior. What He asks of us, then, is a spirit that is willing to repent, one who is repenting. And no matter where you may be, a contrite spirit is possible to cultivate. The moment you decide that you want to change—to shake off those “sins which do so easily beset [you]” (2 Nephi 4:18)—is the moment that you experience a contrite spirit. Although the long road of repentance may stretch out before you, you have turned away from whatever detour you were following, and you face the Lord’s path.

As people who have strayed, we usually get the broken heart thing, but we can easily forget the contrite spirit. A broken heart is insufficient by itself—it is simply a state of lowliness and sorrow, which is a good start, but not enough to become like Christ. We need too the contrite spirit, a willingness to sacrifice the natural man, give up our sins, in order to be cleansed from our impurities. As Elder Bruce D. Porter said this last month in General Conference, “Those who have a broken heart and a contrite spirit are willing to do anything and everything that God asks of them, without resistance or resentment. We cease doing things our way and learn to do them God’s way instead. In such a condition of submissiveness, the Atonement can take effect and true repentance can occur.” And it is only through the sacrifice that true repentance asks of us that we can become like that pure, obedient Son of God, who is full of grace and truth.

Sacrifice as a Process of Sanctification

Lastly I would like to address sacrifice as a process of sanctification. As I said at the beginning of this talk, the origin of the word sacrifice refers to its sacred nature—a consecrated act. And since it is our hearts and spirits that we sacrifice, it is those things which are consecrated. The very act of giving our heart to the Lord, sets it apart. In Helaman 3:35, it describes this process beautifully. It reads, “…(read scripture).” I think the key word here is yielding—yielding our unruly and willful hearts unto God.

In our effort to become like Christ—to attain a Christ-like nature—our spirit must be contrite, and in that spirit we give our broken hearts over to Christ through faith on His name, obedience to His commandments, and repentance to access the power of the Atonement. It is then that Christ can actually change our hearts, cleanse our hearts, heal our hearts. We are, all of us, heart-broken, and it is simply a matter of whether we will give those pieces to the Lord or stubbornly keep the shards to ourselves. For Christ—who’s other name is Love—is our only hope for mending.

Like the Brother of Jared, we are commanded to make a journey toward the promised land. We have all kinds of modern-day seas to cross and have been given these bodies as ships to carry us through this life toward exaltation. The Lord may even provide the wind to move us along the path, as He did for the Jaredites. However, we need a light within our ships. Like the Brother of Jared, we must go to the Lord, and put before Him our hearts, as the Brother of Jared did his 16 stones. As we yield our hearts to His touch, they have the potential to transform, to give light, to be incandescent, burning away all impurities. In a word, our hearts become sanctified. And these new hearts can be a light for us as we make our private and personal journeys to our own promised lands.

When we sacrifice a broken heart and a contrite spirit, we are blessed with that clean heart and right spirit David spoke of, and in that state we are able (and willing) to be led by the Holy Spirit of the Lord as we walk along the path that leads us back to our Father’s presence. We become obedient, repentant, and learn to trust in the Lord. For sacrifice really is a practice of trust for us in this life. We don’t always know what the Lord has in store for us, but sacrifice in faith, believing that what we give up is really of lesser value when compared to what we will receive.

In fact, if you think about it. if we fully understood all of the blessings that come with sacrifice, we would be anxious to do it. Sacrifice is often the Lord’s way to bless our lives, and with such great things “that there shall not be room enough to receive it” (Malachi 3:10). Now, we don’t sacrifice simply because we want blessings. We sacrifice because the Lord asked us to, and it is in similitude of His own sacrifice in our behalf. However, the sanctification that comes through sacrifice is so important for each and every one of us, and such a blessings, that it too can be a motivation for us to give the Lord our broken hearts and contrite spirits. If we understand that sacrifice makes us holy, it is not so terrible a task after all, is it?

is learning to be alright with maybe.

I am not sure how to start this post. I wanted to write something about the 729 days left until I see him, but nothing is really working. He went into the MTC today. Yesterday I spoke to him on the phone for the last time in two years. On Sunday I touched him for the last time in two years. It seems unreal. A month ago I wouldn't have believed that I would feel this way, that I would be twenty five years old and writing a missionary. But I am. I don't resent it, I am so happy to have him in my life. It just seems like another interesting twist in my life has appeared. I guess I am learning that nothing ever comes very easily for me. I met him and I knew that he would be leaving, I didn't anticipate how quickly our relationship would escalate and how strongly I would feel. I didn't know what would happen when it was all beginning. I think I just imagined that the ending would take care of itself. In a way, it has. A mission is something you can't go around, like everything in life, you must go through it. I went through one and now I am seeing him through one as well. I am so glad that he is going. There is no way that I can anticipate the end of this experience at all. I can't even imagine what will happen in two years. All I know is where we are now. Maybe. It isn't no, it isn't yes. It is wait. That is the impression the Lord has given me. He has reminded me that he is in charge, again, in my life. He wants to bless me. He doesn't want me to rush ahead and spoil my happiness with undue worry. He wants me to take my journey one step at a time and savor the process. I don't want to see this as waiting, because I am not standing still. Life never does that. So, I am going forward, having faith that whatever the Lord has planned will come to pass if I am obedient.

A friend recently sent me this poem:

My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.

Gwendolyn Brooks

This poem is not meant to express some kind of agony for the time that I will be without him, but I see it as encapsulating this life in general. I see it as a metaphor for the time that we are here on earth. I want to do what the Lord requires of me so that I can remember the sweet taste of home and wish to return. This may not seem related to what I was just talking about, but it is. Yes, I will miss him. Yes, I hope that we will be reunited after two years, but I can't know for sure. I don't know what plan the Lord has for me, but I do know that is it a joyous one if I trust him. I have to put my trust in him completely about my happiness. I have to believe that he will fulfill his promises. One of my missionary's favorite scriptures is found in Hebrews 11:13:

"These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth."

Seeing the promises and believing that they will be fulfilled is trying. Perspective is difficult to keep in this life. Right now my perspective is shortened, it is not easy for my finite mind to know that everything will be alright in two years when I am not even sure what I will do after my graduation in just a few months. I can only hope.

