Strawberry Festival Pie

Yes. I made this.

This weekend Troy will celebrate the Strawberry Festival.

Celebrating the Strawberry Festival as a kid was the official way to usher in the summer holiday. For a few years, our ward had a float (that was back then, when they actually did floats) in the parade and I remember stuffing tissue paper into chicken wire to get our floats to match whatever berry silly theme had been chosen for the year. We rode on a few of those floats and even won prizes.

The Boy Scouts in our ward at some point started doing a fundraiser at the Friday night festivities in the downtown square. Friday night was reserved for a children's parade and bed races. There were all sorts of vendors and booths, and the Boy Scouts sold pies. Delicious strawberry pies.

I believe the original recipe came from an older lady in our ward, and throughout the years, my mom and Aunt Elouise in particular, along with the help of women in the relief society, developed the recipe into something that not only tasted better, but was more attractive, and more efficient to make.

The first several years went something like this:

The Boy Scouts would go to Fulton Farms and pick the berries.

The Relief Society would divvy out the jobs from making pie crust shells to glaze and then drop these off Friday morning at our house. (Our house is only three blocks from The Square, and easily accessible through the alleys to the booth set up there.)

Volunteers, be it Boy Scouts, Young Women (mostly Amy and me), and other Relief Society members would meet at our house and top and wash the berries. Then we would pour on the glaze and set up the pies on long tables, which they would set up until they were loaded in the back of a van and driven to Square.

The Boy Scouts would then top them with whip cream, and serve the pies.

Throughout the years, they started doing pre-orders and sold whole pies instead of by the piece. The prices rose. My aunt started working in the school cafeterias and we gained access to nacho cheese and chili meat to put on hot dogs. The enterprise expanded to the point where the health department said that they couldn't be made in our house anymore.

By that point, they were selling a hundred pies at least, with my aunt always pushing to make more. Which could be done as the process streamlined.

Saturday, Amy and I would wake up to the sound of people finding their seats in front of our house, as we were the last street on the parade's route. We would have to move the cars we parked on the street for the day. Members of our ward, school friends, and people we knew would come and find a place on our porch and we would watch and yell at the participants to give us one last performance. (Because we were the tail end of the route, the performers would be tired and ready to be done, and often, we didn't get to hear the bands or watch the dancers.) As a kid, I always loved to see the different pageant queens and courts. Several of my friends competed and won a spot on the Strawberry Queen Court float.

Following the parade, we could go to the levy and walk through the booths. Mostly artisan booths, crafts, and food. There was a duck race at some point, where they would send hundreds of yellow ducks down one side of the river to the other.

Sunday, our regular route to church was diverted because of a 5 or 10k race.

I have good memories of the Strawberry Festival. And it is sad that the last time I was home, the parade had gotten SO lame. It now mostly consists of people driving in cars with a magnet advertising their business. Other changes over the past couple of years also sound sad. No more bed races. A change of venue from the levy. And because of that, a change of procedure for the strawberry pies.

Luckily, not only is the pie famous enough to have the recipe passed down, it's also famously easy to make. I always try to make at least one around this time for a little reminiscing.

I may never be as good as my mom. But I can certainly hold my own. And you can try, too, because here is the recipe:

Strawberry Festival Pie

Pie Crust:

• 1½ C. Flour
• ½ tsp. Sugar
• ½ tsp. Salt
• ½ C. Oil
• 2 T. Milk

Filling:

• 1½ C. Sugar
• ¼ C. Cornstarch
• 1½ C. Water
• 1 box of Strawberry Jell-O (3 oz.)
• Fresh Strawberries

Topping:

• Real Whipping Cream
• Vanilla and Sugar to taste

Crust: Blend and press into pie shell. Create an edge at the top to hold the pie filling. Bake at 400° for 10-12 minutes or until light brown. Cool.

Filling: Mix sugar and cornstarch, add water and boil until transparent (~2 minutes), stirring constantly. Add Jell-O and return to a boil. Remove from heat and allow to cool. It should be cooled quite a bit before you use it. The filling will do one deep pie, and you'll probably have leftover glaze. Just double the recipe for two pies.

Put berries into cooled glaze and stir, coating evening. Pour into cooled pie shell. Refrigerate to set completely. 

Topping: Serve with Whipped Cream.

I Want to Wear Dad's T-Shirts to Bed Again

When Amy and I were little, we didn't have pajamas. Instead, we raided Mom and Dad's dresser for a t-shirt that we slipped over our heads, and found ourselves wormed through an arm hole by morning. There was one particular, a green, red, and white striped one that said Pepsi across the front that was soft and comfy.

I'm supposed to be putting away my wardrobe, and it's awful. I'm going through one of those "I-hate-everything-I-own" phases.

The fashion industry talks about "spring fashions" and "summer fashions" and things change each season...every. single. year.

I'm still wearing clothes that I had in 2004 when I moved to Utah. Heck, I think I have a thing or two that I still wear normally that I had in high school. I don't even have a "warm weather" and "cold weather" wardrobe. I just have my wardrobe... and I hope that I slim down enough with swimming and walking in the warmer weather, that it isn't necessary to cover everything up with a jacket. My cardigans, I have to keep in circulation, because even though it's going to be 100 degrees, I have to keep my shoulders covered. (Unless I'm in the car. I refuse to be modest while driving in a car with no air conditioning in the heat.)

Life is so much simpler when you can wear your parents' t-shirts as pajamas. Most of my clothes back then came in the form of my cousins' hand-me-downs, or as finds from my Grandma Armstrong's garage selling days. If we hated what we were wearing, it didn't matter. We grow like weeds as kids, and we really will only have to wear in for one season before we are too big for those 80s patterned bicycle shorts.

I have a sneaky suspicion that my dad dressed us this day... that's the only way I can explain the tucked in shirts.

I'd place a fairly large wager on the fact that none of our outfits were purchased new. Probably all  of them are Grandma Armstrong "finds". I particularly love the dinosaur shirt with suspenders that I'm sporting.

Love and Memories Part I

There are some songs that no matter where you are or what time it is, when you hear them, your mind gets transported back to a time or place or just to a person.

Here are a few of those:


(Whitney Houston, Greatest Love of All)
This song takes me back to the house on Frank Street. My mom used to listen to Mix 107.7 and probably a few other stations, and I remember her making Amy and me pancakes and telling us that she was going to be on the radio because she had won some contest. We listened eagerly to hear her voice transmitted over the radio. I can't remember how much she won. There are a few other songs that came out in the early 90s that make me think of us driving around in the station wagon and such.

My best friend in elementary school, Jessica Hobbs, has a few songs that are dedicated to her.

