Onward Christian Soldiers... The War is Here

The world is a more dark, hostile, and nasty place. "That old serpent, which is the Devil" reigns in the hearts of many. People use the power that they have and abuse it, not just in this country, but all over.

Yesterday, I was looking for articles about 76 people who were held by a group of murderous people called Boko Harem (the same people who kidnapped 276 school girls to become brides or kill them) in central parts of Africa. Four of these hostages, their Christian leaders, were killed because they won't deny Christ or their Christian faith. Before anyone else died, people said they saw Christ who told them "all would be well." The assailants suddenly started screaming "Snakes! Snakes!" and one of them dropped down dead. One of the hostages grabbed the dead soldiers fallen gun to shoot the fleeing Boko Harem soldiers when a child stopped him and said, "You don't need to do that. Can't you see the men in white fighting for us?" (ANGELS!! Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love and appreciate angels.) 72 of them, many being women and children, were able to make it out alive.

Sadly, this hasn't been the case for many others. Just from Boko Harem, hundreds of thousands have been terrorized, kidnapped, murdered, and horribly tortured. Many have left their home countries as refugees, seeking safety, and sanctuary.

My heart aches for all of them. I wish I could save them and stop the brutality that Satan has happily influenced.

I know that these aren't the only bad things that are going on in the world. Mass shootings in churches and schools, shopping malls and concerts. Abductions and child marriages/prostitution and abuses of every kind. Things range from national news level to family hostilities and neighbor conflicts. The world is so full of hate and anger and animosity that it makes me sick.

Many many ask, "How can God let this happen?" "How can He stand by and let His children be massacred?" "They believe in Him, why isn't He saving them?" "How can a 'loving' God do this?"

I turn to Alma and Amulek and the destruction that happened to the Christians at Ammonihah:

"9 And it came to pass that they took Alma and Amulek, and carried them forth to the place of martyrdom, that they might witness the destruction of those who were consumed by fire.

   10 And when Amulek saw the pains of the women and children who were consuming in the fire, he also was pained; and he said unto Alma: How can we witness this awful scene? Therefore let us stretch forth our hands, and exercise the power of God which is in us, and save them from the flames.

   11 But Alma said unto him: The Spirit constraineth me that I must not stretch forth mine hand; for behold the Lord receiveth them up unto himself, in glory; and he doth suffer that they may do this thing, or that the people may do this thing unto them, according to the hardness of their hearts, that the judgments which he shall exercise upon them in his wrath may be just; and the blood of the innocent shall stand as a witness against them, yea, and cry mightily against them at the last day." (Alma 14: 9-11)

Alma and Amulek saw the martyrdom of Amulek's family and the other women and children who wouldn't say that they didn't believe in Christ. It is a good chance that Amulek's wife and children were there being thrown into the fire. Oh, how similar it is to the 76 and other martyrs throughout the ages. Some times we are enable to do anything to help those who are suffering, especially when they are across the world and dying for Christ. It is so then they can be witnesses against them to the horrific things that others are doing so then God can judge them accordingly and they will be cast into the place that is prepared for them. It isn't God hates the people who die. Not at all. He's simply calling them home and their test in mortality has ended. It's okay (Sad?Yes, but okay), because this isn't the end of everything.

I remember these thoughts when there was a shooting in Las Vegas in 2017. How 58 people died and over 400 were injured. I remember people asking "How can God let that happen?" Christ isn't going to stop people from making their choices. He's not going to stop them from pulling the trigger, but they will have to stand before their God (whether they acknowledged Him on earth as such or not) with witnesses beyond belief. At which point, I wouldn't want to be them.

But for those "which had not worshiped the beast" but follow Christ and are martyred for Him they will "live and reign with Christ for a thousand years" (Rev 20:4). Those who do, will be well. Those who pass on who may not have known Christ will have the opportunity to learn of Him and draw to Him. There is hope. Eternal hope.

There are those, however, who's test is not done who are still needed for something else. Those 76 people are valiant soldiers in God's Army. A pastor who talked with those 72 surviving saints, "credits Jesus' appearance to the group to the fact that these people knew no other Biblical text to visit. They are all illiterate and thus no access to scripture so Jesus proved it himself." How marvelous and miraculous would that be? Miracles happen all the time if we are willing to open our eyes to see it.

"Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war with the cross of Jesus going on before." It is war and it's right smack dab in front of our faces. Satan is around because he is a nuisance and he hates us with a passion that rivals the heat of brimstone. Satan doesn't give up on you, so we need to double down our efforts to be better and draw closer to God who also doesn't give up on you.

