Walking Through Puddles

Often when we think of courage we think of heroic, fearless examples who-against all odds-achieved the unthinkable. We tend to think of big moments. We honor those who have saved lives. Who have risked their lives. We applaud those who have been brave enough to make significant changes for humanity. Those who have gone to bat for the underdog. We look up to those who have conquered enormous obstacles. We cheer them on. We hold them up. We want to emulate them somehow. But sometimes we feel so inadequate to even try and relate to their bravery and their incredible contributions to the world, that we don't realize that courage is something we all can attain. Something we all can be.

This afternoon I took my two dogs on their usual afternoon walk. Ernie is a dachshund mix. He is basically just an overgrown weenie dog. The other one, who we recently added to our family, is Sammie. She is part Yorkie, part beagle, and part dachshund. She thinks she is part wolf, until the windshield wipers turn on in the car and she fears the world is ending. Both Ernie and Sammie are sweet as can be and have blessed our lives more than I can begin to describe.  

As we were walking around our neighborhood we came to an intersection where we started to cross the road. There happened to be a massive puddle in our way. It wasn't very deep, but it took up several feet of space in front of us. I thought nothing of it as Sammie jumped through it like a fish. But poor Ernie held back, cringing at the thought of getting his big clown feet wet. He started bracing against the leash, trying to avoid any possibility of going through that horrifying puddle. I gave his leash a gentle tug and coaxed him to keep walking. He looked at me with his beautiful brown eyes of his, hesitated one last time, and took a step. The look of fear never left his face as he hurriedly rushed through the puddle. He did manage to somehow survive, in case you were wondering.

Now I know this is maybe a little bit cheesy. And maybe it's just a dumb, silly thought I had as a result of this experience. But I think it's important that once in awhile we stop to acknowledge that courage doesn't always have a brave face. Courage isn't always being history book heroic. It isn't always about making huge waves or blessing thousands of lives. Sometimes courage goes entirely unnoticed because nobody knows what you are personally facing, or how scary it might be to walk in your shoes. 

Courage isn't just about vastly changing policy. It isn't just doing the unthinkable. It isn't always about conquering your foes when the odds are stacked against you. Sometimes courage is doing something that is personally terrifying to you, but you proceed to do it anyway. 

And you might not give yourself any credit, because you think that the only reason you're managing to walk through your puddles is because someone is pulling on your leash and prompting you to take another step. And maybe that is the only reason you're still walking! You might even have to be dragged at times. But that doesn't mean you're just a big, ridiculous baby who is incapable of overcoming hard things. It just means you're pretty lucky to have someone in your life who has full confidence in you, even when you lack all of it. There is a reason people believe you can do it. And I think trusting each other is one of the most courageous things any of us can do. How important it is that we protect that trust by cheering each other on for both the gigantic, as well as the seemingly small things that life throws our way. 

For most dogs, including Sammie who is half the size of Ernie, walking through puddles is nothing short of a party. It's a good time. It's exciting! It's fun! It's definitely no big deal. 

To clingy, pathetic, overgrown dachshunds, walking through puddles can be terrifying. And while I definitely won't hold it against you if you laugh at Ernie's "courageous demonstration of nobility and determination," we shouldn't be so quick to laugh at each other's fears, anxieties, or self-doubts. Or how we choose to face them. 

We all have different gifts and talents. And we all have different weaknesses. Something you feel extremely confident in might be someone's literal worst nightmare. Your puddle of fun might be an ocean of doom to someone else. You just never know. And you never know what trials others are quietly enduring. Something that might appear to be shallow and insignificant to you, might be causing someone else to sink. 

I'm not saying that we need to put each other on a pedestal for merely putting on pants and leaving our houses. I'm not downplaying the many historical and present courageous heroes and heroines who have left our world a better place. 

I'm just saying that next time you see someone struggling with something that is a piece of cake for you, or something that you can't relate to at all, realize that other people might find that very same thing daunting, or humiliating, or unbearable. 

Sometimes we don't stop to try and understand what someone else's experience might be, because we are so focused on how we would handle, or have handled, such an experience. 