(Ace of Base, The Sign)
We listened to this song while driving to the Miami County Fair. Her mom paid for me to go almost every year, which was SO nice of her, I wouldn't have gone if she hadn't. We went the night where you could buy the bracelets to get on as many rides as your stomach could handle. We rode the tilt-o-whirl until they literally wouldn't let us on anymore, and then Pam would buy us elephant ears or funnel cakes.





We used to listen to Will Smith or Sugar Ray while playing Paper Boy on the Nintendo while eating a cup of Oreos, filled and made soggy by milk, with a spoon.



This was one of the first songs where I learned all the lyrics to. I have a horrible memory, and couldn't remember the lyrics while my friends all sang at the top of their lungs. My memory had room for this song and Torn by Natalie Imbruglia. The two of these songs always take me back to Laura Wharton's house, where we watched Lifetime movies about bulimia and created a baby out of water balloons that we had for a really long time.



And then there was Hanson. Jessica, Heather Ridenour and I had the three boys divided between us, and we all thought they were so cute. I was a fan of Taylor.



To be continued.

Pancakes

When I was growing up, my mom always made us breakfast.

Really, I think she was making breakfast for Dad, and we benefited. She would make scrambled eggs and bacon or French toast or pancakes. Sometimes she made oatmeal with raisins in it. There were waffles. There was rarely cereal.

Around the time of junior high, my sister and I started to get self conscious. We didn't want to go to school smelling like pancakes. We had a good reason, too. Most the time, a friend or person would say that "something smells like pancakes", and we would know that it was us! After all, the hot griddle and the cooking spray made for a  really bad perfume. So we asked our mom not to cook so much. Or to warn us when she did, so that we could walk around the house in her robes, trying to keep the smell off of us.

We were lucky that when we started seminary, our house was close enough to the school that we could swing back by after seminary to eat a quick breakfast and finish putting on make-up or clothes. Friends of ours started swinging by too, and suddenly my mom was feeding our cousins and our church friends breakfast.

Whenever I go home, I like when my mom cooks breakfast. She doesn't do it as often, I don't think, because she has since started working and helping out with a grandbaby, and she is a lot busier than when she used to be. But she knows that I like the pancakes with the crispy edges and my waffles to be a little crispier and that I don't put butter on anything. I miss walking down the stairs and seeing my mom standing by a griddle asking us if we want pancakes or waffles.

This morning my roommate decided to make pancakes for breakfast, and she called up asking if I wanted a couple. Of course, I said yes.

Even though, now, I smell like pancakes.

Let Teachers Teach

In eighth grade, I had this amazing history teacher. His name was Mr. Roberts and he was an assistant coach on the high school football team and helped with weight lifting for many of the other sports teams (I think.)

He was amazing because he made history come alive and while I had always -- and still do -- loved history, I knew several people in my class that didn't share the same passion. But then Mr. Roberts would roll out his own personal stocks and he would put some kid in there for a day. He had his own guillotine, and he used newspaper Halloween masks to perform beheadings of King Henry the VIII's different wives.

For one of my favorite projects, Mr. Roberts placed a crown on his head and declared himself the King of England, put us in companies that were off to settle America and had us write journals as to how we prepared for the voyage across the Atlantic. If we didn't mention in our journals that we had brought dried fruit, he would tell us that we got scurvy. Once we reached the colonies, if we didn't sign a peace treaty with the Chief (also Mr. Roberts, wearing a headdress) then the Indians would poison our water source or burn down our fort. The company that lasted the longest won. We got to name our ships, and I'm pretty sure that we got bonus points if we named our ship after a Beatles reference.

During the Revolutionary War unit, we had to make a Colonial newspaper. I had fun coming up with different Classifieds and writing the obituaries. We had to interview one of the Patriots.

And then in the Spring, class shut down and we didn't do any learning through activities and presentations, group projects and crazy stunts from Mr. Roberts. Instead, we had boring lectures and flash cards, all presenting the information that we needed in order to complete the standardized test that was coming up. Every single one of us hated those two weeks and the test afterward. I still hate standardized tests, because I do not take them well. Mr. Roberts was as stressed as we were. We were yelled at for talking when throughout the year we had done nothing but laugh as we learned.

In Washington D.C. on Sunday, there was a SAVE OUR SCHOOLS rally. Matt Damon flew in to speak because his mother, a long-time teacher, asked him to speak. His speech was empowering, I think, and worth reading.

“I flew overnight from Vancouver to be with you today. I landed in New York a few hours ago and caught a flight down here because I needed to tell you all in person that I think you’re awesome.

I was raised by a teacher. My mother is a professor of early childhood education. And from the time I went to kindergarten through my senior year in high school, I went to public schools. I wouldn’t trade that education and experience for anything.

I had incredible teachers. As I look at my life today, the things I value most about myself — my imagination, my love of acting, my passion for writing, my love of learning, my curiosity — all come from how I was parented and taught.
And none of these qualities that I’ve just mentioned — none of these qualities that I prize so deeply, that have brought me so much joy, that have brought me so much professional success — none of these qualities that make me who I am … can be tested.

I said before that I had incredible teachers. And that’s true. But it’s more than that. My teachers were EMPOWERED to teach me. Their time wasn’t taken up with a bunch of test prep — this silly drill and kill nonsense that any serious person knows doesn’t promote real learning. No, my teachers were free to approach me and every other kid in that classroom like an individual puzzle. They took so much care in figuring out who we were and how to best make the lessons resonate with each of us. They were empowered to unlock our potential. They were allowed to be teachers.

Now don’t get me wrong. I did have a brush with standardized tests at one point. I remember because my mom went to the principal’s office and said, ‘My kid ain’t taking that. It’s stupid, it won’t tell you anything and it’ll just make him nervous.’ That was in the ’70s when you could talk like that.
I shudder to think that these tests are being used today to control where funding goes.

I don’t know where I would be today if my teachers’ job security was based on how I performed on some standardized test. If their very survival as teachers was based on whether I actually fell in love with the process of learning but rather if I could fill in the right bubble on a test. If they had to spend most of their time desperately drilling us and less time encouraging creativity and original ideas; less time knowing who we were, seeing our strengths and helping us realize our talents.

I honestly don’t know where I’d be today if that was the type of education I had. I sure as hell wouldn’t be here. I do know that.

This has been a horrible decade for teachers. I can’t imagine how demoralized you must feel. But I came here today to deliver an important message to you: As I get older, I appreciate more and more the teachers that I had growing up. And I’m not alone. There are millions of people just like me.