Remember that God loves us. He loves you. He loves me. He even loves those who are choosing poorly, though their choices sadden Him greatly.

We can do this. We can face the fight and with God on our side we will win.

Pioneer Day

Happy Pioneer Day everyone!

For those of you not from Utah let me explain.

Pioneer Day, July 24th, is the day we celebrate the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (AKA "Mormon Pioneers") entering into the Salt Lake Valley and finally finding refuge from the mobbing and harassment they received from every place they gathered. They had the opportunity to go to California, Oregon, parts of Canada instead of Utah. Places that were green and lush and easy for farming, but instead chose Utah because it was a place no one else would want. Dusty, hot, rocky and sandy, covered in brush...

I'm sure many of the hard working men and women who walked into the valley looked at the barren land and asked themselves, "We're stopping here?" I'm sure many of them wanted to go back to Ohio or farther East instead of stopping here in the desert and somehow making it habitable.

Many--many, many--though took up the challenge and relying on the Lord when further hardships came and made this grizzly land flourish. If you go hike up the mountains now and look down at either Salt Lake or Utah Valleys, you will see so much green. So much tilled and usable soil and tall, leafy trees. The Saints who came and their children for generations who worked after them would probably be surprised at how large we have gotten.

So Happy Pioneer Day!

A few years ago, I was in a Non-Fiction Creative Writing class in college. I wrote about my grandpa in WWII and "the Bus Crash," others wrote about accidentally setting fires to a field, motor cycle gangs, family vacations, and other things that happened in their lives. There was one young lady who wrote about how it was hard being in Utah. There are many reasons why people find it hard living here. I know that the culture and "the Mormons" are a big reason people do struggle, though there are many others. This story in particular described how she struggled with everyone's "Pioneer Heritage" and how it made her feel like an outsider. She was a member of the Church, but because she didn't have people from the Willy and Martin handcart companies or come across the plains at all she felt like she couldn't be apart of things. As if she wasn't "Old Money" in the Utah culture.

It was such an interesting take on things. My mind was revealing a little. "It shouldn't make a difference if they had Utah Pioneer blood or not. She is here. Shouldn't that be what counts?" Yes, it should be what counts.

I do have pioneer ancestry, people from the Willie and Martin Handcart companies, wagon company captains, town/city founders, people who had plural wives, and regular farmers. On the other hand, I also have horse thieves and probably some other kind of liars, thieves, and abusers. Just like everyone else. My family tree is just as colorful as everyone else's with good people, great people, normal people, and bad people. People who did hard things, people who gave in to temptation, people who spoke up, people who were silent, people who didn't know better, and many other kinds of people.

Who they were can't honestly change who I am, that is unless I let them.

I am proud that some of my ancestors chose to do hard things and came out stronger for them. Just because I'm proud of them, doesn't mean I flaunt them though. (I think my husband references them more often than I do.) But just because mine are officially in pioneer companies, doesn't mean that someone else's ancestors didn't do hard things. So many hard things happen in everyone's life! Everyone can be a pioneer doing amazing things.

For that one girl in my class who wrote her story, she became a friend of mine on Facebook and I followed her and she did some family history work. And found that her ancestors were from Eastern Europe and found living family because it was only a generation or two back that they came over (possibly during WWI or II) to the USA. She ended up going over to Eastern Europe and meeting those distant relations, gained so many stories from her family, and (I'm sure) found her own versions of pioneer stories.

No pioneer story was ever the same and that's what makes each one special. It's what makes everyone special is their story, official "pioneer" or not.

So, again, Happy Pioneer Day to all the different types of pioneers out there and all the amazingly good things that have happened!

"That's Your Job"

I blame Father of the Bride.

That is as far back as I can pinpoint it to. 1991's Father of the Bride with Steve Martin, Diane Keaton, Martin Short, and Kimberly Williams-Paisley. That particular point in the movie where Annie is about to cancel the wedding and everything because her fiance Bryan got her a blender for a gift instead of something artsy. She didn't want to be seen as a 1950's housewife who did nothing but cook and clean. She was an architect, an artist, a basketball player, a builder, and someone who didn't want to be known solely as "the wife," "the woman," or "the old lady of the house." Annie got upset enough that she was willing to not marry him--part of it was probably do to the stress of doing a super expensive wedding, but that fear and frustration didn't come from nothing. As a character or person, it would have been something she was very much opposed to and scared of as she grew up.