I want to end this post by saying that I can't deny the peace that I feel right now in my heart. It is amazing. I do miss him. I do worry about the future, but every time I expect to feel pain, it is not present. I am not meant to feel anguish about this new phase in my life. Things are different now, but it's okay. I feel very blessed despite what may seem like an untimely relationship. I believe that it happened for a reason. Now I have two years to find out why. Maybe isn't a bad place to start...

is writing it all out.

This is another creative writing project. I have told this story before on my blog, so it isn't anything you haven't heard before, but this is another retelling in a different format. I think my thoughts are a little more organized about this topic. I was so emotional when I was writing about it at the beginning of the year that the quality of the writing wasn't as good.

This is a rough draft. Be kind. :)

At the point of the mountain (the place I found out my boyfriend is gay)

When we reached the point of the mountain our conversation ran out. John wasn’t much of a conversationalist past “I like your hair”, and I occupied myself by watching the hills pass by. The houses seemed too visible from the road on their naked slopes. Trying to distract myself from the situation wasn’t working; all I could concentrate on was my rabbiting heartbeat, shallow breathing, and above all other things, him. I tried to look over at him as often as I could, but then I got nervous about that. I couldn’t let him know I was nervous and when I started worrying about that, I broke out in a cold sweat too. Then I got bold, I glanced over at John and waited for him to say something. After a few agonizing seconds he cleared his throat and started in his typical way, “Sooo, I wanted to talk to you about something.” His choice of words really sucked every time he wanted to say something important. In my mind I screamed, What is it? I couldn’t handle the suspense after what he’d put me through.

“Yeah?” I tried to sound casual, but my elevated, breathless answer gave me away.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me. In September. Do you remember that?” He seemed to wince.

“I think I remember that.” I sarcastically answered, half-smiling. Of course I remembered. I went to his house at 11:30 at night to make him let me in so that I could tell him my most agonizing secret in the most awkward way (which I incidentally hadn’t thought through clearly enough because it was so much worse than I thought it would be). I’d kept my feelings in for almost the entire year, but not totally hidden. I am not capable of subtlety. He already knew, but I had to know the answer. So I placed myself at his mercy. I called him on my phone from his doorstep and he answered the door after about five minutes, looking thoroughly annoyed and red-eyed from studying at his computer for too long. I sat down on his couch, probably to avoid falling over when my blood rushed away from my extremities to my over-active heart. I said to him, in essence, what I’d written in a second-grade note: do you like me? Check yes or no. He grinned too wide and gave me exactly what I’d been expecting, a polite no. After my blubbering turned to the “why?” part of the conversation, he succeeded in shutting me down without much explanation, according to his generally abrupt style. I claimed then I hadn’t wanted an explanation, but seriously! I was perfect for him, couldn’t he see? I ran out as awkwardly as I’d entered and started crying as soon as my feet hit the frozen pavement outside his house—I didn’t stop crying for the rest of the night.

“I realized that I was wrong.” What?! My thoughts stopped suddenly at that moment and I put my head in my lap. I didn’t want to scream out loud and scare him away again.

That was when I became John’s girlfriend. It was actually one of the best days of my entire life. I held his hand all night. I made him dance to stupid Harry Connick Jr. songs. It was paradise. Unfortunately, the newly rekindled flame led me to write some pretty heinous love poems to accompany it:

My hope led me to think that you
Expressed in every minute act
Some gentle and encouraging clue
To contradict the looming fact

That you had softly answered no
And with that gentle answer tore
My heart and left me in the throes
Of longing, ever wanting more

Rejected, but love never died
I found a peace within at last
My mind at ease, but in a lie
I answered that my dream had passed

Until a moment, unexpected
You came to me, as in my dream
My broken heart was resurrected
Could things be really as they seemed?

I am very sorry to subject you to that kind of thing, but I just want you to know how far gone I was. Yes, I actually thought this poem was good enough to post on my blog. It’s amazing that it’s legal to do that sort of thing. Poor John even saw it himself. But before I tell you about our breakup, which was inevitable after a poem like that, I want to give you a little insight into why I liked this guy so much. He wasn’t as unfortunate as I made him sound in the beginning.

When I first met John he was a squeaky-brand new return missionary. I think I even commented on his “shininess.” He was especially shiny and new. Like a new toy. I just had to get to know him and he presented a unique challenge. He was the reclusive, nerdy type that never really got out and just sat in his room getting paler every day while staring at his computer screen and reading Wikipedia for fun. In my naïveté, I thought he needed to get out and socialize. What better for socializing than hot tubbing? I promptly invited him to come along with me and my roommates that night. At the first mention of entering what would certainly prove to be a den of iniquity, he backed into the hallway (which was off-limits to girls), protecting his still shirted chest with his trembling, pasty hands. I put my palms up in the air as a gesture of peace—just so he knew I wasn’t going to rip his clothes off him. I assumed the look of panic on his face was post-mission weirdness and I let it go, just for that night. But alas, I don’t give up easily. I continued my method of “socialization” by calling daily, coming over uninvited, hanging out in his living room, and basically letting him know that I wasn’t going anywhere until he accepted that I was a part of his life. His life was further complicated when he became my new home teacher and more opportunities to infringe on his kindness presented themselves. And really, the more I got to know him, the more I liked him. His innocence was endearing, and he was very patient with my continuous efforts to get him to notice me.

I soon learned that not only was John a tedious nerd, as I’d first assumed, but he danced too! What a combination. There were so many interesting sides to him. His list of talents was enough to turn any typical BYU male green with envy: he spoke French along with the Russian he learned on his mission, danced almost every type of dance there was, cooked, liked foreign films, fixed computers, got straight A’s, and he was always studying for the law school entrance exam—the LSAT, which seemed entirely too responsible considering that he wasn’t applying for another year. It was disgusting, just about everything he did, he did well. I even liked his quirks like the way he rubbed his eyes when he was tired and did pirouettes in the kitchen—really, too cute. I imagined that he liked my quirks too. Maybe he did. After I calmed down a little, we started spending almost every weekend together—still at my request—and I hoped that he would soon see that we would be perfect together. I already knew it, of course. My decision-making has always been like super-glue: instant and immovable. I agonized and pined over him. I couldn’t imagine a better guy than him. After all, we had so much in common. Well, the list is failing me now, but I was certain that we connected in a way I never had with any other guy. I could literally go on for hours about why we should be together to any person who could stomach it. My bad poetry hit a new low with this lengthy phase of unrequited love:

When nothing's on my mind
he is.
My weary thoughts return
for what?
To teach my heart to learn
to shut
itself against a love that blinds.