So the next time you’re feeling down, or exhausted, or unappreciated, or at the end of your rope; the next time you turn on the TV and see yourself called “overpaid;” the next time you encounter some simple-minded, punitive policy that’s been driven into your life by some corporate reformer who has literally never taught anyone anything. … Please know that there are millions of us behind you. You have an army of regular people standing right behind you, and our appreciation for what you do is so deeply felt. We love you, we thank you and we will always have your back.”
(Via the Washington Post)

Not every teacher I had was amazing. But I can say that I had more good teachers than bad teachers. And I believe I can still name them all. For a long time, I was one of those weird kids that enjoyed school and it was because of these special teachers that loved and believed in what they were doing. For a while, I have debated about whether or not I wanted to become a licensed teacher. If I do, I want to be the kind of teacher that Mr. Roberts was for 90% of the school year. Not the kind of teacher that he had to be in order to make sure we passed those tests. And that was when I was in eighth grade. My sister who graduated just a year behind me, had more tests to take than I did.

As a nation, we can't continue to think that standardized testing is a way to dictate our school systems. It stifles creativity and learning. No wonder the kids of today depend so heavily on video games and the media to provide entertainment.

My Friend, the Pool

The Neighborhood Apartments finally opened up their pool. I've lived here for almost a year, and I didn't actually believe that the pool would ever be open, but I did call a few times... (ok, like four times) and kept asking what the status was. I thought they were just trying to give excuses and were probably going to put it off until next year or something.

But no. On Thursday I got a text from my roommate, first one and then a few hours, another, that said "THE POOL IS OPEN!"

I was sooooo happy, and a little bit surprised and definitely skeptical. But when I got home from the Relief Society Activity that night (we made Halloween cards for the juvenile detention center to send out to family members in October) there was a sign that said that the pool was open!

I happily went and jumped in. Not literally, at first. I'm more of a gradual enter-er.

I've been to the pool everyday (except Sunday) since. And it has been glorious. And I even have a tan. Ok, not a tan. But a tan line! And I smell like chlorine and sunblock. And I wish I were in the pool right now! The pool is a bit small, and it is still really slippery -- Do not lean up against the wall, or you will find yourself unceremoniously on the bottom of the pool and inhaling way more water than you ought to.

On Saturday, we went and bought noodles and rafts. And I hope that they are still there after the summer rainstorm that blew by tonight (ruining my plans for a night swim).

I don't think I have been able to enjoy a pool this much since I was younger and my mom bought us pool passes to the city pool. My sister and I would walk there and spend the entire day over there swimming happily for hours and hours. Even when our lips were blue and the lifeguards were yelling at us to "please leave!" we refused.

There are some songs that still remind me of the days and hours we spent at Troy City Pool. Every time I hear Collective Soul or Savage Garden I'm immediately back to the adult swims where we sat at the edge of the pool waiting to be able to jump in, or at the ghetto snack bar getting licorice ropes or snow cones.



I'm so glad that I have a pool available to me again, and I can't wait to go swimming tomorrow! Eeek! I just love the summer!

Vest Prophecy

When we were little kids, my Grandma Armstrong used to bring us bags and bags of clothes that she would pick up on her weekly garage sale hunting. As younger kids, we looked forward to these bags of "new" clothes with excitement. One never knew exactly what Grandma would find. But as we got older and more self-conscious about what we were wearing and worse, where it came from, we started to be more picky and less grateful for the trash bags of treasures.

My grandma was very crafty. She wore shoes and vests and hats that she had puff-painted and had scads of buttons on everything. One of the things that she seemed to find for me at the garage sales were vests. Lots of vests! I remember particularly the ones that looked as though they had been quilted together and had buttons and bows and such.

My dad told us that if we didn't appreciate the items Grandma gave us, then we had to tell her ourselves. So one particular visit to Lexington, I told her. "Grandma, I do not like vests."

She made me try on her newest find anyway.

"I won't wear this," I said. "I really do not like vests."

And then she made a prophecy that I cringed at.

"You've just got to find the right one," she said, taking the vest from my arms and draping it over the recliner in her bedroom.

I didn't believe her. I swore never to wear a vest again.

I think about that conversation with my grandma every time I put on the black vest I like so much. It is drape-y and forgiving, and kind of cool. And I got it for less than $5. I think Grandma would be proud - although, she probably would have haggled down the price to 50 cents. I thought about it again when this past weekend I found a sheer, crocheted top and flow-y, tiered looking vest that I just had to have. I think it is one of my favorite purchases in a while. Although, I paid more than Grandma would have ever paid for it.

Grandma was right though. It just took the right vest - and for vests to come back in style - before I went against my vow to never put one on again. Who knew that she was a prophetess?

Sugar Ray

If you remember this video, this song or more importantly, this band, then you will understand why Becca and I were so excited to catch them in concert - for free.

Sugar Ray was at the Riverwoods on Saturday night. I was late, of course, and so I missed a lot of the show. I pulled up and parked and When Its Over was playing, I heard some girl say that "some weird Sugar Ray karaoke" was going on. I wonder if she ever figured out that, No, that really was Mark McGrath.

I think I missed most of their original songs. They played a few songs that weren't theirs. And then they did a lot of weird clips (Mark McGrath is a HUGE Will Ferrell fan, to the point where he played a whole song in cow bell) and even longer thank you speeches. He invited two kids up on stage and made them dance around and sing... which was annoying, because they weren't good and they weren't cool.

I'm positive he was on something.

It was pretty cold... but after a while of jumping around in the crowd, and singing and shouting to our heart's content we warmed up.

Sugar Ray planned their exit rather perfectly. They saved Fly for the last song, and then at the very end, a firework show started behind the crowd. There was no time to demand an encore, and they disappeared from stage.

Of course, the whole firework thing was ruined by them playing Katy Perry... I hate her. The concert took a turn into a Mob Dance Party, and that was pretty awesome.

I love 90s music.

Happy Birthday, Mackenzie!

Fourteen years ago today, my youngest sister was born. For the longest time, I wanted my mom to name her Marcy. I've since gotten over liking that name, even remotely, and so I am really glad that my parents went with Mackenzie.

On the morning she was born, my mom's friend Sue came over to take us to school. The hotel that housed El Sombrero had set on fire the night before, and Sue drove us to see the smoldering building before dropping us off.

I loved Mackenzie from the instant I saw her. She was the most ADORABLE, BEAUTIFUL baby I have ever seen. To this day. Her dark curly hair and little button nose was just, so precious.

I am told that Mackenzie is very similar to me. In fact, my dad calls her my "twin." I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Though, as I was told tonight, it is probably not a bad thing as long as she has learned to budget her money much better than I have.

Here's hoping that is true.