A line like that doesn't come out of nowhere.

And it struck me.

I subconsciously agreed with her although I didn't know what that meant. Annie is amazing. She is an energetic woman, who wasn't afraid to go abroad, who loved her family, loved sports, found a career that she enjoyed where she had the opportunity to create something artistically. These were all things that I eventually aspired to do.

While Annie Banks MacKenzie isn't the only woman to do those things nor my only influence in trying to be strong, my mother loved the movie. As most every little girl, what my mom loved I loved.

For my job, I work at a library, as occasion will promit. I enjoy being surrounded by stories all the time. The people I work with are amazing and sweet and the patrons are over all pleasant. Being a clerk at the library is my job. I get paid to do it and once the hours are done I get to go home and be me. I get to be "Caitlyn" with a side of "Mom" and "Wife" and an ugly veggie called "housekeeper."

With the influence of Annie Banks MacKenzie and the fact that I'm not OCD like people around me, I had no interest in being simply a housewife who cooks and cleans all day every day with vacuum lines on her carpets and mops drying every single day. I hate cleaning, though I like things tidy and being able to walk on the carpet without stepping on a million crumbs of Cheerio's. I dislike cooking. I only do really cook because my husband does work more than me and supposedly people need to eat to survive, or something like that. I do it because it needs to be done and there is not many options for others to do it. It is the obligation, the moral duty, to make sure everyone has something in their belly, I suppose. Again, I don't like cooking. If I can find a way around it with frozen pizza's or very simple "three step recipes" I jump on that band wagon so fast. Are my family foods the healthiest, not at all, but they are fed and they get a side of fruits/veggies enough.

But then things happen.

This year has been the definition of crazy! And it's only April.

I'm only 26... 27... (right?) and my husband's 13 year old nephew came to live with us. (He is twice the age of my own son, whom I know how to deal with.) New chance for a new life. Help my sister in law get back on her feet. Hopefully everyone can take good steps forward. It's good. (Right?) It's what we're supposed to do. (Right?) I can get through this (RIGHT?!)

*sigh*

I have never been more exhausted.

When people ask, "how are you doing?" I can only honestly answer, "I'm okay." The word "Fine" is a four letter 9-1-1 call to me, and "okay" is a few steps above that. For a time I was able to say, "I'm doing better" which was the honest truth. I was doing better than before, though "good" or "great" hasn't been in my honest vocabulary since before Christmas.

I've found white hairs--though only one or two. I've gone to dark chocolate for comfort. I've cried in the shower--and what a weird feeling it is to have the tears run down your face so quickly that they're suddenly gone. I've also had to seriously restrain myself from slapping him across the face do to the sheer amount of disrespect I've thrown in my face. I've even yelled--for those who know me, know I'm a quiet person and it ends up taking a lot for me to become violent or yell. Broken hearts, I got that--though I did really want to take a baseball bat to my best friend's ex-boyfriend when they broke up, but I didn't so I controlled myself. Screaming 6 year olds, handled. Financial stress, we've paid my tithing so we'll be okay. Job loss, annoying but manageable for the most part. But the disrespect and being sworn at to my face because you know I don't like it, tips my scales. I yelled and shaking with adrenaline coursing through me wanted to backhand the kid.

The situation was dealt with for the most part and I cried. I ate chocolate with a side of eggs and toast and I cried. The only was I was able to keep composed enough until my husband got home was by talking with my friend who lives with us.

I don't like being violent. To protect myself in elementary school from the boys, I bullied them until I realized what I was doing then did a 180 to where I'm more passive and let things slide more than I probably should.

 I hate crying. I won't watch some movies or read some books because "I don't cry pretty" and it is exhausting.

Those are the big things, but then there are moments where the disrespect is subtle. Eye rolls. Word jabs. "Whatever." Blatant disregard for the rules. The list goes on.

The one that has irritated me the most, though it was such a "little thing" and the situation didn't escalate to a huge blow up, was on a Sunday. Sunday's are bad anyway because it's church, ties, white shirts, slacks, no phones in the chapel, no hats in the chapel, people who are staring and judging (though they only look at him because he sticks out like a sore thumb by wearing all black, hoodies, and steps out into the lobby for most of the talks given), and the number of people in general. I get comfort zones. I get anxieties (believe me the white hears I have isn't from walking through a field of tulips). I get not like talking to people and that feeling judged is a thing (I feel it too dude). But, to sound a little southern here, "He needs Jesus."

