I Don't Need to Pray

I transferred my collegiate path to Brigham Young University Idaho (BYUI) about a year ago. This choice was by far the best choice financially, and that was my top priority. Earn an education without going into debt. Check and check. Because BYUI is owned by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I quickly realized that online gatherings were different than those I had become accustomed to. For instance, an opening and closing prayer is said at the beginning and end of each live online class. So, I would sit in my bed, wearing my Comfy, AirPods in, praying with my classmates, feeling very annoyed. I wasn't in college for religion! I went to church on Sunday for that! I did not have time for this! Move aside prayer and get on with it. Because our assigned groups consisted of students from all over the world, it was difficult finding a common time when all participants, from various time zones, could be present. Twice, on the same day, I had meetings scheduled via Zoom while I was at work. I hesitantly put a sign on my office door letting my workmates know I was busy, closed it, and logged into my meeting. Of course, the meeting officiator called on someone to say the prayer. I half-folded my arms, pretended to close my eyes, and squeamishly tolerated the prayer while watching my office door to make sure no one was outside. I had a window next to the office door so even with the door shut someone could easily look in and see me praying. That bothered me. The class went on, we said a closing prayer, and I logged out as quickly as possible. Hours passed and it was time for my second class meeting. Most of my colleagues had left for the day but there were still several people walking by my office. I again closed the door, hung a sign alerting people I was in a meeting, and logged in to Zoom. The whole time I was cussing in my mind, "This is so stupid. I don't need religion, I need an education. I don't need this." Just as I finished my selfish and prideful rant , I had a distinct thought, "You need this." I was still irritated. "No, I don't." After sixty minutes, the class adjourned with a closing prayer. I folded my arms, bowed my head, and asked myself what I would expect if my children were in my situation. I decided to actually close my eyes this time and listen to the prayer. The thought came again, "You need this." Like a palm to my forehead, it sunk in. I had been acting like a selfish child. I was proud. I was independent. I didn't want others to know my business. But, I need more prayer in my life, and Heavenly Father knows me well enough to know that I'm not going to go looking for it on my own. Stop complaining, keep praying, and get over yourself. You need this.

The Question That Stumped Me

Twelve years ago. Paige 9 years old, Gracie 7 years old. PAIGE If bees have the fertilizer for flowers to make them grow, and moms have the seeds and dads have the fertilizer, why can't Aunt Trissy grow a baby? ME (thinking...good question...followed by a simple explanation) GRACIE So, if you need the fertilizer from the dad and the seed from the mom to make a baby, how does the fertilizer get to the seed? ME Well,...(providing an age appropriate and anatomically correct explanation of sex)...that's how. (Man, this is easier than I expected.) GRACIE (looking confused) So, what position did you and dad do it in?"

I Forgot to Take My Kid to School

I forgot to take my kid to school yesterday. I truly forgot. I got out of bed around 7:00 am, showered, got ready, and headed out the door by 8:00 am. I made my regular stop at Maverik to get my Dew and Twix for breakfast, then I drove to work. I was listening to my Audible book, (Atomic Habits by James Clear), eating my breakfast, and enjoying the ride. It was a typical morning. As I pulled into the parking lot of work, something clicked in my brain. Emmy has school. Emmy is home asleep in bed and is supposed to be at school in 30 minutes. WTH?! Are you freaking kidding me?! How did I forget that? I immediately turned around and headed 20 minutes back to the house where, sure enough, she was snuggled in bed. I woke her up and told her she needed to hurry and get up so she wouldn't be late for school. She asked why, so I explained that I had forgotten to take her to school, to which she replied, "You forgot me?!" Yes, yes I did. How did I do that? What is physically wrong with my brain that something so routine, so huge, so habitual slipped my mind? Either way, it was mom for the win. Not only did Emmy make it school on time, she made it there five minutes earlier than she had been the day before!