I spent most of my teenage years babysitting Mackenzie, and now that she is grown and able to take care of herself (I assume that she is able to...) it's been fun to get to know her as an individual and more mature person. Though, it is still weird to figure out exactly how mature I'm supposed to anticipate. One second, I think I can talk about just anything and the next minute, I'm wishing she would grow up a little faster. Some days, she's just the little girl that could be coerced into "hip-atizing" everyone, and other days, she's the stubbornest young lady.

You would think as the baby of the family, we would have been able to get her to do whatever we wanted her to do. But the truth is - if she didn't want to do it, she didn't. That doesn't mean we never had her sneak us Pringles into our parent's bed while we were watching TV, or get us a drink... but she must have done that out of the kindness of her heart, because she certainly wouldn't have done otherwise. 

Regardless, I really think that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Happy birthday, my darling sister! I love you!

When I was 17

EFY - Age 17

There is a show on VH1 or MTV called When They Were 17. They go through different celebrities and talk about what they were like when they were in high school and what they were doing. Everyone already knows what has been on my mind lately, so it shouldn't be any surprise that I would reflect on what I thought my life would be when I was 25 at the age of 17, and how differently it compares.

Memorial Day - Age 17

Latin Class with Sabrina

When I was 17, it was 2002 through 2003. I celebrated the worst birthday/Thanksgiving of my existence. I lost my grandmother. I turned 17 as a sophomore in high school. I had a crush on Kenny Campbell and nearly every missionary that served in our ward. I drove an Eighty-Eight Delta Oldsmobile of the maroon variety, named Bessie. I took a class at Edison that summer and a teacher told me that my writing was good enough to be published (it's taken me eight years to finally start making that happen). I was also working at Edison and went to school there nearly full-time. My car was stolen. I got it back a few days later. I had my first kiss. I went to the Harlem Globetrotters. I went to prom with TJ Karns. I went to my first party where there was alcohol (I did not partake).

Halloween

I became a senior in high school and applied for scholarships (of which I go two) and BYU (of which I was accepted). I took the ACT twice and got the same score. I tried to have school spirit, and failed miserably. I became better friends with my sister, Amy. I became less friendly with my best friend since first grade.

Basketball season

At 17, my main goal was to go to BYU, graduate in two years and then come back to Ohio - that is, if I wasn't married - and take over Edison. I very much thought I would be married. I don't think that I really sat down and thought about what the next eight years would bring but by 25, my 17-year old self certainly knew the following:

Senior Picture

By 25, I should be married in the temple with at least one child. I would be a stay at home - in a house with a mortgage - mother that had perfected the art of sewing, cake baking and and roll making. My house would be clean. I would be in the young women's presidency and coaching the basketball team. I would have long gotten my degree at BYU in graphic design - in fact, my 17-year old self had a highly different picture of what life at BYU was going to be like. Heck, she had a highly different picture of what her senior year in high school would entail. (So it really shouldn't have been any wonder that things were so different...) But BYU was supposed to bring scores of dates and love interests and experiences. And lifelong bosom buddies with which we would all get married at the same time and have kids at the same time and the kids would play together and we'd go on weekly dates with each other....

And if we needed the money, I suppose I would be freelancing my graphing design knowledge. My kids would be brilliant and funny and highly entertaining and little primary proteges. My husband and I would be attending the temple frequently. By 25, I'm sure I would have traveled outside of the country. I hoped that by now I would be well-traveled. At the age of 17, Italy was the number one country on my to visit list, so we would have gone there first...

Is my life different than what I imagined?

Yes, very.

I wish that I could say that though my life is different that I imagined as a teenager, that is is somehow better than I imagined or more fulfilling than that simple vision I had. Or more exciting. Or worth the wait...

But that's not really how I've been feeling at all...

In an effort to make this post not completely depressing, I do DO have to say that while I'm not world-traveled, I have had the opportunity to see more of the west than I ever thought. I DO have lifelong friends that I love dearly. The only problem with adult friends is that, while they remain your friends, they leave. Marriage. Grad school. Job offers. I have friends dotted across the world now, and while they are my friends and that is just...great...it makes it hard to have things to do on the weekend and you're more playing "catch-up" then you are enjoying the craziness of everyday life and finding joy in the little things in life... Right, anyway, upbeat things. I have a job. I have a car. I have friends... And I'm fairly self-sufficient. I have a new vigor in writing, and am trying to get published and make somewhat of a career of it and for the most part, have received nothing but encouragement.


I'm wondering if my labels are now going to have to include self-pity, because I feel like this post was kind of catering to my frequent pity parties. Ach, oh well...

Basketball Try-Outs

I started playing basketball in third grade. Third grade is when Troy Junior Basketball, the city league allows you to start playing. Or at least, when my parents discovered the league. In any rate, it's when I started playing. I grew up around basketball. My dad played for church and with his brothers and pretty much any opportunity he got. He coached the young men's basketball team. My mom also played for church. Saturdays during basketball season were especially busy, one game after the next at the stake center.

When I turned 12 and was allowed to play on the young women's team, I happily played both on the city league and for church. It was really fun that year. Our young women's team was good. There were so many of us that wanted to play, we had to have two teams. That also meant that we got to play games on Saturday, and legit scrimmages during the week for practice. We had pink jerseys. It was so great!

When I started junior high, I wanted to play for school. My dad played for school. My cousins played for school. I was going to play. But there were a few things to worry about.

In Troy, fifth and sixth graders can be put on the "traveling team." The team gets to travel around and play different teams of the same age in different cities, rather than just remaining in Troy playing against the other Troy girls. You also had to be recruited or try out for the traveling team. But this team always played their games on Sunday. I'm sure that I wasn't good enough to play on the team, anyway, but the fact that they played on Sunday ensured that I didn't even try. But it was usually those girls that got positions on the school teams. It also allowed the different girls from different elementary schools to bond and become friends, long before I had a chance.

Not only that, but Troy offers basketball camps during the summer. I never participated in these. I am sure it was partially because I was the oldest, and my parents didn't know much about them, and partially because we were poor and couldn't afford the fees. (I wore boy's Wal Mart basketball shoes because they were cheaper.)

So, I wasn't on the traveling team and I didn't attend the camps. Those two things combined made it a losing situation when I walked into the gym after school for try-outs. But that wasn't the only thing that hurt me. Basketball season was really the only activity I participated in once it turned cold. I rode my bike and went to the swimming pool everyday during the summer, but for the most part, I was a chunky little kid with zero running ability. I'd half-walked every mile I had to run in gym, and I was incredibly slow. I loved basketball, but I was mediocre.

The first day of try-outs must have been meant to weed out the kids that didn't belong. And before the second drill, I was convinced that I was one of those people. The girls that had been on the traveling team also happened to be the prettiest, smartest - soon to be most popular - girls in the school (in my eyes). The coaches knew them. And I was convinced I would never make the team.