Anyway, this particular Sunday we got back from church and I made food for my son--it was Fast Sunday, so I didn't eat. My nephew asked if I could make him a sandwich too because I was making one for my son. Sure, it's just another slice of bread and the knives are already dirty. He later comes in, after finishing his sandwich and gets a bowl of cereal. Okay, it's 4:00--an hour and a half after he ate last--sure, I guess. I end up getting other foodstuff for my son who can't prepare it himself. 5:00 when I start making my own food to break my fast. The conversation went something like this:

Nephew: "Caitlyn, would you make me a grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"

Me = exhausted (Sunday's just make me tired, but then dealing with kids all day already is more exhausting) and slightly hangry. Making anything is more than I want to do. "No, I'm not doing grilled anything. It's too much work right now."

N: "Come on. It's just a sandwich."

Me: "Then you make it because all I've done is made food today. I'm done. If you want it, you make it."

N: "But it's your job." He starts walking away, looking at his phone as if I'm going to do it anyway.

Me with a raised finger and my voice got deep: "It is not my job. You have your own hands, do it yourself."

N: *nothing because he's not listening at all and is now in the other room*

My friend, who lives with us, and I stare at each other. Did he really just say that?

The conversation died as they do in real life. This part isn't part of a book where the dialogs go on forever and things get resolved within 300 pages equating three days. I had no words to come back and stand my ground with. Vocal words often don't work for me--it's why I write, to get my words out in the way I need them to without the interruptions that conversation gives.

But no, that is not my job. Being a cook and clean is not just the "woman's place." Losing myself to the 1950's title of "wife and mother" with its complimentary pearl necklace was never something I wanted, first given predominantly by Annie Banks MacKenzie. I want and am my own person who's job is to work at a library and help patrons get their books. I don't get paid for cooking and cleaning, for making sure all of the stupid math homework and literature assignments that didn't get done in class are done. I don't have to do all those things. I could stop and see how well my household, mainly my nephew, floats on their own. It is not my job where I will get fired if something fails. If it was a thing to get fired when I failed at "wifery" I'm sure my cooking skills, banking skills, and not-wanting-to-talk-to-people skills would have gotten me fired a long time ago. It's not going to happen.

***

To my nephew: it is not my job to remind you to eat lunch, so then you won't be "starving" by the time 5:00 hits and there is still another hour til dinner. It is not my job to put your clothes away. It isn't my job to remind you to make your bed. It isn't my job write 15 emails a week to your teachers asking what homework is today because you "forgot" to write it down for the third month in a row or because you were goofing off in class and didn't do the assignment or didn't turn it in.

My back hurts from bending over backward for things that you should be able to do on your own. You want to not be treated like a six year old, than act like you should. You don't want to lose your phone again because of bad grades, then turn in your completed assignments. You want me to stop hovering over you telling you that you have four other assignments that were do last week that you didn't do because you were talking, you want me to stop making you do more homework on stuff you've already completed, then do your work at school like your teachers are asking you to.

Call me harsh, but the world is not an easy place. If you acted this way in a job in forgetting paperwork constantly or disregarding the rules, you would be fired so fast.

I don't deserve to be disrespected, mistreated, sworn at, and emotionally abused while I'm still bending myself in knots trying to help you stay a float and not drown. No one deserves that kind of treatment. And if you don't stand on your own two feet in this four foot deep pool, I'm not going to take another knock to the head because you're thrashing and drowning us both. My husband and I will wait until you've practically drowned yourself in water that you could stand in before we step in and if need do CPR if need be. But, dude, I'm not taking elbow to the face anymore. All you have to do is to listen to us while we're telling you to stand up.

***

In reality, I highly doubt he'd read this. I doubt many people will ever read this because my following is so few, which is actually okay. I've written this down in my journal, but somehow it feels like the possibility of more people reading it gives it more strength, relieves me a little of all the frustration and tension, and in the end will give me more words to say when the stress inducing conversations happen.

Please, dear few readers, try to not see me as an abuser in that we'd let him "drowned." Repeating the 7th grade or losing his phone or XBox for the summer or whatever other natural consequences happen because of his actions are more natural than harsh. He's been told and has been given a plethora of opportunities to excel with many people bending over backwards for him--his math teacher took time out of her Spring Break to meet us at the library to help him with a test he bombed. She didn't have to, but she was willing to in order to help him succeed. She is an amazing teacher. Most, if not all, of his teachers are. He's been given chance after chance after chance only he refuses to open his ears and take off his rose colored lenses and realize just how much leniency we've all given him.