Smoking in the Church Parking Lot

I went to a funeral last week at a church building for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I arrived at the viewing early in hopes of beating the crowd, which I did, and as I returned to my car after visiting the family, I realized that I had nearly two hours until the funeral started. I decided that rather than waiting in the parking lot I would leave for a bit. As I drove towards the street I noticed two women nearing the church. They were both wearing black shirts and dark baggy jeans. They had closely shaven hair, gauged ears, and several tattoos. They stepped onto the sidewalk hand in hand and prepared to enter the building. An hour and a half later, I returned to the church, parked my car, and crossed the parking lot. My attention was quickly drawn to two people smoking cigarettes in the middle of the parking lot. It was the same two ladies. I smiled at them as I got closer and then dropped my eyes for fear they'd think I was staring. They were a unique pair considering the setting and event, and they intrigued me. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints believes that marriage should be between a man and woman. They also believe in the Word of Wisdom, a commandment to abstain from tobacco and other harmful & addictive substances. I am an active member of the Church and believe in its teachings. Before I knew any better, I was walking straight towards the ladies. As they saw me coming they lowered their cigarettes. I smiled and introduced myself and we chatted about the funeral. I noticed that they wore wedding rings. All I could think about was how much I admired them. They were so transparent, honest, and incredibly brave. I was envious of their confidence and have wondered since if anyone else talked to them that day. Those two women walked into a church building that teaches contrary to their own beliefs. They spent three hours surrounded by strangers who, although polite, were likely judging them, yet they stayed. They were brave and authentic. The lessons I learned from them weren't about how we were different but more about how we are the same. We're all human trying to do our best. Life is scary. People are mean. We all have different ideas and beliefs. And that's okay! Why isn't that enough for some people? Wouldn't church buildings be better if lesbians and smokers felt welcomed and loved in spite of our differences? All I know is that I am a better person because I happened upon two ladies smoking in the church parking lot.

My Journey to Motherhood

March 20, 2022 marks 21 years since one of the greatest, most painful, humbling experiences of my life. Paige’s birth. I was 19 when Brian and I married. Six months later we were expecting our first child. I was so excited to tell Brian that I was pregnant. I’d hoped he’d react like Charles on Little House on the Prairie. He would cry and hug me. We would laugh and smile. It would be perfect! Nope. Not real. He opened the card I had prepared for him which read, “Congrats! You’re going to be a dad!” He looked at me and said, “Oh shit!” I gained 50 pounds during that pregnancy. I was huge. None of my shoes fit. My toes looked like baby carrots. I think Brian and I were both wondering what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into. After forty weeks of growing, I was in active labor. I received an epidural. Brian passed out. He literally fell flat on his face on the hardwood floor. The nurses were holding Brian up and I was on my own. I pushed for an hour and a half, and with the help of forceps, our sweet dark-haired baby Paige arrived. The labor and aftermath of the delivery was rough on my body. The doctor took it upon himself to invite nursing students into the room as he stitched me up. Apparently, he thought it was a good teaching opportunity to show more people my vagina. As he taught the students what he was doing, he said, “Now this looks like ground beef, but it will be okay.” I said, “Excuse me? Did you just say that my va-jay-jay looks like ground beef?” He looked at me and said, “Yes.” I replied, “It’s a good thing my legs are numb or I’d kick you.” He laughed. I didn't. Needless to say, I felt really unconfident about my lady parts. After a short recovery in Labor and Delivery I was transferred onto a gurney and wheeled to a room in the Women’s Center. The routine in this part of the hospital was familiar to me. I had been working at the hospital for three years as a Certified Nursing Aide (CNA). After I had settled in my new bed, my nurse came to rub my belly and take me to the bathroom. Peeing for the first time after an epidural was a big deal. I nailed it. After using the bathroom, the most glamorous part of the postpartum experience takes place. The nurse gives you mesh underwear, a maxi pad that would fit an elephant, and a rubber glove filled with ice. The pad goes in the underwear and the ice glove goes on the pad. Then it all goes on your crotch. Who knew that these three inventions would quickly be my new best friends? Who also knew that after sharing these moments together a husband and wife would ever procreate again? Just like no one could truly prepare me for the icy crotch, sand dollar nipples, or the hemorrhoids from hell, no one could’ve truly prepared me for the last hilarious, beautiful, hard, heartbreaking, tearful, sleepless, glorious twenty-one years. I have learned patience, courage, endurance, sorrow, love, forgiveness, and joy beyond my wildest dreams. My body, mind, and heart will never be the same. Happy 21st, my beautiful Paige! I’m so proud to be your mom.