And I was dying.

They had us run! so much during the first day of try-outs, that I was sure I was going to pass out. Why didn't they ask to see our defensive skills? Why didn't they ask us to do lay-ups? I don't know. But they didn't. Instead they made us run. I was slow, and I was last. And I was embarrassed. So in the middle of suicides, long before try-outs were even over, I reached the end of the court, and I ran right out the door. I didn't look back to see the reaction of the coaches, I prayed that they wouldn't even notice. And then I hid until my mom came to pick me up.

I can't remember if I cried or not, but I wouldn't be surprised. I was an overly-emotional teenager. I told my mom that I would not be going back the next day, and she didn't make me.

To this day I wonder what would have happened if I had just stuck it through. Would I have made the team? I'm sure I would have sat the bench. There were so many talented basketball players in my grade. But if I had made the team, maybe I would have had a chance to get better. I definitely would have been in better shape during school with all the running and the eventual weight lifting they have the athletes participate in. It's probably my biggest regret from school.

And yet, I haven't learned. When I am in an embarrassing situation, my first reaction is to flee. Even if the greater good means to stay put and get through it.

Freshman to Graduate

2004

This is the picture that was on my BYU Student ID card for all those many years. I feel like I have looked the same for my whole life, but I once had a teacher who looked at this picture then looked at me with my hand raised in the "here" position and did a double take. So I guess I have morphed into a less naive, more mature type person.

2010

Moving Away

Growing up in Ohio meant that many of my friends were not LDS. And those of my friends that were LDS, always seemed to move away. I've been thinking about these friends - some of which I've been able to get back in touch with and others who seem lost forever - because several of my good friends have moved away this month. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I've been through the experience enough, but it still is sad.

Tawnee Johnson - Tawnee was my best friend when I was a wee little girl. I remember slumber parties at her house, playing mancala and legos (our legos would sleep together *gasp*) and potpourri fights down in her unfinished basement. We would always leave the fights smelling flowery fresh, thinking that her parents didn't know what we were doing. But once, her dad made a comment to Tanner and asked if he was wearing perfume. We tried really hard not to look guilty, but I don't think we succeeded. She had an older sister named Billie, and two younger brothers Tanner and Mac. They would make jokes about Mac being a cannibal when he ate mac-and-cheese. I always wanted Amy to marry Tanner and Tawnee and I would plan their wedding. They weren't allowed to fart at the dinner table, so I distinctly remember Tawnee and Tanner and Mac all getting up and standing just in the door frame of the dining room to do just that.  Tawnee had asthma, and once when we were playing in the basement of her neighbor's house, I had to run back to her house to get her inhaler. I thought she was going to die. When she moved, I was really sad.

Ashley Wright (Belnap) - The Wrights (now Belnaps) were friends of our parents, which meant that we spent many Sundays playing at their house. It worked out well because they had two girls around mine and Amy's age and for the most part we got along great and played all sorts of games like... that one where you pass around something and it is supposed to be a dog bone or a button? I don't remember. Both my dad and their dad played basketball and all of us would go to the stake center and listen to my mom and Donna heckle the refs and cheer for the team, and I just remember that whole family being hilarious...they still are hilarious. Since my parents are good friends with their parents, we would see each other every few years. It was always really awkward at first, trying to reconnect and find the friendship. We were successful nearly every time, though. Once, when they were in Ohio visiting, the four of us girls lay near our bedroom window overlooking the street and shouted things at the pedestrians (likely drunks from the Irish pub we live across the street from). We did this until we thought we were caught and police lights started flashing nearby.

Paige Schwendiman - Paige came later in elementary, just before junior high. We had a lot of slumber parties too, and Amy was friends with her sister Lauren. Sometimes the four of us got along, and sometimes we all fought. And usually, it was the sisters that were fighting and it made it awkward for everyone. When they spent the night at our house, we would play Nintendo...usually Chip N Dale Rescue Rangers. I remember dragging them to the pool and swimming even though our lips were blue. I got really attached to Paige, and when she told me they were moving to California, I was devastated. Even more so that she was excited to be leaving instead of sad that she was going. When I came to BYU, I don't know how, but we found out that we lived near each other and did lunch a few times.

Jessica Bradfield - Jessica was funny. Not in a laugh-out-loud, hysterical sort of a way. But in a, "I can't believe what you are telling me sort of way." She was tall and skinny with long strawberry, blond hair. She insisted that she was a leg model, basketball player for the Dayton Flyers and a bunch of other things that weren't true. We tried to get her to play young women's basketball because we needed the extra girls and she was tall. She also had told us that she played, but when we got down to the details, we realized that it couldn't be true. She told us that she played for a team in Dayton, but she never had to go to practice because, "Her coach understood how far away she lived." She couldn't attend our games because she had games of her own. We finally convinced her to come play, and when she did...she was terrible. Uncoordinated, not aggressive, couldn't defend, dribble or shoot. It was amazingly bad. We did not insist that she play after that one game. Still, she was my one friend in junior high, but at the end of one year, her mom decided that she hated Ohio and they packed up and moved away. We kept in touch through letter writing for a while, but then the letters grew further and further apart and then they stopped.

Jessica Hobbs - Jessica was my best friend since first grade. In fourth grade, we were separated and not put in the same class, and then fifth and sixth the same thing, but we managed to remain friends. We did crazy things. Spent entire summers together. Our houses were interchangeable. We built forts in the "woods" behind her house. We walked everywhere together. Jessica never actually moved, but she did move on. In sixth grade she started becoming friends with another Jessica in her class and that was the start of her expanding her circle. I never needed more than one or two friends at a time, and have never been good at making friends. By tenth grade, she was out going to parties and hanging out with people that I didn't know. She had a nickname, "Headshot Hobbs" which I had no idea what that meant. And then I started hearing rumors about what she was doing... or whatever, and I didn't know how to handle the news. At one point, I thought that Jess would join the church eventually. She came to church, all the dances, the midweek activities, she even came to seminary with me freshman year. I thought that she didn't swear, drink, etc. because she didn't want to, but I guess she didn't do it in front of me. By junior year, I was off to Edison and she stayed at the high school no matter how much I tried to get her to come with me. It was at that point that we really drifted apart. We tried to keep our friendship going, but in the end, it was a lot of work and by graduation, I was done. Every now and again, we will "catch up" on Facebook. But for the most part, I do not see or hear much from her. When we had our falling out (more dramatic for me than her, I think) I thought that I had wasted eleven years of my life on our friendship. But I've since come to realize how special our friendship was while it lasted, and that people grow up and move on, and that's all that has happened with us.