***

It's exhausting and so often anxiety filled, but one or two good things have happened because of all this.

My husband and I have drawn closer and closer together and my testimony of prayer has abounded. Johnathan has been there for me and has come to my defence so often when my nephew is being verbally hostile. When I'm crying I've been comforted by him so much as well as the Spirit. God and my husband have been my constant companions. Without them I wouldn't be able to get through this at all. I'd be broken on the floor, curled in a ball, and unable to do anything.

I'm so grateful for my husband and for God and for my son who, when he sees me upset, runs up and gives me hugs and kisses and is so willing to cuddle. All of them. I'm grateful for all of them.

But, man, this year has sucked and so often I just want to sleep.

Ask, And It Shall Be Given You

In the KJV, Matthew 7:7-8 says, "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened."

This whole morning I've been asking things of God. Please bless this food that it will nourish my body. Please bless my husband with safety while he is working. Please bless me with patience (as my son is practically yelling in my ear) throughout the day. And so on as the normal morning routine goes. Then I remembered that today President Nelson was going to speak and I really wanted to hear what the new Prophet had to say. I tuned in as my son was finishing his breakfast and listened to Elder Christofferson relate to us who the new First and Second Counselor to President Nelson would be. My prayers and love go out to President Dallin H. Oaks and President Henry B. Eyring. The joy of the Lord was on all of their faces. Their countinances were bright and full of love.

As they spoke, I listened to President Eyring say that he knew that the men round him were called of God. In a quick, half-thought out idea of a prayer I asked if they were called of our Father. As Eyring continued to speak, I gained that confirmation. These are men of the Lord who are directed to lead the Christ's Church on the Earth today. These men are prophets, seers, and revelators for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Days Saints. They will lead and guide the church as the Lord sees fit. The Lord will not let them do anything that is contrary to His Will; if they were to try, they would be removed before they had the chance. Though I know that they wouldn't even try, because they love the Lord. You can see it in their eyes. Unlike many other leaders around the world in different capacities who have ulterior motives and are constantly trying to get gain, these men want all people to know the love and light of Christ.

Over the past few years since President Nelson became President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I feel we've gotten to know him more. He's spoken more often, or so it appears to me, in Conferences and his addresses have hit me more at my core than in previous years. (This might be do to some lack with I have, which very well might be, at which point I apologize.) But even before he became President of the Quorum of the Twelve, he always seemed so happy, so positive, and loving whenever he spoke or was out amongst people. His smile is contagious.

I believe there are big things that will be happening in the coming years. Some strenuous many positive, but all, hopefully, moving us forward to Christ.

Not only was this a spiritual morning listening to the new First Presidency and praying for spiritual confirmation there, but vigorous, frightened prayers were said for a good twenty minutes. My experience might sound silly, but that I guess is what makes this experience even more of a miracle to me.

I have had the same computer for nearly eight years. It was my first big buy after my first car and has lasted well past that car. My computer had a name, it was silly and now I don't even remember what it was, and it graduated college with me. I origionally bought it for two reasons, school papers/other writings and games. I wanted a big screen with a ten key. It is simple and honestly hasn't changed much over the years. No stickers are on it's screen, my nails have scratched the paint on most of my keys, a few of those self same keys have fallen off a time or two but have been masterfully put back on by myself, and where my hands rest next to the mouse pad are small pock marks where the fancy swooping design has worn away. It has been well loved. I even got thinking about it and if there were a fire in my house, after making sure my family was safe I'd have to make sure my computer was safe also.

So as you can understand, I have quite an attachment to it and the things in it's programing. I have my writing here (and backed up in other places--ALWAYS BACKUP YOUR FILES!!!), I have my games that practically don't work on any other system, and I have pictures from the last seven and a half years. So many adventures and moments that happen that I can remember with fondness about. It would cost me hundreds of dollars to get all of the pictures I've taken printed and many hours sleeving them in photo albums.

This morning after hearing President Nelson and his counselors talk, I was trying to get my son ready for school and he tipped my drink over knocking it into my computer and scriptures which I'd been reading. Neither were drenched, thank goodness. I picked up my scriptures and quickly wiped it off before seeing that my computer had droplets on it too. My computer started freaking out. Instead of the desktop picture I have of my husband and I on our wedding day, white, green, red, and black lines creeped across my screen until it automatically shut down. I, of course, flipped a lid and sent my son out of the room to get his socks and shoes on like I'd been telling him to do for the last two minutes. I grabbed my can of pressurized air (to rid the keyboard of dust) and sprayed where I thought would help the most, all the while still standing in a giant puddle of pink soda on the floor. I moved my computer away from the popping puddle of soda on the table and sopped up the mess with a towel. My phone run its alarm to remind me that my son needed to get to class and I left the mess on the floor  as I walked out the door.