Hello, Vulnerability

When I was a sophomore in high school, I tried out for the school soccer team. I had played on the freshman team the year before. After the first round of cuts my sophomore year, I stopped going. I literally stopped showing up for tryouts. Although I had made the first cut that year, I couldn’t bring myself to endure the second cut. To this day I don't know if I made the sophomore team. Five years ago, I was given a new job opportunity. I was terrified. I was working from home and had been out of the workforce for nearly twenty years. My days consisted of shuttling kids around, changing diapers, breaking up fights, managing laundry, and working in my spare time. I was a Neanderthal compared to women that worked among other adults every day. I spoke "pee-pee, poo-poo" while they were doing intelligent stuff. I'm not professional. I swear and tell inappropriate jokes. I didn't belong among civilized people and I surely didn't want to be seen. My regrets of the past weighed on me, the unknowns and what-might-have-been's. I had allowed the fear of failure steer more decisions in my life than I wanted to admit, and I was tired of being a puppet to my insecurities. I applied for the job and I ended up getting the position. About that same time, a good friend of mine suggested an audiobook that changed my life, The Power of Vulnerability, by Brené Brown. For the first time in my life, I realized what had been holding me back for 30 years. It was more than fear, it was vulnerability. Working outside the home, returning to college, and writing a blog all make me feel vulnerable. By letting others into my life and into my mind I stand before the world naked, cellulite and all. It is uncomfortable! But if I have learned one thing over the past five years it is that there is power in learning to be vulnerable. There is growth, and there is joy. "Vulnerability is not winning or losing. It's having the courage to show up when you can't control the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it's our greatest measure of courage." Brené Brown.

Porn Cake

Disclaimer: While serving in the Young Women's organization I was often asked to teach difficult content. One of those lessons was about pornography. This was my favorite lesson to teach and the following lesson plan was sparked by a class I attended when I was a teen. Below is a rough outline of how I approached the subject. Please remember that I do not profess to know psychology or the "right way" to do this. This was just what made sense in my brain based on what I do know. I made a chocolate sheet cake and took it to class. I set it on the table at the front of the room next to my seat. As the girls chatted about their week I started picking at the cake with a fork. Before long I was eating forkfuls of cake while still engaged in our conversation. The girls would watch me awkwardly and someone would always ask, "Are you gonna share?" I would reply, "Maybe. I just wanted to make sure it tasted okay but now I've made a hole in the corner and I'm trying to fix it." We continued to chat and I continued to pick. The small bite-sized hole in the corner of the cake quickly expanded into a full piece of cake missing, sometimes more, depending on how long I could keep the charade going. I stopped eating and asked the girls if they had ever approached a cake sitting in the kitchen, picked up a fork, and tried to sneak a bite without their mother knowing. I explained that I had done this numerous times. The tricky thing was, once I started picking, it was hard to stop. One bite led to two, two bites led to three, and soon, half a sheet cake was gone! At some point, I cautiously used my fork to square off the piece I had eaten so that if someone looked at the cake after I had left, they wouldn't notice what I'd done. Q: When you take a bite of cake, what does your brain tell you? A: "It's good," and "I want more." Q: That's normal, right? The cake tastes good and your brain tells you to keep eating. What happens when you realize you've eaten half a sheet cake? How do you feel? A: "I'm in trouble," or "Sick," or "I'm ashamed." Q: When someone looks at pornography, what does their brain tell them? A: (silence) Q: Humans are wired to be attracted to sexual things. It's part of our nature. That doesn't make us bad. It makes us human. When we see pornography our brains want more because it stimulates gratification, similar to when we see a cake or take a bite of cake, our body enjoys it and craves more. How do you think you would feel after you started with a bite of pornography? Would it be easy to take another bite? A: "Yes." Q: Of course, it would, and pretty soon, one thing leads to two, and two leads to three, and before long you have ingested half a sheet cake of porn. How do you feel? A: "Embarrassed," "Ashamed," "Sick". This was usually the beginning of a very open conversation about pornography and the dangers it entails as well as the natural inclination humans have towards sexual material and behavior. I highly recommend defining what pornography is. There are so many definitions out there and it has been my experience that most youth and adults do not truly understand what pornography is. The young women quickly named my chocolate cake, Porn Cake, and the name stuck. My chocolate sheet cake will forever be "Porn Cake". My kids even call it that. Some will argue that my Porn Cake lesson is unconventional and inappropriate. It might be, but it is also effective, relatable, and memorable. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