Or rather, I should learn to dwell
on one
whose love's expressed in deed
and word.
My soul would then be freed
assured,
if I could but undo the spell.

Ah, but luckily my nights of watching Sabrina and crying alone soon ended. We started dating in the beginning of December. This is how dating John went: I would go over to his apartment almost every night and sit on his couch while I graded papers. Every night I hoped that he would finally kiss me. I kept waiting for a night that would be special enough. I didn’t know if any night would ever push him over the edge, but two days before we broke up, we sat watching the snow fall outside the window and hearing the shrieks of his neighbors making a snowman. I thought to myself, It had better be tonight. As he walked me to my car we passed the debris of a fallen snowman in the parking lot and I couldn’t help but make the comparison to our relationship in my mind. What was happening to us? Did he even like me anymore? I tried to avoid the answers to these questions and instead focused on how the snow sifted down on us lightly and made the scene seem perfect. I squeezed his hand expectantly. Do it tonight. Seriously. When we got to my car, I bear hugged him around his middle and didn’t let go until he got the picture. When I looked up into his face he looked back and leaned in a little. It was fairly hesitant, but I tried not see that. I needed a tighter grip on him and our arms couldn’t reach around each other completely because of the bulk of our coats, so I squeezed tighter. Now. He answered my wish with a small, misplaced peck on the corner of my mouth. It was in almost the same place as the first kiss I’d ever received as a six-year-old. Like he’d never done it before. I tucked my head into his neck, unable to process what had happened. What was that? He tried to explain, “I bet you’re wondering what took me so long.” Of course I wondered, but instead I said, “It’s okay. I’m just glad you did it.” He kissed me a few short times before letting go. It wasn’t enough for me, but I pretended like it was enough. I asked him if I could tell my best friend and he nodded. It was like waiting for a prize in the mail after months of collecting coupons and upon receiving it, breaking it in the first five minutes. Nothing could have been more unsatisfying. I got into my frozen truck quickly, but peering out the icy windshield I saw him shuffle back inside with his head down. I saw disappointment in his walk but tried to read it as him huddling in the cold. I couldn’t shake the feeling the something was wrong. I waved at him, but he didn’t see and then he was gone. Ignoring my insecurity, I called my friend and bragged. “He did it! It took him long enough.” I shivered and ran through the yellow light on the way back to my apartment.

We never kissed again. Two days later he came to pick me up and take me to the airport to go home for Christmas. Finals were over and I was packed, but I didn’t really want to leave. I felt like I was leaving more than school behind, and I must have understood that before I knew. He didn’t hug me when he came into my apartment to help me with my bags. I pretended it didn’t bother me. Grabbing the last of my stuff, I got into his car and tensely clutched his Christmas present—a bottle of Victoria’s Secret “Very Sexy for Men” cologne—close to my chest. We exchanged gifts, talked about last-minute things, and the conversation ran out again at the point of the mountain, as usual. I tried to fill the void this time, because I was scared. Upon asking him what I perfume I should buy with the gift card he bought me, he just started ahead and made an exasperated sound. He cut me off before I could try to smooth out the discomfort again. Another silent eternity passed. I was glad at least for the houses—the hills were white this time and they hidden under the snow, away from prying eyes. Then he broke the stillness, “Sooo, I need to talk to you about something.” I patted his knee and gave it a squeeze, probably to his disgust.

“Say what you need to say, sweetie.” I couldn’t think of anything that required this phrase besides a stronger declaration of his feelings. He loves me. Does he want to marry me? I pushed all my doubtful thoughts away. He was the one. We loved each other. He was mine. My happy train of thought was interrupted as he continued. “I don’t know how you’re going to take this.” I continued patting his knee while my heart sank.

“Just say it.” I still smiled, but I was gritting my teeth as the anxious feeling that accompanied our first serious discussion in the car returned.

“I deal with SSA, same-sex attraction. I have known about it since I was in high school.” I put my head in my lap to avoid screaming. I was horrified to realize that I wasn’t surprised by this fact. It all makes sense now. His declaration sounded like he was telling me that he was terminally ill.

“Same-sex attraction?” I didn’t know what it meant when he first said it. Then it registered. He’s gay. I shook my head as I started to cry. My mind processed the thought first and then my heart kicked in and I felt my insides wrench. Does that mean we can’t be together? “What does that mean? For us?” I just had to ask. And it got worse.

“I knew that it wasn’t going to work out the second day we were together. I can’t pretend anymore.” He sounded drained.

“Wha—I don’t understand!” I really didn’t. No one had ever told me they were gay before. I didn’t even know that guys at BYU could be gay. I choked on tears and sobbed, holding onto his leg for support. What happened to my perfect guy?

Sadly, this was the only time that we didn’t run out of things to say for the rest of the drive. We cried together as he managed to keep us going in a straight line in the carpool lane. I moaned and bawled at my shattered dream. I told him that I loved him before I got on the plane adding “but not in a romantic way,” even though I did. He tearfully told me that I needed to hurry or I was going to miss my flight. That Christmas break was probably the worse one of my life. Another bad verse follows:

December 20th

Love seemed as though a cruel joke
I nodded numbly as you spoke
And told me that your heart was true
But there was nothing you could do

Desire is a razor's edge
A heart is not enough to pledge
I begged for you to let me stay
You sighed and wiped the blood away

The keen blade glinted, never fading
A vision blurred, my eyes evading
The truth before me stark and cold
Am I the only one you've told?

I bawled and stuffed airplane shaped crackers into my mouth on the plane. Since when did I become an emotional eater? I looked to the passenger next to me, a young guy in army fatigues and I think he was pretending to be asleep so that I wouldn’t try to talk to him. Probably the best course of action for him in the present circumstances. So, I got out my journal started writing as I continued to sob and tears peppered the page like bombshells on civilians. The first words I wrote were “I feel like Satan has played a cruel joke on my happiness.” I had to find someone to blame and only the devil could be responsible for something this terrible, right? God would never do this to one of his children. It did not occur to me at that moment that I was supposed to learn something from the spontaneous combustion of my dreams. I cried my nerves raw and all that was left of my mascara lingered under my eyes in two dark smudges reminiscent of the undead.