Part of what I think courage means is recognizing that life is far more than about us. And I hope at the end of my life that I look back on how I chose to live, and see that I encouraged people to walk through their own puddles-whether they were big or small. I hope I can gently pull a few leashes along the way and offer words of sincere encouragement. As one of my best friends put it, "At different times of our lives, we are all drowning. The point is to help each other stay afloat."

Courage isn't always about doing big, grand things. I have ALWAYS had a ginormous love for people who have strived to improve humanity in big ways. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved reading about such people who have literally changed the world. They have become my heroes. And while I will always immensely revere folks like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Anne Frank, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, Muhammad Ali, Corrie Ten Boom, Elie Wiesel, and many many others, my overgrown weenie dog taught me something today.

Sometimes courage is knowing you are going to have to face something you don't want to face. Sometimes it's hard to put on your big girl shoes. It's hard to find your game face. Let's be honest-sometimes it's hard just to put on pants and interact with other humans. Courage doesn't always look pretty or composed. In fact sometimes, you might risk looking like a total idiot or a big scaredy cat. Your face might be filled with dread and you might look like a nervous wreck, because you probably are. Courage doesn't mean you're always brave right in that moment. You might not even feel brave at all. Because sometimes the obstacles in your way seem bigger and deeper than you ever anticipated. How will you make it? Why can't you just handle it like so-and-so? Why can't you just get over it?

Courage isn't always done confidently. Courage just means that you keep on walking, with or without swag. I think it's critical to remember that the person who is gently tugging at your leash, believes you can do it, regardless of how you perceive yourself. It's perfectly okay to feel doubtful and inadequate. But there are people cheering you on for a reason. Often I think this is how we acquire courage. We coax it out of each other. 

Puddles come in many forms. Some of them we walk through daily, maybe even constantly. Some of them eventually evaporate. But we all have to walk through them with our own kind of courage. Walking through your own puddles doesn't automatically vanquish any fears you may have. It just means that you are brave enough to keep on walking. And often, it is because there is someone tugging at your leash, telling you that you can do it. So you put on your Nikes, and you just do. 

I'm grateful for all the people in my life who keep tugging at my leash. I literally look up to you, sometimes while I'm drowning. Thanks for helping me keep afloat by throwing me lots of flotation devices, for swimming alongside me at times, and for cheering me on from the shore. 

I'm especially grateful for a God who somehow has the time, with all of the other people in the world He loves, to remind me that I am capable of getting my feet a little wetter than I usually want to. I am grateful for His influence in my life that is felt every day. I am grateful He knows when to yank the leash a little harder because I'm too stubborn or too afraid to carry on. 

And one last shout out to Ernie, the bravest dachshund I know, who taught me today that you don't always look cool when you have courage. You don't always accomplish amazing things that change society. Sometimes you just get to enjoy a walk with the people who love you the most, because you-yes, YOU-were brave enough to get your feet wet in the process. 

Happy walking! 

Not Just a Dog

It probably sounds totally dramatic when I say that a 21-pound Dachshund mix puppy saved my life.

Yall, I'm just being honest. 

And crazy enough, this wasn't a one-time thing either. In fact, after the first few rescues, I just stopped counting altogether. 

I've had Ernie for almost three years. A lot has happened in these three years. A lot of grief and loss and growing pains. A lot of wonderful stuff, too. Don't get me wrong. 

But there have been days where the only reason I got out of bed was Ernie, and plenty of nights where the only reason I could finally relax enough to fall asleep was Ernie. 

He's been my safety. He's been my fearless (okay-not that fearless) protector. And despite his physical size, his loyalty has always been nothing short of enormous. 

To some people, Ernie is just another dog. I get that not all people are animal people. And I'll really try not to judge you immensely for the fact that you have no soul and are devoid of normal emotions. 

Sorry. Us, dog people, tend to be slightly defensive. 

I have always been obsessed with animals, but before Ernie, I never realized the extent of a dog's ability to heal your soul. Literally. Dogs are the best medicine. In fact, I had to get a "prescription" for him from my nurse practitioner so I could have him in my apartment. 

It's cheesy and sappy but totally true-Ernie is hands down the best prescription I've ever gotten.

Ever. Better than Vyvanse. Hands down. And he's the only medicine I've ever taken where the side effects were pretty awesome. 