I Used to Wear Bifocals

I used to work from home. I used to wear bifocals. I don't do either anymore and one of the reasons is because of my mother. I look like my mom. Not just a little bit. I look like her a lot. My mom wears bifocals on occasion. If she's talking to you while she's wearing her bifocals, she'll set them on the end of her nose, tilt her head down, and look over her frames at whoever she's speaking with. It's a completely natural behavior for someone wearing bifocals. Between aging and working on a computer every day, my vision quickly declined. I reluctantly followed the doctor's advice and started wearing bifocals for reading. Working from home was both a blessing and a curse. My work desk was in the master bedroom so I could close the door and work privately when needed. It wasn't uncommon that I would work during the evening and late at night after the kids had gone to bed. One night, I was sitting at my desk working on my computer. Brian was laying in bed and we were talking. I turned around from my desk, lowered my bifocals, tilted my head down, and looked at him over the rim of my glasses. He had a blank stare on his face. I was confused. He said, "I can't take you seriously. You look like your mother. You probably shouldn't come to bed for a while. It's weird." As I said, I used to work from home. I used to wear bifocals. I don't do either anymore and one of the reasons is because of my mother.

When I'm Mad At Brian

Brian and I were folding clothes last night and I noticed he was folding things that were inside-out. I asked him, "Doesn't it bug you to have clothes folded inside-out?" He replied, "Yes, but I've just gotten so used to it over the years that I don't care anymore." I laughed and said, "I only folded your clothes inside out when I was mad at you." He started laughing. Then he laughed harder. It's true. When I'm upset with him I rebel in childish ways and have done so for more than twenty years. When I'm really mad at him and I'm not in the middle of doing laundry, I spit my toothpaste in the bathroom sink and don't rinse it out. That really irritates him. And just for fun if I want to get under his skin, I'll talk to him while I'm brushing my teeth. He hates that! I know I'm not a ray of sunshine all the time. I can't imagine the patience it takes to put up with my kind of crazy and I know that the "hot to crazy ratio" is all out of sorts. (That's a real thing, by the way.) But sometimes it's hard living with people! I have concluded, that if spitting in the sink and folding his clothes half-ass is my only rebellion, I think we're doing alright, and alright is good enough.

Mikey

A few years ago Brian and I decided that we needed to create some extra memories before the kids grew up and started leaving home, so naturally, we got a pig. A baby potbelly pig on Christmas morning is not something easily forgotten. Brooks was the lucky recipient of the pet and without hesitation, Brooks named him Mikey. Mikey was by far the most brilliant pet we've ever had. He was potty trained within 24 hours. He was clean, he was funny, and he was clever. But one thing Mikey was not was little, at least for long. He grew into a good-sized pig with tusks, a mohawk, and appropriately, a potbelly. I swear the only thing that never grew were his legs. He was so top-heavy it seemed scientifically wrong. Above all things Mikey loved food and his belly scratched. If you scratched him just right he would literally fall over. Brooks was Mikey's master and everyone knew it. He obeyed Brooks and was quick to respond when he heard Brooks call. One thing he didn't like was our dog, B, a schnorkie who loved to get in his face and taunt him. Mikey would normally ignore her but B was persistent. On one occasion, Mikey must've had enough of B so he laid down and played dead. B sniffed and prodded him but he didn't move. After a short time, B lost interest and ran off. As soon as Mikey noticed she was gone he got up and continued eating. Play dead = annoying dog leaves. Genius! Mikey went on to bigger and better things last week. New home, new family, new adventure. We aren't sad. We are relieved that we won't have a pig for thirty years. (Who knew that pigs live for 30 years?!) We are grateful for the memories we made and hope that the kids will look back on their childhood someday and realize that having weird parents isn't all bad. I mean, who else gets a pig for Christmas?