In my lack of subtlety, I didn’t know what to say to anyone but the ugly truth. When I got off the plane and my sister came to meet me by the baggage claim, she asked me if I was okay. Not exactly. I wanted to scream to the entire terminal JOHN IS GAY! I almost did.

On a more positive note, I prayed that night more fervently than I had in years. I knew if I believed that God would make all of this alright, that it would be. And not entirely wanting to, at the end I did tell him, “Thy will be done.”

After Christmas break was over and my fantasy world had self-destructed long ago, only the smoke remained. The truth was more visible in this way, but it didn’t mean my pain was gone. It took me at least another month to wake up in the morning and feel like I wanted to get up. I did know some new things, however. I had dated and loved John, but he wasn’t perfect for me, even considering his SSA. He wasn’t going to be mine, but my life wasn’t ruined and neither was his. I wasn’t angry with him or myself. I didn’t blame anyone. I suppose that itself is a gift. I loved him enough that I could accept reality as it was opened to me. Life would continue, we would be friends. The smoke would blow away eventually and sunlight would come back into my life.

Last week John drove me to Family Home Evening along with some friends of ours who are a part of our ever-expanding circle of friends with SSA. I am still amazed at how many I know (and knew, unwittingly). One asked me, “is it true that you dated John?” The whole car burst into laughter.

“Yeah, I did.”

“So what was it like kissing him?” One boy asked, stifling a grimace.

“It wouldn’t have been good if I didn’t know he cared about me”—a nice way of saying it wasn’t that great. I looked into the rear view mirror to catch John’s reaction. We both laughed at the awkward memory. The rest of the drive to FHE was filled with joking and talking, without even a pause when we drove past the point of the mountain.

writes geeky fan fiction.

In lieu of reading Crime and Punishment tonight, I wrote four pages of how I imagine the next book in the Twilight series might go. Read on if you want Bella and Edward to end up together. I rate this 'T' for teen because it does deal with some post-wedding issues. But it's clean, I promise. I will be adding more soon.

After Eclipse

Why am I so miserable that it isn’t raining on my wedding day? The clouds over Forks decided to part for this blessed occasion and I just keep wishing they’ll come back and hide me. It isn’t that I didn’t want to marry Edward. I love him more than anyone, ever. I’d made my choice and Jacob knew that. But I also knew that Jacob was missing. He was now endlessly running through the Quileute forests; he might never be human again. It’s all my fault. Even now, my chest felt tight as I suppressed a new sobbing episode and a tear trickled down my face, but thanks to Alice’s foresight, I was wearing thick layers of waterproof mascara. Edward squeezed my white, gloved hand and the coolness blurred my vision of Jacob running through the underbrush, howling. I looked at him and tried to smile, it came easier than I thought as I gazed into his golden eyes. He numbed my stinging cheeks with his breath and I buried my face in his neck. “Edward, I love you. You know that, right? No matter what, I chose you.”

“I know that, Bella. I don’t have to read your mind to know. You’ve given up a lot for me, maybe too much. Are you sure you are ready to go through with this?”

“Don’t ever, ever ask me that question again. I am ready. I want to be your wife.” I practically stomped my foot. He grinned and kissed the top of my head.

“I won’t doubt you again. You’re turning out to be much tougher than I ever imagined. I may not need to turn you into a vampire…” He chuckled in his effortless way. Soundly punching him in the gut only made my fingers hurt, but he pretended to get the wind knocked out of him.

“Now don’t start with that! You’re going to do it. Otherwise, you know I have a backup plan.” Even though he was standing more than twenty feet off, Carlisle looked in my direction and raised his champagne glass. He winked at Edward and turned to Esme, engaged in conversation again.

Edward let out a sigh and quickly pulled me to his chest, slightly crushing my crisp, white dress. “I’ll do anything for you after today. Anything. You just have to say yes.”

“I already did. And I’ll say it in front of everyone.” I looked into his eyes once more and they pled with me. I nodded and smiled resolutely. Then Alice came for me.

“Bella! You need to come with me. Why are you out here in the foyer conversing with my brother! He can’t see you before the ceremony! My plans are ruined!” She looked honestly angry with him.

“Now Alice, Bella came and got me. She can’t be away from me and you left her tied up in curlers for hours. Be fair.” He looked at her with his head tilted at a childish angle and she gave up.

“Just come with me, we’ll still make him surprised.” And with that she firmly grasped my hand and took me back into the cursed dressing room. After twenty more minutes of powdering, primping, pinning, and other tedious aspects of making me beautiful, I still couldn’t outshine the angels who stood next to me looking into the mirror, Alice on my right and Rosalie on my left.

“She’s perfect.” Alice breathed in relief.

“Truly, she is.” Rosalie agreed. “I couldn’t think of a thing more, except this.” Digging into her pocket, Rosalie pulled out a delicate, antique brooch carved out of ivory. “It’s 'something old.' I wanted to give it to you. It was a present from my mother, for my engagement.” She pinned it at my neck, and the effect was striking, even on me. The muted shade of ivory played off my neck and I touched it in gratitude.

“Thank you Rosalie. This means so much to me.” I knew how painful the memories of what would have been her wedding were. I thought I saw her squint her eyes as if to cry, but no tears came.

“You are making a big sacrifice, but I think you’re doing it for the right reasons. I love Edward as you do, he will never betray you. I know now how much you mean to each other. If you ever thought that I disapproved, I want you to know that I don’t now. I can only be happy for you.” Shakily placing my veil over my face, Rosalie kissed my cheek and I felt her cool breath tame the redness that was building in my face. I was ready. As much as I hated the trappings of a traditional ceremony, I would do anything for Edward, just like he would do anything for me. We were beyond this. To kneel at a padded altar meant nothing compared to the promises we’d already made to each other. This was minor compared to what was coming. I almost laughed at my former anxieties, then I picked up my bouquet and stood ready at the door.

Charlie sidled up to me, almost embarrassed and I slipped my arm under his. “Dad, I love you. Don’t ever forget that.” I said dad and this time and I meant it. Charlie had become more to me in the past year than he’d ever been. His frustration with Edward was worn away and he stood next to me as any father would, terrified that his daughter would be entrusted to someone else. Someone new. That his role as primary caretaker was being diminished.