I got Ernie in the winter, in southeast Idaho. Winters there are basically like living in Antarctica, only worse. I bet you they at least plow the roads in Antarctica, but in Idaho, "real men don't plow roads," so that makes life fun. Your nose hairs freeze as soon as you walk out the door and if you're anything like me, you just want to eat and watch reality tv all day, every day. And by eat, I'm not referring to salads in any form. 

But what about all those fun winter sports? Skiing? Sure, once or twice a year. Sledding? Not since I was 15. Going outside for any reason besides picking up hot chocolate or dragging myself to work? No, thanks. 

Once the magic of Christmas is over, I hate winters in Idaho. They're dark. They're cold. They're gloomy. They're long. (We sometimes get snow in May.) They're not my thing.

Enter, dachshund mix puppy. 

That freaking baby dog got me up every morning that winter. And he made getting up happy. He made those painfully dark mornings bright and exciting and sweet. And mind you, I lived on the third floor in my apartment complex, so potty training was inconvenient to say the least. But I honestly never minded. Because I had a new and worthy purpose to get my booty out of bed each day, and he was counting on me to do it so I couldn't let him down. We went on walks first thing each morning, and I even started looking forward to becoming a morning person. If you know me, then you know that is more impressive than any Biblical miracle.  

Ernie helped me lose weight.  He helped me get on a schedule. I couldn't wait to see him after work and school every day. He was always excited to reunite. Whether I'd been gone for eight hours or five minutes, his enthusiasm to see me walk through the door was the acceptance and love I was desperately in need of. And he gave it freely, with no conditions. 

Ernie helped me immensely with anxiety and depression. He vanquished heavy loneliness. (It's pretty hard to be lonely when there is an overgrown weenie dog constantly on your lap.) He motivated me to keep moving, and to even find enjoyment in the process. 

During all this, I was working with kids with special needs. I got to take Ernie to work with me several times. He was extra cautious and tender with each sweet soul he met. He didn't mind the occasional ear-pulling and definitely didn't object to the sharing of snacks. And he always left every kid noticeably happier. 

When I got divorced and moved in with my parents, Ernie kept my bed from feeling too empty. When Ernie and I moved to Salt Lake City, he gave me the courage to get my own apartment downtown. He was the best roommate a girl could ask for, and I honestly couldn't have done any of that without his faithful support. 

Ernie has helped me cope with my toughest losses, yet. He's alleviated my scariest fears, and helped me conquer my own self-doubts. 

It sounds way too good to be true, right?! 26 Year Old Woman With Anxiety And Depression Rescued By 3-Year Old Wiener Dog On a Daily Basis. You can't make this stuff up, people. 

And I know, I know, he isn't "perfect." He barks really loud and he is even capable of murdering chickens. But hey-we all have our sins. 

All I'm trying to say, is that Ernie Short is not just a dog. He's not just a pet. He's not just a cute pup with extra long ears and a visible conscience. 

He's my family. He's my sweet boy. He's my rescuer, fur child, and best friend. He's the reason I'm waking up tomorrow, way earlier than I want to. And that is a miracle in and of itself. 

If you ever struggle with feelings of hopelessness, depression, anxiety, a lousy marriage, trauma, isolation, or incomprehensible loneliness-for the love of all that is holy, do yourself a favor: Get yourself a four-legged critter. (Weiner dogs are the best, but to each their own.) And once you get the most powerful medicine you'll ever have, embrace the side effects. They may include weight loss, talking in "baby talk", gradually losing all your favorite pairs of shoes, preferring animals to humans, the presence of dog hair everywhere, and possible euphoria. 

You're welcome. 

Be Different

A little over a year ago I caught up with an old friend. We laughed, we cried, we reminisced. We thoroughly enjoyed being together and it was most definitely a positive experience for the both of us. 

But she said something that-while I didn't take offense to it-wasn't exactly meant as a compliment. I also don't think it was intended to be insulting. 

"You're...different," she told me. At first it felt more like an accusation than an observation. "You just aren't the same. I feel like you've changed in so many ways." 