Now it seems like moving is inevitable. Our futures are volatile. Within months we can be accepted to grad school, offered a job, get married, have a baby....etc. etc. And then, gone. Luckily, Facebook and email and texting allows us to stay better connected, and it's harder to lose track of friends even if you still lose the connection that you have before. People change and sometimes all that is left are the memories and good times. 

Missing You

Missing people, things, etc. is a fairly normal thing. We miss our best friend from elementary school that we don't talk to anymore. Or our grandparents who have passed away. Sometimes I miss school.........ok, not really the last one. We miss exes. We miss family who lives far away. We miss family activities and traditions.

But missing things we've never had doesn't really make sense at all. And yet, sometimes there isn't another way to describe the empty feeling. You're just missing....whatever it is.

I miss playing the piano. I've never learned how to play, but I see a piano and I miss playing it. I think I could have been good if ever I had taken the time to practice and to learn how to read the bass clef. I only ever had a handful of lessons and then because of scheduling and moving out to Utah, they stopped and I never really learned how to play anything harder than March of the Fairies.

I miss having a young, fit body. That sounds disturbing, but it's true nonetheless. I haven't been thin since I was about six years old, so missing this...well, it's sort of ridiculous. I've never really been in shape. I have never played sports well because of it. Still, the older I get, the less likely I will ever have such a thing.

And then of course, when I'm laying down at night waiting for sleep to come, sometimes I miss the person who would be sleeping beside me. Someone who would have already warmed up that other side and would curl an arm around me and pull me close. This, I can safely say, has never happened. And therefore is perposterous to miss.

But sometimes you miss things that you have no right, no reason, no experience to miss. And miss it you do. It all comes and goes. I realize that I have great friends to fill the place of that long-lost friend from elementary school. I can't play the piano, but I can enjoy practicing my flute or singing or listening to others play the piano. I play racquetball or tennis and find dresses or something that flatters my body despite my size. And in the end, I realize that I have a fairly full and content life and I don't need to be missing anything at all. (Except my family, who no matter what lives 2000+ miles away and still does family activities without me - of which, I will always miss.)

Remember When?

It's cold outside. But remember how it didn't use to be cold outside? And I could go and lay in the backyard, scantily clad, and bask in the warm sun reading book after book after book. And sometimes I got burnt. Because it was warm. Remember?

I do.

And I really wish that I could go put on my bathing suit right now and lay out and think warm thoughts and read a really good book. Instead, it's freezing. And the grass is frozen. And my knees are frozen. And my arms are frozen. And it's amazing that my fingers aren't breaking as I type this.

Sigh.

I really miss the summer. And even if winter were to magically speed up and it would be summer tomorrow, I still wouldn't be able to lay out and get a tan because I now have a job. A job that I quite like, but still... it keeps me indoors.

But, it certainly helps to remember.

Just my 'magination!

When I have dreams they are easily the most vivid things that come to mind throughout the day. Last night I was talking to Amy and she was telling me a weird dream that she had had and it was very detailed. Very much like my own - when I tell people they usually have a response similar to this: "Also, I do not believe anyone has these dreams." - Kati

But I was thinking. Perhaps our vivid dreams are a direct result of our vivid imaginations we possessed as children. Whereby, as children, we created the Dream Machines.

Dream Machines were complex devices that Amy and I set up on an almost nightly basis where we would repair, modify and program the machines to ensure the best possible dreams. Sometimes the machines needed to be upgraded or if we had a scary or dissatisfying dream, there would be a long drawn out process of trying to figure out what was wrong with it because obviously it needed repairs. This usually resulted in the need to order new parts, which would inevitable be delivered bedside through chutes, tunnels, hydro-powered doors or winged, mystical creature. The repairs could take a while, during which Amy and I would talk about normal, everyday things as if we were really working on these modifications.

All of this was done as we were tucked in our beds, lying on our backs and making the could typing mimics in the air on our wireless keyboard. Everything was completely conjured up out of our heads. We both really loved those dream machines - and I think they have proven to continue to work now that we are adults. Else why would we dream so vividly?

This discussion then turned to the sad state of affairs that the younger generations face. I'm fairly certain that my thirteen year old sister has never conjured up anything remotely close to a dream machine. Part of it might just be that she hasn't had a playmate the way I was blessed to have Amy. We were so close in age, it made it very easy to play and have fun and bounce ideas off each other, and get in trouble...etc. and Mackenzie, for the most part, has had her own room and done her own thing. But the other problem is that generationally, Mackenzie has had Nickelodeon (and not the GOOD Nickelodeon of days gone by) and stupid Disney shows to entertain her. She watches Sponge Bob and youtube. She's never been dependent on her imagination for entertainment, but has insisted on other people entertaining her. Her friends all just want to go and walk around the mall. Whereas, Amy and I were creating and designing paper houses with people that had lives and stories. Even as we aged, we named the giant rock that sat on the river bed and presented offerings to it as we passed by. If it had been washed away, then we knew Gus accepted it. If not, we had to present something greater. There was something ridiculous in the way that we dressed up in sheet togas and covered our faces and then decided to bow to each car that passed us on the street, while chanting "Oh-na. Oh-na."

I don't think Mackenize (or Morgan or Hannah or Rachel) ever thought to do anything as cool as that! And as a result, they are bored. I'm sure I told my mom that I was bored at some point in my life - but now that I am older, I don't remember EVER being bored. We were always coming up with crazy games and stories and adventures. All because we used a little of our imagination. I feel sorry for the generations that are expected to be entertained by poor role models and monotonous laugh tracks on their stupid television shows (that are played on repeat for months at a time).

A little comparison...

I always think about blogging in church. This may sound irreverent, but I don't think it is. Church officials have said that using online tools to spread our testimonies through the web are a good thing, and really, those are the things that I think about. What rings true in the talks and testimonies and lessons that we get through our three-hour church services? Often there is a lot that I want to cover, but by the time I get home and get lunch in my stomach, I've forgotten most of it. But today I wanted to try something fun...or ironic. Or whichever.

First - just a few points that I was thinking about.