“I love you too, Bells.” He meant to say more, but he couldn’t allow himself to cry, and then the music started. It was not a traditional wedding march, but a much more ornate version that Edward had composed himself in the weeks prior to the wedding. All the Cullens tired of hearing the familiar melody, but I didn’t. I was mesmerized and I walked down the entire aisle without tripping, Charlie taking longer strides to keep up with me. I locked my gaze with Edward’s and I never faltered, to his surprise. He was bracing himself to pick me up off the rose petal-strewn carpet if needs be, but it wasn’t necessary. I lightly tripped up the stairs to the altar and let Charlie kiss me tenderly on the forehead before he placed my veil over my face again and sat in the nearest pew. I hardly noticed his departure before Edward took my hand. Shivering involuntarily, I turned to him and smiled. “Are you cold?” He mouthed.

“No.” I mouthed back. “Just excited.” My smile stretched farther than I ever thought it would and his matched. No thoughts of Jacob were near my mind at that moment. As the music faded out and the guests settled back into their seats, I glanced over at the stained-glass windows that were filtering in soft sunlight before the ceremony. But the sunlight was gone, replaced by thick clouds. Before the priest even started speaking I heard the patter of raindrops and it soothed my raw nerves.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of Edward and Bella. Let us all remember that love is…” But I didn’t hear any more than that. Neither did Edward. In the back of my mind I faintly heard my mother sob with each line the priest uttered, but I stared into Edward’s eyes, never looking away. We repeated our vows, slipped rings onto each other’s fingers, but we couldn’t break away from the moment. Then the priest soundly tapped Edward’s shoulder and repeated himself for the third time, “you may now KISS the bride.” We snapped out of our reverie and my breath caught in my throat as Edward kissed me. When I thought he’d pull away he didn’t. It was almost embarrassing. But I didn’t mind. After nearly two minutes of this, he pulled away, smartly grabbed my arm and the congregation laughed, then clapped. I laughed along with them and we practically ran down the aisle, my feet grazing the floor and stirring up petals in my wake.

Jasper stood ready at the door of the Vanquish, which had been decorated by Alice. It almost seemed inappropriate to stick flowers and write "just married" on a car with that kind of power. Luckily she opted not to put clanging tin cans in the rear; she was much too tasteful for that. Carlisle pulled Edward aside and whispered something in to his ear, placing what looked like airline tickets into his tux pocket. I winced and knew it was something expensive. Then I glanced over the crowd. My mom and dad stood teary eyed in the front of the throng. I pulled away from Edward for just a moment. “Mom, I love you. No matter what happens, I will always love you.”

“My only daughter!” She practically sobbed. “I love you too. I am happy for you sweetie. Now, I want to talk to you about a couple things before tonight…” she trailed off, looking secretive.

“No! Jeez mom. Absolutely not. You already had your chance. Don’t make me embarrassed!” I looked into her mascara-streaked face seriously.

“Alright then. But you remember, we Swan women are…”

“Ugh! Don’t even finish that. You aren’t allowed.” She smiled too wide and I turned beet red again. At that moment, Edward saved me. He put out his hand and hoisted me into the car in one movement, train and all. I hung out the window waving to everyone and tossed my bouquet as a continual cascade of petals showered down along with a light rain.

Driving off a little too quickly, Edward lightly steered with one hand and pulled my veil off with the other. “Don’t mess up my hair!” I couldn’t believe those words were coming out of my mouth. He didn’t answer, but fervently kissed my neck, not looking at the road. Before I could even gather myself, he’d reduced me to my former state of fainting at every kiss. My mind swam in and out of consciousness as he covered my face, neck, and arms with kisses. I gasped for air and blindly grasped for the window button, unsuccessful at rolling it down. Before I knew where we were going, we were parked. He pulled me out of the car at the edge of a forest. I knew this place, but my knees buckled under me and he scooped me up, already running.

My senses sharpened under the canopy of trees and I knew where he was taking me. I kissed his neck in return as he carried me on his back to our meadow. Upon arrival, I noticed it was different. In the middle, by a patch of purple wildflowers, was a spacious, white tent. The rain turned to a downpour at that moment and we scrambled inside. “Did you do this for us?” I realized the question was stupid as soon as I asked it. Inside the tent was an array of flowers, and surprisingly enough, the ornate bed he’d bought for me only months ago. I had no idea how he got it there. And then it hit me, he wasn’t kidding. This was it.

“Mmhmm. I did.” He said little, playing with a lock of my hair.

“So, uh… what about the reception?” I realized that we would be wanted back soon.

“It’s taken care of. We’ll be there on time.” He breathed in deeply and expertly pulled a pin out of my hair, allowing it all to fall down in one movement. I sat on the edge of the bed, drumming my fingers on the gold, embroidered duvet. Biting my lip, I looked at my feet. Edward looked at me, puzzled. “Are you nervous?”

I couldn’t answer and my hands shook. It wasn’t expecting this reaction. Every day for the past two months he had put up numerous boundaries so that I would keep my end of the bargain. But now, my insecurities surfaced. “What is it?” He asked, holding my trembling fingers.”

I looked into his now calm eyes and regained my composure. “It’s just… now, it’s real. You are my husband. I’m your…” and before I could say it I started crying.

“Bella! What’s wrong?” He looked worried. He pulled his silk handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed my eyes. “Do you regret what just happened?”

I shook my head. “It’s just overwhelming. You’re… mine.” And I sobbed again, burying my face in his Armani suit.

“What can I do? Tell me.” He implored, stroking my cheek gently. I turned my face away from him and blew out some air.

“Just lay by me for a minute.” And I turned on my side, facing the flowers. He aligned his body next to mine and held me tightly to his chest. He kept whispering reassurances in my ear. After a few minutes, waiting for reality to set in, I turned back over to him and kissed him unexpectedly. I blushed.

“Hi Mrs. Cullen.” He smiled his wry half-smile and before I knew it, he was balancing his body weight over me.

“Hi.” I nervously giggled. In the blackness of his tux I felt safe; I knew he would never hurt me. I knew I was his forever. “So, um, about the promise?” I sheepishly whispered, kissing his neck.

“Oh that?” I heard a low growl build in his chest and I involuntarily squealed.

* * *

We made it back to the reception on time due to Edward’s above-average driving skills and, of course, driving the Vanquish helped a little. Stumbling in the door, Alice immediately pulled me aside and thumped Edward on the chest with her miniature fist. He shrugged and she dragged me into the dressing room again.