Not knowing how she wanted me to respond, I hesitated. Do I apologize? Do I vouch for myself? Do I become defensive  or self-conscious? But before I sorted my thoughts completely I found myself responding with something that felt a little bit like confidence:

"I am different." And then I smiled. Instead of stressing out about what she might have been implying, I found myself somewhat flattered at her very accurate and very blunt observation. Since I had last been around her, I had grown. Years of growing pains-not all of them experienced with dignity. But all of them, experienced. By me. 

And since that conversation, I've reflected on what the word "different" often means because of the way we choose to use it. 

Often, the description "different" is negative. We might use it to imply that someone is weird. Odd. Awkward. Or that someone has changed for the worse. 

Different is often uncomfortable. Maybe even painful. 

But how necessary change is in life, and how beautiful it can be! 

When my friend pointed out how I had changed since our last visit, I thought about how the last time she saw me, I was so much younger. Probably dumber. Certainly more inexperienced. I was naive. I was a version of myself that has since evolved because of my experiences-as well as my ability to adapt to and make the best of-those experiences. I have become less submissive and more assured. I am no longer a scared, little girl that I have been before. I am much braver. Still scared. But it turns out that a little burst of courage can go a real, long way. 

I feel stronger. My life is filled with wonderful people who I adore. Many of them have watched me grow and change my entire life. Some of them found me at my best; some of them found me at my worst. And while several people have come and gone, many have stayed through thick and thin. They've been on the sidelines. They've encouraged my successes and celebrated my triumphs, as well as offered solace and love during the toughest times I've faced yet. Some of these amazing individuals have even changed alongside me. And I pray they have heard me screaming my head off on the sidelines while they've fought their own battles and become more of who they are meant to be. I see you. I love you. I accept you-as you were, as you are right this instant, and as you hope to be tomorrow. Or next year. Or whenever. The sky is the limit. 

I am different than I was, even a year ago. I feel different. I hope I keep being different. The world always needs change. It needs progress. The world needs hope and possibility. You're never stuck in whatever life has thrown your way. You're never stuck being a version of you that you no longer want to be. You can change. You can keep becoming a better version of you through authenticity, through the relationships you invest in, and through learning from lots and lots of failure. 

Be different. It's really not as scary as we let it sound.

No. It can actually be way, way scarier. 

And way, way, WAY worth the risk. 

There's No Place Like Home

In just one short month, Spencer and I will be moving to Lawrence, Kansas. I've driven through Kansas several times-from one end to the other. It's kind of like driving across a long pancake that never ends. But to be fair, Kansas is really good at corn and barbecue. And not too shabby at basketball. (Sorry-Kentucky girl for life, but mad respect for the Jayhawks)

It will certainly be a bit different than Utah-which is great at mountains and Mormons. But we are excited for a change of (very flat-compared to Utah) scenery and for this new chapter in our lives where we will both obtain a legal education. I can't help but get a little sappy as we get ready to relocate on this great adventure. 

When I first moved to Salt Lake, it was just me and Ernie. We found the greatest apartment right downtown. I got a job immediately. And with my recent bachelors degree in child development, I was ready to make some serious waves, improve every single aspect of society, and save all the children on the planet. I was also scheduled to take the LSAT because law school was my next step. I attended law school socials at a couple universities, met with professors, and attended some classes. I was going to ace the LSAT, work for six months, and go to law school. And I was not going to get a boyfriend because boys were nothing but incredibly disappointing. 

Well, folks. God is funny. And not always in a hilarious type of way. 

Instead, amidst the chaos of transitioning to a new city and a very new life, I didn't have a chance to study for the LSAT so I withdrew from my intended test date and rescheduled it. I quit my job because the hours were horrible, the pay was horrible, and heaven forbid-I was going to find a better job that actually valued my degree. I eventually found a better job where I met some lifelong friends, but I had to quit that job because of some medical issues that were exacerbated by the job. I don't think I improved society at all, definitely didn't save anybody, and instead wound up feeling super sorry for myself. And then-BAM-I completely broke my own deal and got myself a boyfriend. 

Worth it. 

During a chaotic time in my life that I had never planned on, Salt Lake City quickly became my home. It was where every single conviction I'd ever had was challenged. My faith became tested constantly. My paradigm more than shifted-it collapsed. And during a very delicate time of healing and rebuilding, I grew. I grew, and grew, and grew! And growing pains totally hurt, but I guess that's part of the deal, right? 