• I'm fairly certain that I moved into the ward I did strictly because of the bishopric. I truly feel like they love and care about every member in the ward. I've felt this with most of my bishops and their counselors, but this has resonated true in my mind and heart since the first Sunday. I can't explain it - but I know that when Bishop Robinson stands up and says that he loves us and is there for us... I believe everything that comes out of his mouth.
• I really do not like my new ward. This comes strictly from the awkwardness that I feel in the ward. I know that I need to put forth effort in order to include myself in the activities. But really, the brothers and sisters in my ward are so different. Even though I feel a genuine sincerity in most the girls trying to learn my name, I feel that is all they want to know. They seem nice enough. But... I don't feel comfortable being myself around them. They are all too perfect, seem superficial and there is something about that ward where I just don't feel like I will ever measure up. It's daunting and intimidating. Overwhelming. And not worth my effort. Or it is - and it should be. I am trying to be better. I know it usually takes me about 7-8 months in order for me to feel really comfortable. But I don't know if I have that kind of time. I don't know how long I will be in this ward - and I can't help but count the months until I leave it. Aside from the bishopric, I really don't want to stay.
• The girl that taught relief society today - who almost always does a rather spectacular job, I have loved her lessons more than anyone else - kept referring to our future boyfriends and husbands as "boys." I couldn't help but shake my head. She's admittedly almost 50 (really, she's going to be turning 25 in a few months, but apparently thinks that is close to 50) and wants to marry a boy? Something doesn't seem right to me. I say, we should be looing for men. Men, after all, hold the priesthood. Not boys. Boys attend cub scouts. She also flubbed up today in saying that we should look for a boy that would be a good husband to our children. I'm pretty sure she meant father to our children, but Becca and I snickered anyway. We were the only ones. I think that means that we were the only ones listening.
• My ward is FULL of 25+-year olds. Please tell me WHY they need to have their phones out every second of the meeting. Even sacrament meeting. It may not be a screaming baby, but...it's still not reverent. Also, semi-whispers and talking throughout the WHOLE class is not reverent. But that doesn't seem to disturb our ward members. I don't mind the occasional comment. I like to make a few to Becca myself. But seriously? Just go in the hallway (you'll find half the ward there anyway) and talk if you can't sit and listen to the lesson. It isn't like we are getting the full version anyway. We always get a condensed version because we are always running late.
• Have you ever seen Baptist at Our Barbeque? or read the book? Do you remember the part when the bishop bans singing from church meetings because there aren't any hymn books, and all they have sheet music for is I Heard the Bells? And they sing it for the opening and closing hymn...every week? Picture that and you have our relief society. Only instead of the Christmas song, it is Families Can Be Together, I am a Child of God. Singing is my FAVORITE part of church. And so when I get ripped off by singing the same hymn every week, or they eliminate the closing song because they've run out of time or shorten it in anyway - it makes me really upset. And who wants to leave church upset?

This is turning into something longer than I expected. Still...We were talking about eternal families today and one of the Joseph Smith quotes talked about how he valued the opinion of his father almost more than any others' on this earth. Then the teacher went into talking about our parents and how they are there for our support and to give advice and "know what we are going through" and can lead, guide and aid. I have to agree. My parents are pretty much the most incredible people I know. I love them so very much. I value their opinions (even if I do not always listen or obey...and then I have to eat crow later). I really want them to respect me as a person, now that I am an "adult" and I have worked to maintain a relationship to where I feel comfortable telling them anything and everything. And when I am talking to my mom - I do mean everything. I'm just grateful she puts up with my frequent phone calls.

However, the "knows what we are going through" kind of stuck at me. Obviously, they are my parents. They know a lot about me. They know my situations because I keep them informed. I feel like they do understand my lack of direction. My inability to decide what I want to do with my life. Not knowing exactly what sort of career path I should take. They know what it is like to be frustrated at work. Or whatever.

But one of the things they focused on in relief society (typical) was that our mothers know what we are going through when it comes to dating. And that is just not true at all.

This is where my fun game comes in with my dating history:

At age 16 - I was a sophomore in high school. The only date I can remember was not really a date. I asked a guy that I had crusehd on sinced the first grade out to a movie. I drove. I paid for my own ticket - and I think his. He bought us McDonald's ice cream cones.
When my mom was 16 - She had a steady boyfriend. She had gone on a few dates with other guys in her school before she started dating Geoff.

At age 17 - I went on a few double "dates" with my sister and her boyfriend. Really, we were just hanging out... I had my first kiss with a coworker who took me out on my first real date. As in, he actually asked me. We hung out a lot after that, but never did get around to actually dating, or repeating the kiss.
When my mom was 17 - She was still dating Geoff. I'm pretty sure they kissed.

At age 18 - I did not date. Much. A random pairing off of friends, a blind date set up by a cousin or roommate. One date with a smoker...turns out he was also a druggie and immature. We did not go out again.
When my mom was 18 - She was practically engaged and sending Geoff on a mission. She wrote him, he wrote her back. She moved to Kentucky where her dad had been transferred.

At age 19 - Blind date. After blind date. After blind date. If at all. Usually, not at all.
When my mom was 19 - Geoff wrote her off. Her first (and only) broken heart, of sorts.

At age 20 - Meet a guy I really like but who is preparing for a mission. Two dates. He leaves. We write. More blind dates.
When my mom was 20 - She meets my dad. They date. He kisses her. He proposes to her. They get married.

At age 21 - Still writing boy on mission.
When my mom was 21 - Has first child - me.

At age 22 - Still writing boy on mission. He comes home. False hope flares, but dies down just as quickly. More blind dates. Start making friends with boys who are fun. Determine to go on 9 dates for the year and succeed. Went on ONE second date. No third date.
When my mom was 22 - Enjoying a very poor but happy marriage.

At age 23 - Become friends with boys. Enjoy friendships. Go on friend dates. Have a rockin' good time, but no romances. Crush on several people. Joke with lots of people.
When my mom was 23 - Had second child - Amy.

At age 24 - More or less the same.
When my mom was 24 - Two children. One house. A garden. And a husband who is working and going to school.

When wronged...

I've always liked to think of myself as someone who forgives and forgets. People that hold grudges have always seemed silly to me and the fact that people aren't able to move on - ridiculous.

But as I think about times in the past when people have wronged me, sometimes I can't quite distinguish whether or not I am just remembering past pains and experiences - or if I am really not quite over what has happened.

I was talking with Ashley about a certain past co-worker and I realized that even though it has been nearly 2 years since I've last seen her (not counting the time I passed her on the highway) I still think that she is one of the most immature, manipulative, vindictive, selfish, unprofessional, snobs I've ever met. Even previous good memories are washed out with the fact that this girl has way too much control for her own good - and she knows it and uses it to her advantage.

She deserves to be bi-slapped. She deserves to be thrown out on her hind-end and forced to work for a living instead of trying to run the personnel of her daddy's company. She deserves a good licking on the seat of her pants and probably a slap in the face.

The fact that she is still comfortably sitting at her father's company while others are unemployed is inconceivable. The fact that she is trying to get fired one of the most dedicated, efficient assets to the company is ridiculous.