“Is this a twig in your hair? Where did he take you?!” As if she didn’t know. She worked quickly, pulling out a small bit of moss and rearranging the pins in my hair with little regard to my comfort.

“Ouch!” I reached back and she slapped my hand away. In only a couple minutes my hairdo was restored to its former glory. No one would ever suspect. I grinned and giggled to myself, glad that no one could read my thoughts.

doesn't know what she's talking about.

It's one thing to know that you don't know what you are talking about, but it's another entirely when other people know that you don't know. I hate feeling this way.

woke up a man.

I looked into the mirror this morning too quickly to notice the stubble on my face. Grabbing my towel and heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth I quickly skimmed over them with my eyes half-shut. Once I began undressing I noticed that my "waiting for my Edward" t-shirt clung to my bulky figure and after pulling it over my face I groaned. A new crop of hair had appeared on my chest. The first thought in my mind was "argh. Today is swimming. I'll have to shave." The second thought was "wait... I have pecs." I stared into the mirror not sure if I was seeing correctly. Performing a quick survey of all major body parts I let out what was I thought would be a shrill cry. My voice gargled in my throat and I panicked. I'm a man! My roommate started banging on the door and I stifled another cry. I'm a naked man! I quickly jumped into the shower and shouted back in a gruff falsetto that I wasn't feeling well and hoped she would ease up. She pounded harder, shouting "I need my contacts. I'm already late!" Tossing aside my minuscule bath pouf and banging my head on the slanted roof of the shower, I slung my magenta towel around me, just barely, and cracked the door just wide enough to poke the contact case through. But she pushed. The door swung open and I dropped my towel out of fear.

is giving you 16 posts for the price of 1!

Okay, now don't get scared about the size of this post. It was a creative writing assignment and I decided to write it in blog format, so why not post it?! If you decide to read any of it, I think you'll be surprised, annoyed, amused, maybe frightened, and hopefully not bored. It's really rough, but anyhow, I'll stop explaining. Take a look:

I’m the kind of girl who wants to be free.

My first word was “hot.” There are a couple theories about this, but I think the one I believe is true is my mother would frequently tell me that the stove was “hot”, that I shouldn’t touch it. I don’t know if I ever touched it, but I believe I resented the rule and so I would yell “hot!” at the stove. I think I yelled it. I never really liked rules and I would always test them. Once when I was looking for my play dough, I spied it on the countertop and my mom told me that it was off-limits to use that can. I didn’t know why. I grabbed the can and tilted it towards myself, expecting the play dough to be inside, but instead I was burned with scalding-hot oil. I learned then to trust the word no. I still don’t like some limits. I hate speed limits. I hate cell-phone limits on minutes. I hate calorie limits. But I like some limits. I would list them but I’m already bored of that.

I’m the kind of girl who wants to be loved.

It’s true, I want to be loved, just like most people. I found out that I’m not heartless after all. I always had crushes and most of them crushed me. I know why they are called crushes now, it’s because that’s what happens when they are over. I remember Bobby Peterson. He was practically Jonathan Brandis’s twin. I would see him in the hall by my locker as he stooped to get a drink from the fountain. He’d flick his chin-length blond hair and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Like a god. So beautiful. I’d wait to see that during passing time to get me through the day. At one of the final dances of my seventh-grade year (his eighth-grade year) I asked him to dance. I will never forget the feeling. My head was literally spinning and my arms went numb. Even if he’d said yes I probably wouldn’t have been able to dance with him anyhow. But he said no. Then I wanted to puke. But I didn’t. Luckily. I turned around and walked over to my friends to resume throwing crepe paper at those who were dancing. Later on, I had many other crushes, but none that crushed me like John. But I’ll tell you about him later.

I’m the kind of girl who wants to be understood.

I hate it when people misunderstand me. I know it happens all the time to everyone, but I especially hate it. About halfway through my mission in Ukraine, I remember a day when I was wandering around Odessa with my companion in search of a member’s house. I asked an old, bitter woman for directions and do you know what she said to me? “Girl, I don’t understand a word you are saying. Where are you from? Poland?” It made me so angry! Maybe it’s just because I didn’t say it right and it was my fault. But maybe I did say it right and the old woman was just a hag. Whatever. P.S. I found out later, through family history, that I am Polish,
however.

I’m the kind of girl who wants to write.

I do. I love writing. It has always been my refuge. Whoa, I almost wrote that as “refuse.” Maybe that’s true as well. Either way, I do a lot of it and it has always been my own world. I realized I was not bad at writing when my junior high English teacher read my essay about Ethan Frome to the class. I got made fun of for that, I’m pretty sure. Then in high school I wrote another essay and I think I used the word “solace.” For some reason the class thought I was being pretentious and I got made fun of again. That’s when I decided to dumb down my writing so that I wouldn’t stick out too bad. And I didn’t again for a while. I forgot about it until I went to college and discovered I had gone too far with my efforts to write poorly. I perked back up again. It just goes back and forth from there, but here I am again. I’m trying to make something of my writing and I hope I can.

I’m the kind of girl who makes mistakes.

Oh, there’s too many of these to write in one place. But I think the biggest mistake in my life was also one of my best learning experiences, so I’ll tell about that one. His name is Jonathan. I now refer to him as “loser.” I know, it’s not very nice. He lived in Canada and I went there to visit a friend once when I was about 18. I met him and three days later we were dating. He had tattoos everywhere: neck, arms, back, but he wasn’t all pierced up or anything. For the most part. He was bipolar. He was a redhead just like me and we fought all the time. His father was an Anglican minister, but he didn’t believe. His favorite part of church was the fact that communion in the Anglican church was brandy. But for some reason I fell for him (see “I’m the kind of girl who wants to be loved.) That’s really a lame excuse too. I know why I fell for him. He was a little dangerous and he seemed like a lost boy to me. I’ve always been like Wendy, collecting lost boys and then losing them again. The rift inside of me began to grow through the months of our dating and I realized that I couldn’t be two people anymore. I wanted to be a good girl. I wanted to go on a mission. I couldn’t make any more compromises and so I wrote him a letter that told him how I wanted to live a different life and do what I knew was right. He slammed the phone down and the last words I heard from him were “I hate you and I hate missionaries. I’m going to kill every missionary I see.” But he didn’t kill me, I went on my mission. And I learned from this mistake that I needed to choose for myself, and not only that, but act on it.