Salt Lake City was where I mourned my biggest losses, became acquainted with my greatest fears, and where I found my biggest loves. Not to mention-have you seen the mountains here??! 

So maybe I didn't check anything off my original agenda, but I did learn how to throw out the agenda entirely, and go with it. I also learned to love hiking. 

They say home is where the heart is. In that case, I have a lot of homes. Kentucky, Idaho, Utah. Soon to be Kansas. Because what makes home home is not really where, but who. Who you get to know, who you grow to love, and maybe even who you decide you are going to be. And fun fact: I actually have roots in Lawrence. My great-grandparents lived there and went to KU. My dad's first cousin, Amy Hurst, is the person responsible for creating the Baby Jay. And my Grandma Sue spent a lot of time in Lawrence as a kid. So, going back to my roots will be really neat and exciting. (Although my ancestors are probably not too thrilled about the Kentucky thing.)

While my heart is already hurting just from thinking about moving away from some of my most favorite people that God has blessed me with here in SLC, I know they'll always make Utah a home away from the next home.  

Home is more than beautiful mountains, more than an awesome downtown apartment you found on Craigslist. For some of us, home is having wiener dogs and a boy named Spencer.

And I think Dorothy definitely said it best-there's no place like it. 

So, Rock Chalk JAYHAWK. I guess it's Kansas, or bust. 

Loves, Losses, and Fears

I was supposed to be asleep two hours ago. Three, actually.

But I can't. My mind is racing. My memories are flying all over the place. My emotions, too.

This happens sometimes. I am a veteran of anxiety and regret-induced insomnia. I fall for the what if's from both the present and the future. And man. They are daunting. 

Tonight I'm mostly just sad. Like mourning sad. I'm mourning the loss of someone who died two years ago. 

I mourn her every day. And I'm not saying that to sound sentimental or sweet. I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. 

I mourn her. Every. Day. 

She was the first person who accepted me as I was that very second I met her. She was the very definition of love. 

In fact, she taught me a lot about love. 

One of the first lessons she ever taught me even came with a title on a white board: 

"Loves, Losses, and Fears" she called it. 

In a 7:45 am college course during a particularly dark January in Rexburg, Idaho, my classroom of peers and I had to face this seemingly silly and uncomfortable topic out loud, with each other. Our job was to essentially experience vulnerability, in a safe, judgment-free zone. We were instructed to turn to our neighbor and share with them one of our loves, one of our losses, and one of our fears. 

It was about to get personal. 

The only rule? We couldn't judge each other. OR judge ourselves.

And I think in our squirming vulnerability and insecure self-consciousness, the latter was the harder of the two tasks for probably most of us. 

It was an emotional class period. At first we all expected it to be cheesy, at best. But truly, it was a unique experience to say the least. We-who had previously been happy with being anti-social and detached from one another-WE (because of her master plan, obviously) had fostered a safe, judgment-free zone of nothing but listening, empathy and compassion. 

And even though we never would have achieved that feat without her, she gave us all the credit for being good, quality, human beings that day. 

I definitely felt a sense of love and camaraderie for my peers I had not felt previously. And I definitely walked away from that early morning class with more of a desire to be a higher quality human being. 

Since that lesson, I have often reflected on the importance of personally acknowledging AND sharing my loves, losses, and fears at various times in my life.

And for the record, this can be accomplished in a multitude of ways, with or without a formal setting and a white board. 

You don't even have to be a professor to teach. And you don't need to be in college to learn this stuff. 

We all need to. Share our loves, losses, and fears I mean. We share both by opening up and by tuning in to each other. Both can be challenging. But in doing so, love will foster and even flourish. 

We all are prone to loves, losses, and fears. 

I have a lot of each. Some of them overlap. Some of my biggest loves have become my greatest losses. Some of my fears are because of the enormous love I have for certain people and certain things. 

Some of my fears I am still too prideful to share with my "neighbor." Some of my losses are mine to mourn alone. Because vulnerability is still uncomfortable. And terrifying. 

I may claim to be an expert at insomnia and worrying about things I have no control over. But when it comes to the power of vulnerability, I have loads to learn. 

