Be Ye Not Distracted!

The first time I met her I was 15. I had a lukewarm self-esteem, what was about to become a full-blown eating disorder, and a million and one self-doubts that taunted me on the daily. I was scared of never being good enough and carried the burden of trying to make the whole world happy - often at the expense of losing myself in the process.

Her name was Elizabeth Bossard, but everyone called her Boss. Little did I know the first day I entered her eccentric office filled with Mary Engelbright pictures, inspirational sayings and too many teddy bears to count, my life would never be the same. Not only was she the best voice coach around; she was a brilliant, powerful woman with a soft spot for self-doubting underdogs. 

When we met, my voice was timid - both musically and otherwise. I was scared to sing out unless I was in the shower, and even more scared to express my feelings, needs, and boundaries. My insecurities were totally apparent to her, but she wasn’t phased a bit. Polishing diamonds in the rough was her specialty. Despite my blatant anxiety, she knew I was strong; equipped with courage I hadn't yet discovered. She treated me like it the second I met her in a way nobody ever had. She immediately saw the version of me I hadn't become yet - the version I'm still becoming. 

While I’ve always struggled to be self-confident, I've been extremely blessed with an amazing family, incredible friends, a close relationship with God, and WAY more blessings than I can count. But even with an abundance of blessings, we all still have our trials, right? She helped me conquer mine from 15 on, simply by reminding me on the regular that I could.

She knew more about my life than anyone. When she died, a part of me did too. The hole she left is gaping, and without her guidance and encouragement, I'm often more than lost. But I find myself through singing, through speaking up for the underdog, through being kind to others even when it's unfair to be the "bigger person," through trying to be a little more comfortable in my own skin. Going to bat for the underdog and a desire to be kind have always come pretty naturally to me. But being comfortable in my own skin? Yikes! Being an overly apologetic people pleaser made that impossible.

Boss always insisted I was so much more than I ever dared to believe. She lectured me often. “You have a gift to love so big and care so deeply, and I’m so proud of you for that. But, Babe. Why in the world can’t you love you, just a little bit? Why do you let others make you feel so unworthy?! Don’t let anyone tell you who you are. You tell them - dammit! And stop feeling like you’ve got so much to prove! Stop being sorry so much!” This always led to me profusely apologizing. Her eyes twinkled as she rolled them. “Babe. What did I just say? Get over it.” 

In college, I took her 7:45 am public speaking class. Stars filled the dark Idaho sky each morning I trudged from my apartment into below-zero temperatures. Boss warmed things right up, always greeting us in conversational song. She did this regularly - at the grocery store, on campus, you name it. She did it to be funny, to intentionally embarrass people, and because she just didn’t care if anyone thought she was a crazy, old lady singing in the dairy aisle. Her fabulous persona put people at ease, and she didn’t mind if some labeled her as ‘weird’ in the process. She was a one-of-a-kind diva; filled with prowess and poise, but no hint of arrogance. She humbly, but confidently, recognized her strengths. So, she unapologetically shared them; not to show off, but to connect. She was self-assured because her worth did not come from others; she did not share her light to seek acceptance. She only cared about two people’s approval: hers and God’s. And she had both at all times, even with all her hell’s and damns. I’m sure of it.

Just as she lit up the grocery store by her mere presence, she made cold, dreary mornings bright. She enthusiastically dragged us out of our comfort zones to help us gain confidence. Most notably, she facilitated activities so we, without even realizing it, helped each other.

During voice lessons, she always said when you make a mistake, make it big. Don't panic if you stumble or run out of breath. Don’t let a pitchy note derail you. Instead, own it. Mess up! Learn why you messed up. Then fix it! “Panicking in the middle of a mistake, or quitting because you made one, doesn't teach you a damn thing about how to fix it,” she’d always say. She frequently scolded me for fearing failure and dared me to give myself more chances than I ever thought I deserved.

Don’t get it twisted - she wasn’t the type to baby anybody. She had incredibly high expectations she DEMANDED you rise to, often using some stringent tough love. She built you up, not to pat you on the back or put you on a pedestal, but to get you moving! To get you from caterpillar to butterfly. She emphasized that true confidence comes from humbly recognizing all you’ve been given and all you are capable of overcoming. She required you to rise to the challenge of being the best version of you, and to humbly acknowledge that your strengths come from the Big Man Upstairs. If He made you, she always reasoned, you must be pretty great. “So, be GREAT, damnit!” she’d order, like it was a piece of cake. 

Her approach to confidence never condoned arrogance. She was brilliant because she knew she was made of the same stuff as stars, and she gratefully acted like it by continually improving herself while letting her strengths shine. Because why hide your innate, God-given light when you were made to sparkle?