Although I have tried to think of only good experiences with this particular individual, it is getting harder and harder to do so. I have to acknowledge that I was an idiot when I befriended her. A moron when I spent time outside of work with her. And an absolute retard for ever spending money to go on a trip with her (even if I did get some rockin' pictures from the trip...).

As much as I have tried to let her go, I can't help but think about how wronged I was when I was let go from the company - a fact that even my former boss still finds unfair. I find myself hating her more now than I did in October 2007.

And that isn't how forgiveness is supposed to work.

So, even though I have often prided myself on being someone who does not hold a grudge - pause for Amy and Mom to scoff - I realize that I do in fact hold grudges. I have a long memory for people who have truly hurt and/or wronged me. And I need to work on it and let God take care of the justice. Which is, I think, inevitably what I am waiting for. Where is the justice in getting fired when the girl who got you fired is still working her magic on daddy?

Grandpa

In loving memory of Alvin Launta Armstrong

May 1919 - July 2009

My grandpa passed away today. And it doesn't matter what I write on this post - nothing will do him the honor he deserves as a man, a priesthood leader, a WWII veteran and a father and grandfather.

Alvin Armstrong has been "old" my entire life. He was 15 years older than my grandma and 33 when he got married. Working as a farmer and in various other positions in Kentucky, Florida, Iowa (and who knows where else), along with his experiences in WWII as a flame thrower in the Pacific wrinkled and tanned his skin.

I don't remember having long discussions with my grandpa. My earliest memories put me in the house he's lived my entire life (I think...) where he would have a box of toys, his electric chair, the ridiculously steep driveway and always a container of mixed nuts. With a hug and "Hi, Guy!" we were off in his backyard playing on the swingset and in the beautiful yard that he kept. He always had beautiful flowers around his house. When we were really young, I remember having Easter and searching for eggs around his backyard. I remember playing hide-n-seek with my cousins Jordan and Rebecca. We had Thanksgiving in the back porch area that was added onto his house. One year, while the adults were finishing preparations for dinner, Simon and I were playing with a glass cornucopia that we broke a piece of fruit off of. I'm fairly certain I never told anyone. I vaguely remember ruining his lawn mower, too, but that might have just been because we ran out of gas.

As we got older, my grandpa opened his home to us and allowed my friend Jessica and Amy to stay there without adult supervision. We gave Jessica highlights in my grandpa's bathroom.

My grandpa wasn't known for his healthy eating habits. I'm pretty sure our pancakes were fried, and our bacon extra greasy. However, he did introduce me to Kellog's corn flakes with fresh strawberries and bananas. A favorite to this day. And I have to bring up the mixed nuts again, because I am fairly certain that my grandpa is the reason why I love them so danged much. His corner by the backdoor was always full of candies and doughnuts and goodies.

I also know that my grandpa has helped out whenever he could financially for my family - and for me - and for that, I am so grateful.

Truly, though, my grandpa's greatest legacy are his children. The five boys and two girls that he helped bring into this world are the greatest collection of aunts, uncles and of course, my father, a girl could have. They know the true meaning of family. They know what it means to stick together during hard times. They know what it is to be supportive, and also kick you in the pants when necessary. Bad choices do not affect their unconditional love for you. And I can't help but think that my grandpa helped teach them.

I know that as a backwoods farmer, veteran of a world and Southerner, my grandpa was a hard man. He had some prejudices (I have a pretty vivid memory of my grandpa recounting his money he got from the bank just because the teller was black) and certainly he made some mistakes in his life.

But I will always remember him as a loving, wonderful man. And truly, I will miss him.

To Be or not to Be

As members of the church, we often talk about how we have the answers to life's big questions. Who are we? Why are we here? And where are we going?

Sometimes I like to pair those questions with questions of my own. Who am I? Who do I want to be? And who am I becoming?

I know all the primary/Sunday school answers. So that covers my basic knowledge of Who I am. And it covers the very broad BROAD spectrum of Why I'm here.

But Where I'm going is so closely tied to Who I'm becoming that I don't always know the answers to that.

The more I think about these things, the more disappointed I am with myself. The choices that I've made, the habits I've begun... the path that I'm on. It doesn't really tie to Who I want to be. But the real problem is: I don't know Who I want to be.

Or rather, I do - it's just not possible. Which goes into the question as to Why am I here. Because what I really want to be is some member of the London ton during the Napoleonic wars. Living in an English manor. Looking for a husband by attending balls and dinners and country garden parties. Surrounded by rules of society and fancy ballgowns. And, forgive me, going to Church because it was expected of respectable ladies and not because I needed to renew my covenants. Covenants that I - we all - continue to break because we are human. Instead I would try and become some semi-bluestocking, while practicing the piano or something like that. Enjoying the knowledge of how to ride a horse...

But that's just ridiculous (I'd probably be part of the poorer class, besides).

So, instead I have to think about Who I really want to be. There's a part of me that wants to color her hair in a neon red, and cover her arms with tattoos and have lots of piercings. There's another part of me that wants to really experience the world - travel everywhere. Meet new people. Have experiences that involve all sorts of things. And then there's that other part, the part that I feel where I am failing. Where I become some Biblical scholar and uber-spiritual person. There's not really a way to balance all of those things. And just like with anything else, I find myself on the path to go one way, and then hop on the detour to go another... so many detours that I find that I haven't really gone anywhere at all. I'm stuck in this taboo land. Held back by my lack of discipline, my inability to commit - and really, my ignorance in knowing the answers. Or maybe it's that I know the answers, but I'm afraid of change. Not the change per se, but the actual giving up on everything else.

I remember clearly one seminary lesson where our teacher (Sister Johnson, my favorite) created two paths, they started fairly close together but then gradually pulled away from each other. She had one of the boys - because they were always falling asleep - walk with one foot on each path as far as they could go before they were stretched too far or fell over. That was the object lesson for living a life in Zion and one in Babylon. We can't do both. You can't have a summer home in Babylon... We've heard that analogy. I feel like I've put my summer home up for sale. But I should be abandoning it. Why am I waiting for a sale? Because, who really should be buying it? Instead, it's like I'm waiting. Waiting to fix it up and make it look nice. But it's in Babylon...

I digress. This is what I get for typing a deep post at 3:15am.

Dear readers, I don't want you to think that I've somehow lost my testimony of the Church. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the restored gospel. Were it not for Jesus Christ, we would be lost. But He suffered and died for us. It is why we DO have the answers to life's tough questions. I know we have prophets and leaders and true, inspired scripture to guide and direct. I know that He blesses us, whether or not we deserve it, but especially when we DO he blesses us. But like most, I take what I KNOW and what I DO and it sometimes doesn't add up. And I know that if we allow Him to help us, we can make the changes we need to.

Forgive my ranting. I pray that you will forgive my shortcomings as well.