It Was Time To Say Goodbye

When I was sixteen I unexpectedly found myself in a dark place, a secret dark place. I hid it well. My mother was the only one who knew me well enough to see through my smile. She took me begrudgingly to a doctor and told him I was depressed. He listened to her and then met with me privately. I knew what to say and easily convinced him otherwise. My mother was ticked when the doctor reported to her that I was a lovely young lady and she had no need to be concerned. We went home. My parents had an old 1980-something Ford Bronco II. It was two-tone brown, manual transmission, and completely paid for. I had chosen it specifically for that reason. They wouldn't miss it. I drove it up to Providence Canyon. At the top of the canyon, there was a mountain of loose gravel. I had been there many times with my friends on our "digging" adventures. I easily maneuvered to the top of the hill and parked on the lip, looking back down the canyon from where I'd just traveled. This was a happy place, Providence Canyon. I had grown up here, shot BB guns here. If I was going to die, this is where I wanted it to be. I parked the Bronco on the lip of the mountain and cried. I mourned my life, the failure that I thought I was, and every pain I had inflicted on others. I sobbed from my feelings of doubt and regret. I mourned the life I had lived as well as the life I wouldn't know. I was broken and empty inside. It was time to say goodbye. I don't know how long I sat in that Bronco overlooking my passing, but I do know this, I was not alone. I didn't see angels or hear God's voice, but I knew He was there. I was important. I did have a purpose. My family loved me and this wasn't His plan for me. I drove home slowly, allowing enough time to let my swollen eyes heal. No one knew where I had been and I never said a word. I got up the next day, and the next, and one day at a time, I survived. That was all I could do, and that was enough.

My Cup Runneth Over With Warm Water

After Brian and I moved back to Cache Valley, we settled in a little farmhouse for three years. It was an older home: red brick, front porch with a wooden screen door, big yard adorned by a white fence, three bedrooms, two baths, and no warm water. It wasn't during the full duration there that we went without warm water. We only lived that way for about eight months. At first, it was annoying. Then it became normal. If we didn't have the time to shower at my sister's house, we'd spit bath, boil water on the stove to fill the tub, or just buck up and have a cold shower. The kids decided early on that a shower was not their favored form of cleaning. Brooks claims that on one occasion I stood outside the shower while he was crying inside and said, "At least you don't live in China. This is how some parents punish their children!" I can neither confirm or deny that statement. But based on the whining that was triggered by bath time, I agreed that none of us had the patience for icy showers. We switched to sponge baths and washing hair under the faucet of the tub instead. The running water wasn't cold. It was ice cold. My hands were instantly bright red and numb as I scrubbed their little heads. I would count, "One, two, three, go!" and then one at a time, push their heads under the running water as they knelt by the tub side. Quickly I would wet their hair and pull their head back to give them a break. They would gasp from the shock to their senses. I then massaged shampoo into their hair, gave them a "One, two, three, go!" and, once again, push them firmly under the cold water to rinse. Paige was on the verge of tears one night. "It's so cold," she said. "My head is numb. It hurts!" "Well, at least you're not a pioneer," I replied. "They had to wash in icy rivers, with real ice floating in the water! This is much better than that. Now you know what it's like to be a pioneer." "I don't want to be a pioneer!" she screamed. Before we moved into our current house, I walked to the kitchen sink while our realtor watched on. I pulled the handle to the faucet and waited patiently. As soon as warm water touched my hand, I was sold. And since that day, I have literally been thankful every single day for running warm water. As, Grandma Ruby says, "My cup runneth over, so I'm drinking from my saucer." I am thankful that my saucer is full of warm water.