Walking out to the car was the most solemn I've seen my son. He definitely realized that he'd done something wrong that not only a half heart "I'm sorry" would fix things. I was still irritated and told him I was mad which made the ten minute car ride to school very quiet.

All the while I prayed that my computer would be alright. Not only would we not have the money to replace it, but what of the photos? I have my most cherished ones printed already, but what of the other good times? Please don't let them be lost. Please fix my computer.

We just turned down the road to my son's school when he said he was sorry again. By then I had calmed down enough to tell him I was sorry too for being so angry. I told him I knew it was an accident and that I knew he didn't mean to spill the drink. Hopefully it'll be okay if it takes a break.

"We're both sorry," he said.

"Yeah, dude. We're both sorry."

I got him out of the car and gave him a big hug. He still looked distressed even when one of his friends started calling for him as we crossed the parking lot. As little boys do, when he started to play with his friend he got happier forgetting about being sad for a moment until we got inside and things slowed down again and he remembered he was sad. I again gave him a big hug and told him I loved him, kissing him on the forehead before I left. I will do something very nice for him when he gets home, don't worry.

When I got him, after more prayers that was mainly repeating the word "please," I started up my computer again it worked perfectly fine--as this is what I'm typing on. Prayers of gratitude spilled from my lips as everything started up normally. I cleaned up the floor, which was still popping with pink soda and finished my scripture reading.

The moral I guess, is that I know that prayer works. Fervent, heartfelt prayer to know if President Nelson is a Prophet or for a miracle to revive my computer, big things and little things will be answered by the Lord. If you earnestly ask, you will be given an answer; if you seek for a blessing, a miracle, you will find it; and if you knock on the Lord's door He will open it and more miracles, blessing, and answers will fall on you that "there shall not be enough room to receive it" (KJV Malichi 3:10).

"Behold my beloved brethren, remember the words of your God; pray unto him continually by day, and give thanks unto his holy name by night. Let your hearts rejoice" (2 Nephi 9:52).

The Lord is listening and watching out for us. He loves us and gives us Prophets to help guide us. He also gives us our own revelation if we ask and listen for it. Let your hearts rejoice and remember to be thankful for the many blessings He gives us every day.

God bless you President Nelson, President Oaks, and President Eyring. I love you and sustain you.






Picture from:  https://www.lds.org/church/news/new-first-presidency-speaks-to-members-worldwide?cid=HP_TU_16-1-2018_dPAD_fMNWS_xLIDyL1-A_&lang=eng

Perfection: The Murderer

Perfection is a murderer.

I saw a Christmas Card from a friend which says: "All we want for Christmas is you to think we're perfect." Why the heck would you want that? Why would you even say that? Isn't there enough keeping up with the Jones' going around anyway and all it leads to, really, is exhaustion and bruises on your self image. This really bothered me, and bothers me still. On a Christmas card? Really?

The idea of being "perfect" kills people.

There is only one person who has or will be perfect and we are not Him. We can be "perfect" in Him and it is the only way we can return back to God, but Christ's "perfect" is different than what the world sees as "perfect."

The world's perfect is false. There is no true foundation for it. What does that even mean? "Perfect."  Depending on who you talk to there will always be someone else's ideas on perfect. Are you the perfect 1950's housewife? Are you the perfect Muslim woman, Mormon woman, perfect student, perfect house keeper, cook, baby sitter, the perfect working mom...? Are you the highest person in the company? Are you making gazillions of dollars because you are the man no company can live without? Do you have a beard? Are you clean shaven? Are you feeling enough? Are you tough enough? What the heck!?

I was actually just watching "Mona Lisa Smile" and they actually exploring the 1950's housewife and stigmas of girls while they were actually going through college. They were being taught poise, how to sit and stand, and home ec classes so instead of going off to be a lawyer instantly getting married and having babies.

(Disclaimer: I believe families are the most important thing there is. I would love to have a large family with many kids and I enjoy being a stay-at-home mom. I went to school and graduated college and use my degree in a non-work environment and I enjoy it. I love my son, I love my husband, I love being able to be myself and being okay with that.)