I’m the kind of girl who interrupts.

By the way, I just wanted to let you know a little more of the basics before I go on. I’m from Gladstone, Oregon. Well, originally I lived in Clackamas, but then I moved to Milwaukie and then to Gladstone. I’m 25 years old and I’ll be 26 in December. I don’t know how to celebrate that kind of birthday. There are four kids in my family and I’m the oldest and the shortest of them all. It makes no sense. I am also the only red-headed child, so I’m kind of a black sheep. Moving on…

I’m the kind of girl who is a magnet.

This is where it gets a little more strange. I don’t really know how to introduce this part of my life, but like most other parts, it involves a boy. His name is John. I promised that I would talk more about him. I met him when we lived together in a big jungle of foreign languages. He came home from his mission as a reclusive computer-nerd that couldn’t be coaxed out of his room for most activities, especially hot-tubbing. The first night I met him I invited him along and he jumped like my dog did the first time I landed him in the pool. He was scared of the water ever since and his panicked attempt to preserve himself left giant claw-marks on my thighs—the dog, not John, mind you. But John also declined, less forcibly, and I found myself determined to draw him out of his shell. I know this sounds nothing like being a magnet at this point, but you’ll understand it in a little bit. At this point we were polar opposites and I felt like I was pushing him away with my advances, which I was, truthfully. We became friends after finding some common interests in Russian, dancing, movies, and music. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I liked him. The summer left me feeling hopeful and free from my addiction again, but as soon as we were together after school started, I felt the ache again. It got worse from there. I found the courage in early October to go over to his house and talk to him about it. I called him from his doorstep and told him I wanted to talk. He took his time getting to the door. When he answered it, he looked terrible—too much time in front of a computer screen left him red-eyed and pale, but I still wanted him. So in the most awkward way I could, I told him that I liked him. His smile caught me off guard, almost as if he was trying to stifle a snicker. His answer was predictable, “I’m so glad that we are friends and that we have so much fun together, but… to answer your question… no. I’m not interested.” I excused myself and cried all the way to my friend’s house. But this isn’t the end. I thought it was over, but it really was the beginning of all the things that would happen to us. He thought about what I said. For three months. Then on my birthday he brought it up again and told me that he realized he was wrong. That he wanted to date me after all. This ideal arrangement (for me only) lasted for three weeks.

I need to start a new paragraph here because it’s just getting too long. I’m sorry about that. Plus, this part needs to be separate. This is where it all came to pieces, or maybe it finally came together. He drove me to the airport to go home for Christmas, and all I could think of was how much I was going to miss him. All he was thinking of was how he was going to tell me he was gay. This is how he did it. We reached the point of the mountain and after the conversation petered out, he said “I need to talk to you about something. I don’t know how you’ll take this.” I reached out and patted his leg and told him that he could say anything. I remember him calling his being gay “SSA”, short for same-sex attraction, and I had to ask him what that meant. He said that he knew for a long time about it, even before his mission, but he wanted to try. And I was glad that he did. I forgot to talk about our first kiss, which was our only kiss. It happened two days before I left for home. It was snowing out and he walked me out to my car, which he didn’t generally do. When he hugged me goodnight I held on and just looked at him. After a few short pecks, he said “I bet you’ve been wondering why it’s taken me so long to kiss you.” I said that I wasn’t wondering and that I was just happy he did. I didn’t want any explanations, I didn’t want anything to change, but it did. That’s what happened in the car. We both cried so much I’m surprised that we didn’t swerve off the highway. I have no idea how he could have concentrated then. I flew home, still in tears, and when my sister met me in the airport and asked me what was wrong, I told her “John’s gay.” That’s all. Maybe I should’ve put this all under “I’m the kind of girl who cries”, but there are lots of times when I’ve cried, so I think I’ll leave it where it is.

So John was gay. I felt like my life had caved in. I read everything about SSA that I could get my hands on and I felt hopeful that maybe we could work something out. We didn’t, but we stayed friends. From that time on I realized that most of my guy friends are gay. I found out that three more were gay that very month and from there the number just multiplied exponentially. That’s my point, I’m a magnet. I was surrounded by gay men and I had no idea. I’m still surrounded by them, and they affectionately call me their “fruit fly.” Turns out that BYU isn’t quite the marriage factory I thought it was. But the truth is, I needed to know this. Realizing this made my life fuller. I have more wonderful friends than I did before and it has caused me to try and be a more compassionate person. I know John didn’t want to be gay. I know he wanted to try, but I also know that he taught me more as a gay person than he would have if he were straight. I continue attracting gay men, and being attracted to them. My theory just gets proven over and over again, and I’m glad.

I’m the kind of girl who cries.

More about crying. I guess I can talk more about that. When I was little I think I cried a lot because I was frustrated or because I wanted something. Now I cry because something strikes me as profound and beautiful, although I still cry when I get frustrated. Less than a month ago I was in the Musee D’Orsay in Paris. As I walked through the second floor among the impressionists’ works, I wanted to cry. I think I let one or two tears leak out. It was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been.

Earlier on in the trip I cried while I was running around madly in the Milan airport. It went down like this. I was mad at my travel partner. He was being annoying and strange and I didn’t want to be around him, frankly. In my annoyance, I misread the flight information and I missed my flight to Paris. It was a nightmare. The Italians were very kind, but the layout of the airport was a maze and I ran back and forth from the Air France ticket desk to the Alitalia desk to the lost baggage desk and back to the gate. I didn’t even seek to hide my panic. I ran around crying as a 25-year old girl, but they didn’t know that. Maybe they thought I was younger. I hope they did. I did get on the next flight, but I don’t really want to remember this tearful event very much. Ugh.

I’m the kind of girl who reads.