I'm Drinking From My Saucer

My Grandma Ruby is one of my heroes. Now, nearing 98 years on this earth, she still finds joy in the journey and expresses gratitude constantly. That doesn't mean that she doesn't complain. She is very vocal that she is "waiting for her transfer orders" and can't figure out why she's still here. That little human says it how it is. Her honesty is refreshing and inspiring and sometimes not politically correct. It doesn't matter if we talk on the phone or we visit in person, I am in awe of her and what she teaches me. She is spunky, strong, stubborn, and independent. If she can't reach something, she climbs on a chair. If she doesn't like your hair color, she'll tell you. She is as matter-of-fact as she is spiritual, truly a giant in her faith and service to others. In addition to her many quirks, behaviors, and qualities are her one-liners. In reference to having served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints during her youth she said, "Back then the sister missionaries were all of the fat rejects." When asked if she would let me speak at her funeral she said, "Oh, no! Emily will talk too long and tell too much!" One of my favorite sayings is, "My cup runneth over so I'm drinking from my saucer." Years ago I was talking to her on the phone complaining that our home didn't have any hot water. The water heater was broken and the owner of the home that we were renting wouldn't fix it. She replied that "When I was a child we didn't have running water or warm water for that matter. We filled up a tub and took turns washing. We got real good at spit baths too." At that moment my perspective changed. I was being so selfish and spoiled. My life wasn't hard! And grandma most certainly was not going to entertain my whining. I put my big girl pants on and taught my kids how to live without warm running water. It was a blessing, one that I will never forget. Every time I feel bad for myself, no matter the circumstances, I hear my grandma's voice speaking from her four-foot-something frame, "My cup runneth over so I'm drinking from my saucer." It is hard to feel sorry for yourself when you view life in that way. And because of her example, there are a handful of things that I am sincerely grateful for on a daily basis, one of which is warm running water. For more on that story, click here.

We're Upside Down

In the midst of the Great Recession, Brian and I found ourselves in a pickle. Our company was failing. We owned a small business in Southern Utah. In the years leading up to 2008, we tried to live within our means, avoid large expenditures, and preserve our savings, but as the dominos fell, so did we. In tears, Paige ran into the kitchen after school one day. One of her friends had told her that our family was "upside down". Paige said, "No, we're not." In her 7-year-old brain, being upside down couldn't be a good thing, especially when it was followed by laughter. "Yes, you are," her friend chided. "My mom and dad were talking about your family and they said you are upside down." Paige was terribly offended by this. "What does that mean, Mom?" I responded that it meant that we walked on the ceiling. She giggled. I told her not to worry about it. Our family was fine. Her friend was being silly. That was the first time I realized that our family, our failure, our impending doom, was being discussed. I imagined our welfare being analyzed in church meetings, at playdates, and at family dinners. We were "upside down." Although I understand the term "upside down" in reference to debt, at that time, the rumors were not completely true. We weren't upside down. We were the recipients of a myriad of circumstances, most of which were out of our control, and we were screwed. I don't blame that little girl for saying what she said. I don't blame her parents either. I believe that they were speaking to each other out of concern for us and their daughter simply overheard. I don't think the conversation was malicious, but it still stung to think that we were being discussed in hushed tones and with sighs of pity. I also know that that instance was not the first or the last time our family was the topic of conversation. And in the big scheme of things, being "upside down" isn't hurtful, but being talked about can be. I learned a valuable lesson from that experience. Be careful what you say and who hears it. Unfortunately, I put my foot in my mouth on a daily basis. I also pray every day that those that I unintentionally hurt will forgive me. After all, aren't we all a little "upside down?"