 Am I a 1950's house wife, not in the least. Seeing that experience from a friend who is a generation older than I am and was abusively raised to be the type of wife where every single spot in your house must be polished, dishes in the sink don't exist, dinner on exactly when then husband gets home,  where you iron your husband's shirt--because apparently he can't do it himself--, etc. And seeing how she has no life after her kids left because she was so enthralled in her children's life that she couldn't find time to be/find out who she was on her own. It is heartbreaking. That ideal, that image that women especially are always put up against, weather intentional or not.

Men are as well. All men, it seems, are supposed to be in a white-collar job, "bringing home the bacon." Where it is unsightly to have a janitorial job or work with your hands. You aren't as awesome as those in business suits. (Completely false statement!!) Men are still pressured to be successful and make a billion dollars a year otherwise they are seen as worthless. They aren't "perfect."

Ugh, I hate it.

I don't want to be seen as "perfect". It is overrated.

Sure it's good if dinner turns out well and to have a tidy enough house at the end of the day. My house is lived in, not some museum. My house is warm with love, most of the time. Are there ants currently on my floor because I can't freaking get them to go away? Yes. Is my apartment small? Yes. Are there times when there is only $5 in the bank for nearly a week until payday? Yes. Are there times when we only survive because of tithing? Absolutely! It is the only way we've survived for most of my life. 

God has taken care of us because we try our best. To be honest we could be better. But we are working on it. Striving to be better than we are now is not the same as striving to be perfect. God knows our potential. He knows what we can do when we are at our best, but he also knows what we can do now and will work with us. He will work through us.

I want you all, the whole world to know, you are loved. I don't know you, but I love you. I want you to do better than you were yesterday. Not perfect. Better, until you can reach your best. Don't let the idea of "perfection" murder your self-esteem, because you are beautiful. Keep working. Be diligent. Everyone can work to be better. You can be better.

The Curl

When I was about eight, I made a horrible dissension: I should get a perm. My father permed his hair so then it would be really curly and stick close to his head. And I wanted my hair like that, thinking I'd look like Shirley Temple or that tall, pretty girl with her naturally curly hair that looked amazing. I, being a girl who preferred to play outside and not get my hair brushed because we had a death brush that stabbed into my head like nails to my scalp, thought it would be low maintenance because my fathers was low maintenance. I was completely and utterly wrong.

My hair previously had a pretty wave to it; I did have bad 1980's bangs that on school picture days with more hairspray in it than it would have for the rest of the year. But perm on top of 80's bangs was a bad thing for a low maintenance girl. For the next year, my hair was frizzy. Poofed out by the death brush and tied into pony tails.

After my hair grew out and was cut back (which we even took pictures of at the salon, it was a momentous occasion), my hair was never the same. I slowly became a brunette instead of the dish-water blond I had been. Instead of the light wave I'd had that would work in curlers, it was still curly--though not as bad as the perm. I'd learned how to straighten it with the blow dryer and iron. I finally started figuring out that doing your hair, more than just a brush through it, in the morning was important for my self-esteem and that there were other things I could do with it on my own other than a ponytail at the nap of my neck.

In high school as I became aware of the hair products I could use, I would mousse my locks so then it would stay curly--though it was so stiff with the mousse and hairspray that it looked like I'd just stepped out of the shower even though it was dinner time and I'd just gotten home from school. My giant head band with long fabric tassels with my waterlogged hair was what I did my 10th grade year. Senior year I discovered hair dye. Stick straight hair with bleach blond high lights was everything even through the first few years of college.

All in all, I tried to keep my hair as maintenance free as I could while also giving me that bit of a self-esteem boost that girls crave for. If a girl has a bad hair day because it doesn't lay right, everything else seems to go wrong.

But now it seems my hair is still recovering. When I got pregnant, my hair was luscious, thick, and amazing! I could try anything and it worked. Hormones and pre-natal vitamins were the best. But then my son stole my curls, stole the thickness, and body that it once had. My body, as everyone's does, changed dramatically as well. It seemed to like keeping the fifty pounds I'd gained while my son was growing in me, so it stuck around. Right after he was born my hair was nearly stick straight and flat as could be. My mousse didn't work. Pony tails made my face look huge. And only rarely did I find that I actually liked my hair.

Everything always seemed to go wrong with it every time I had something important to go to, which wasn't necessarily often with a newborn/toddler/young child. I went to work, to school, and was home with family with hair: "done," make up: simple though sometimes with too colorful eye shadow, and often mismatched socks (though that was intentional).