Now this is something I love to talk about. My life has been filled with books since I was old enough to sit still on my mom’s lap while she read to me. My love for reading began with books like I Like Cats, The Berenstein Bears, The Pokey Little Puppy, and others. My taste became a little more sophisticated when I discovered a thirst for WWII novels and the librarian would set aside her picks for me. This, incidentally, is social suicide in sixth grade. I conquered veritable giants in that grade like the Merchant of Venice and the Yearling, which wasn’t that large really. I don’t even remember what it was about. But the most important thing is I never stopped reading. I have no idea how many books I’ve read. Now I read about two or three a month, depending on the reading that I do for homework as well. Most of the time, my favorite entertainment is reading. I was once caught reading something under my desk during a history lesson. Ha! I’ll never regret that. My sixth grade teacher was a bore. My latest reading addiction is the Twilight series, I know, I know… vampires and all that. I’m really too old for it. I even went to the book signing in Seattle when I went to visit my cousin at the end of the summer. Part of my desire to write comes from my love for literature in general. I guess that’s a given, but I want to produce something that someone else will read and feel the way that I felt when I first discovered books like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Harry Potter. It’s young adult fiction that really excites me, but I can’t avoid the heavy realm of Russian Literature. Is it wrong to be in love with Pushkin and Edward (the vampire) at the same time?

I’m the kind of girl who falls asleep in class.

This is another sixth grade story. The first time I ever fell asleep in class was in Mr. Katz’s class. He didn’t know how to treat twelve-year-olds and so when I fell asleep on my book, he walked over and slammed his teacher’s manual on my desk right in front of my head. That did a lot for my self-esteem. It didn’t cure me either. I am an incorrigible class time sleeper. One of the worst times was in ninth grade during biology. I fell asleep again, and I drooled on my book. When I was awoken, I slammed by book shut and later the pages were almost pasted together with my spit. I felt bad for the next person who was issued that book. I usually have falling dreams in class too, and I wake up shaking in my desk and gripping the edges. I really do feel bad about it, really. I’m also a church sleeper at times and even worse, a temple sleeper. The room is just so dark and the big dress is so comfy. It’s a recipe for sleep.

I’m the kind of girl who likes to cook.

I discovered the desire to cook when I was still saying “hot” and I would bang pots and pans with a wooden spoon. I liked to pretend that I was on a cooking show and I frequently watched Yan Can Cook and Julia Child on PBS. Then we got cable! The Food Network is still my favorite channel. I remember tuning in to the Naked Chef just to see what that show could possibly be about and finding the love of my (cooking) life! His poster hangs above my bed and his cookbooks line my shelves. He is brilliant and his food is just as good.

I’m the kind of girl who daydreams.

My daydreams range from sentimental to honestly weird and disgusting. In the margins of my thoughts that aren’t filled with a to do list, there is usually some crush waiting, my “imaginary” boyfriend. Sometimes it is a real person and sometimes it is not. He is always glad to see me and kiss my hand politely. Or something. I also like to think up stories. My most recent is a cross of two of my favorite daydreams about elves and vampires. I wonder what might happen if an elf is bitten by a vampire? While I was in St. Petersburg over the summer (and often bored out of my mind) I would sit and think about this story. It involves a young elf girl. She finds herself attracted to an alien presence in her ever-vigilant perception and she follows it into the forest. Inevitably, this is where she gets bitten. But there are no details about this occurrence. She finds herself on the floor of a cave, altered, immortal, and thirsty. She doesn’t know what she’s become. The plot gets more complicated as she kills a human boy and then
poisons her lover. We’ll see what happens with it. See, I just started daydreaming right then.

I’m the kind of girl who is scared of heights.

I think I can trace this fear back to an incident when I was maybe six years old. I went to a playground with my friends, Brandon and Rebecca, and we were sliding on slides and all that. There was an especially high slide that had been taken down, possibly for safety reasons, and I failed to recognize its absence. Jokingly, I pushed my friend Rebecca from the top of the “slide” and she fell. It seemed like fifty feet up to me, but in reality it was probably closer to ten feet. Watching her fall and then accompanying her to the hospital left me morbidly afraid of doing something similar to anyone else or myself. To this day I hate ferris wheels, high swings, driving on certain bridges, and even the Eiffel Tower. I went there in August and was mortified when I realized how high up it was. Riding the elevator up to the highest level took all the willpower I had, but I paid 13.50 Euro to do it, so I couldn’t just stand there on the second level shivering.

I’m the kind of girl who is a rebel.

Well, I thought I was a rebel for most of my teenage years. I will never forget my mother’s reaction when I had bleached out my red hair to a hideous shade of margarine yellow the summer after my senior year in high school. It was already cropped in a hideous fashion: blunt Betty Page style bangs in front, and the back was shorn down to about an inch. My poor mother. I even went to church like that. This is where loser comes in. Apparently he found my hair attractive. Mostly, I just looked weird, and that’s just punishing myself. I think most teenagers punish themselves with their appearance. Thank goodness I’m over that.

I’m the kind of girl who is scared.

I hate enclosed spaces as much as I hate heights. When I was younger and we went caving as a family, I nearly had a panic attack when we got to the part where you get down on your hands and knees. I believe I can trace this fear as well. When I was just a toddler, I was at a pizza place playing in some kind of tube where you crawl around. One genius kid in front of me just decides to stop in the middle of the tube and some other kid behind me starts pushing on me to go forward and suddenly I’m trapped inside. I still feel sick when I think about this moment.
But my fears aren’t all about physical things. I have always been scared of missing out. Every night when my dad would literally drag me to bed, I hated the idea of missing anything that went on after-hours. I couldn’t sleep at the idea. This fear has transferred into my adult life as the fear of being the last to succeed at something. And that’s kind of boring.

I’m the kind of girl who is happy.

There have been many more happy moments in my life up to this point than anything else. It seems like I write mostly about negative experiences, but often those are the most detailed in my mind because of the discomfort. Happiness is too easy to stick like that. It just flows past and because of the lack of friction, it remains a glowing blob in my memories. But I want to write about one of my happiest nights. It was before John told me. Of course my life hasn’t gone downhill since, quite the opposite, but it was blissful innocence. After the awkward car ride in which I became John’s girlfriend, we went to a wedding reception. We were a couple there are everyone knew it. He’d told all our friends that we would be together when we came. Good thing I said yes. I grabbed his hand the second we were out of the car and for the rest of the night we were inseparable. He danced all the sappy Harry Connick Jr. songs with me and didn’t mind my lack of ballroom ability. I put my head on his shoulder when we danced and when we touched legs sitting down, he didn’t flinch away. We just giggled out of amazement that something had finally worked out for us. He asked me to hug him goodnight and when we both leaned in, our seatbelts locked and held us back. I finally got what I wanted. I couldn’t think of a better feeling than that at the moment. And that night when I went to sleep, my thoughts didn’t just swirl around him, wishing in the darkness, they settled with the thought that he was mine.