But I do know this: we all learn to unlock that sacred power through simply loving each other. 

Knowing this so personally, I hope that we can all try a little harder to make life a judgment-free zone. 

Well. I hate the feeling of not being able to thank again and again and again someone who took so much time to teach me such invaluable lessons. 

She will forever be one of my biggest loves. And saddest losses. And my fear attached to all this is that I won't ever be the best version of myself that she somehow saw me being. 

But at that, I know she is rolling her eyes at my mounting self-doubt and telling me to, "Get the hell over it." 

So, for now-I do. 

Talking to God

Since I can remember, I've always had a relationship with God. My parents taught me how to. 

They taught me that God loves all of us. They taught me that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to atone for our sins and our sorrows. And they taught me that as we live in accordance with truth and righteousness, we can become more like Him. 

But perhaps the most important thing my parents taught me regarding my ability to have a relationship with Deity was how to pray. 

Typically, they taught me that during a prayer you demonstrate reverence. You are talking to Heavenly Father after all. So, they taught me to close my eyes, bow my head, and listen. But, they also taught me that I could pray anytime, any place, in any circumstance. If I couldn't close my eyes or say the words out loud, that was okay, too. 

Because God would still hear me. 

I grew up believing this concept. And I grew up putting it into practice. And while I certainly continued to learn from my parents' example of faith, I quickly became very accustomed to talking to God on my own. 

My Grandma Jan died when I was almost five years old. I definitely didn't grasp the full reality of what this meant, but my little mind and body took it hard. For weeks I had trouble sleeping. And I would sneak quietly out of my room in the middle of the night and tiptoe in my nightgown to the top of the staircase in the hallway. On the wall directly in front of the stairs, was a portrait of The Savior, which was illuminated by the hall light, that always stayed on. 

Every night for several weeks I talked to that picture, and cried and cried and cried. I missed my grandma. And with a childlike faith, I knew God would listen and understand perfectly the pain that I couldn't even developmentally process. 

Throughout my life, prayer has always been an incredibly powerful principle that has literally comforted me, sustained me, and directed me to difficult answers. 

I have never felt taller than when I have been down on my knees, seeking the support of someone much, much, MUCH wiser than me. 

He's always been a great listener. The greatest, in fact. 

But even so, there have been a few pockets of time in my life when I didn't immediately resort to prayer. And usually the theme surrounding this lack of communication with God was that I didn't really feel worth His time. 

I mean, let's be honest-He has way bigger things to worry about than me. 

And whenever I told myself that, I quickly believed it. And the less I prayed to Him, the more I felt inadequate and forgotten. 

I had no business asking God to listen to me. I shouldn't expect His time or attention. He has a lot going on. And in the grand scheme of things, I'm not all that significant. 

Yes, sometimes I gave into feelings of inadequacy and self-defeat. And that enabling power I felt through making a daily effort to retain my relationship with The Lord was no longer present during those times when I kept to myself. 

Recently, I haven't talked to God very much. Not as much as I've needed to, anyway. Because for whatever reason, I just haven't felt worth His time. 

I know he's there. I know He's real. I've honestly never doubted that. But I doubt me. All the time, I doubt me. I doubt that divinity exists within me. Even though I believe it exists within all of us, I just sometimes feel down. And even though I yearn to connect with that divinity that I believe is much more innate than it is achieved, I sometimes don't allow myself to do so. 

But when I feel ready to let God know how things are going, even though I'm perfectly aware that He already knows, I feel his love wash over me and I am reminded that I am more worth His time than I will ever fully comprehend. 

My gratitude and reverence for Him are overwhelming.

Don't get me wrong. I don't believe that praying is a cure-all. It is not a replacement for medicine or health or other important relationships. Prayer will not eliminate your problems. It will not solve them either. 

And if that is why you are praying, you honestly might be bitterly disappointed. 

But when you pray every day-through all types of weather-something incredible can happen. You'll remember, over and over and over again, that you matter to the very being who made you. 

And believe it or not, He has all the time in the world to hear what you have to say. No matter how silly or pathetic it may seem. So say it. And don't forget, in the midst of your venting or crying or struggling, to always thank Him for listening. 

Because I promise you He is.