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Quick side note: I remember one day in my fiction writing class and listening to the only high-maintenance girl in the class was complaining. I'm so glad I missed out on the roommate drama in college. Her super busy life with roommates and the drama that ensued from them, made her enable to finish all of her make up. The only thing she was able to put on was her foundation, eye liner, and mascara before she left the apartment for classes at eight. I turned to my friend who sat next to me, a mom, worker, and student like myself, and we both rolled our eyes. That is all I ever put on, I was thinking to myself. I could tell my friend did as well. We were lucky to be able to have the time to put foundation on. Some days it was eyeliner (if we were lucky), mascara, and a brush through into some kind of pony tail. Her's was the hair that was always braided in some intricate knot or with just the right amount of body to it. She looked great, even though she was rather annoying whenever she spoke which was normally a self-centered conversation.

She spent a lot of time completely on herself, on her hair, on her endless workout routines, and the boy and girl drama the surrounded her, that I don't think anyone really liked her in class; I know I didn't care for her.

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As my son has grown and now that I'm not in school anymore and work is only occasionally, I've let my hair do its own thing. I hop out of the shower and don't instantly go for my hair dryer and straightener. I, more often than not, skip the make up in general. Partially because of time and partially because my son doesn't care. He seems me as his loving mom. I dress up for my husband and for myself on occasion whenever we go out. He loves me with or without it on, with or without my hair done a certain way. It's interesting though, as I've cut his hair and his curls have faded slightly, I've gotten mine back. They're returning with time.

It's nice though, to have my hair work with me. It's not something I need now. My hair is becoming curly again like it was back in high school, slowly. The other day, I let my hair air dry and the parts the framed my face curled nicely without me having to touch it too much (the rest of my hair was flat or frizzy, but baby-steps; it'll get there). It'll be in its pony tail one day, curly the next, straight from the iron two weeks from now. Many ladies have one hair-do and one only, but what is the fun of that? Some days there seems to be almost no choice, while others you have the most choices in the world and pray that your hair works out the way I envisioned it.

Closet Memories

Recently, I was spring cleaning the closet in my bedroom. Filtering through clothes that hadn't been worn within the last year, shoes that had become too beaten up, papers that had been stashed away. I finally gave up on those pants that were from my high school years that, at the rate I'm going, I will never fit into again. All of the items I went through had fond memories attached to them. But I got rid of three garbage bags full of artifacts that had were really only memories.

My sister came over to see if there was anything she wanted before I took them to a thrift store. She happily snatched my high school jacket that had made me look like a punk/emo kid because it was "in" and she'd wanted it for years. When I told my husband I'd given it to her, he got sad because he like it on me. Apparently I look too much like a "mom" non with "mom jeans" and the "mom hair cut" (my quotes not his), and I don't look like the cute little I was six years ago. And you know, it's okay. No, I don't appreciate the pouch of baby fat that still clings to my stomach, the fact that glasses are much cheaper than contacts, or that I can't get my hair highlighted really more than once every two years--going darker is much easier and going all blonde would look awful. But it's okay. Honestly, I'm alright.

My birthday is coming up next month and I'm actually starting to feel like "Mom" and it's not a bad thing. I'm not the little girl I used to be. Adults talk with me like an adult! I'm not some punk teenager who knows nothing about anything. I've done my taxes. I'm not afraid to call someone in the government or around my community--though dealing with bureaucracy is annoying.I've kept another human being alive for four years! That's something right?

I've done things relatively recently that I would have never been able to do when those jeans had fit. My hair may not be as blond, but I did finally get my curl back from after being pregnant (my son stole all of it for two years). I graduated college and have been published. I've had more thoughts for more poems and novels than I ever have, and their only growing.

But getting rid of the old clothes and airing out the moth memories to make way for the new adventures wasn't the only thing that was enlightening. I found old stories that I'd written way back in the sixth grade when I started writing what is now known as "Angela's Story." (It now looks nothing like what it did back then.) I found "Rebecca's Letters" that and clips of "Cassy's Story" when she was "little" in my mind. The nostalgia was intoxicating and I couldn't help but laugh and remember those good times. These stories, making them, reading my friends', and having pirates get drunk off of fermented Root Beer, These were the things I want to remember. Not my jean size. Not the aches of high school or of the hurt of friends. These stories and the happy stories behind them  are what really matters. They are what I kept. You never throw any of your writing away, no matter how horrible and bad it is, keep it because you will see how you've grown, how your penmanship has changed.

Whatever journal or blog or cuneiform script you have, you're writing holds so many more memories than most of the things hidden in your closet. And these are more often the dearer ones too.