I wasn’t used to sparkling. It was anxiety-inducing that someone might take something I did or said the wrong way, that I would make someone else uncomfortable. At this fear, Boss rolled her eyes and told me to get over it. Perhaps the most important thing she taught me - that I still fail at miserably - is to not give a hoot about what other people think. She was famous for saying: “What others say about you cannot diminish your personal glory as a child of God; it can only distract you. BE YE NOT DISTRACTED!”

She knew I was exceptionally prone to being “distracted,” so she was strategic in drilling this concept into my timid, insecure head. One year, she put me on the program for a collegiate vocal showcase. The campus music department was phenomenal; the student talent equally impressive. This event was for accomplished singers, many trained in opera or theatre. Boss taught both classical and what she termed "popical" approaches to all her students. She wisely expanded my repertoire, while encouraging my passion for songwriting. I was unorthodox compared to her other students. Lucky for me, she embraced unorthodox.

Whenever I performed, I hid behind the piano or my guitar. I belted freely only in the comfort of my shower or Hyundai Elantra. With a few years of technique, I’d grown immensely as a vocalist. But a recital for a bunch of super refined, polished performers? No, thank you. 

Unfortunately for me and my uptight comfort zone, the showcase was never an invitation; it was a command. Like all her students, I was going, whether I wanted to or not. “Isn't this for real singers?” I protested. She scoffed at my squeamish doubt like it was beyond ridiculous. “Well, DUH!” she sang. “That's why you’re on the program, hello!” She rolled her eyes, yet they still smiled. “And Babe, don't forget your guitar,” she added coyly. “But quit hiding behind it, damnit!”

As far as she was concerned, I belonged. As far as I was concerned, my musical career (and ability to show my face on campus) was coming to an end. I'll never forget that experience-it was horrific. No one else remotely resembled what I had to offer - which I felt was nothing but an embarrassing heap of emotions in a stupid, homemade song that sounded a lot cooler when I played it on my bed with no audience. 

At first I stammered, self-conscious and mortified. But my eyes quickly found Boss in the audience, beaming with exuberant pride, insisting I wasn't out of place at all. Her smirk seemed to say: Why do you care so much about their opinions? That isn’t the point! If people are gonna talk, then give them something to talk about! 

In September 2011, an unfortunate incident left my voice literally scarred. My boyfriend of two years had been cheating on me. When I confronted him about it, he threw my cell phone out the window, then grabbed me by the throat and choked me. I screamed for help as he covered my mouth. I’ll never forget that feeling of being literally overpowered, of having my voice forcefully silenced. I’ve blamed myself over and over for the damage this did to my vocal chords. I shouldn't have screamed. My vocal folds were badly injured; imprisoned by tension and trauma, causing ulcers and nodes to develop. The swelling and strain that still remains has left a painful lump in my throat ever since.

For awhile, I tried to sing anyway, which in hindsight was extremely foolish. My pipes needed rest, but my soul longed to sing. It was no use. My range was significantly restricted. At one point, my left chord couldn’t vibrate at all, which caused the doctor alarm. He told me I had to quit teaching preschool right away and that I couldn't sing again until things improved. It’s been about six years since that injury, and I still see a voice therapist weekly. Some days I still feel angry and defeated by the pain.

After that happened, Boss made me take it easy; we talked and ate Dove chocolates in place of vocal lessons. I learned more about my voice during those visits on her living room couch than I ever had before. She said it was long past time I learn to say no and stop trying to please everybody. She taught me that it is not only okay to draw healthy boundaries with people, but it is crucial. She continued to encourage me to not worry so much about things out of my control and she reminded me to like myself more. She reminded me that it's okay to stick up for myself like I stick up for others. And she never stopped telling me to be bold in the face of opposition because according to her, I could “do it, dammit!” Nike had nothing on her.

I didn't believe her generous praise for years. Most days, I still don't. The feeling of someone having total confidence in you when you have none is both humbling and profound. Life-changing, even. Boss patiently continued to help me flourish - in all aspects. She listened to me cry plenty but always told me to shape up when I was selling myself short and needed to rise to the occasion. “Don’t be afraid to speak your truth,” she often said. “You are the writer of your story.”

When she died, my voice somehow felt more broken. My coach, my mentor, my confidante, was gone. She died suddenly, a month before I graduated college. I still have her invitation to my graduation barbecue, still sealed in the envelope. When I took her family a card after she died, my wedding announcement picture was on her front table where it had always been next to a plaque that read, “Friends Are the Family You Choose.” How grateful I am she chose me, along with all the others she so generously adored.

I'm still learning to speak my truth and use my voice like Boss so beautifully taught me to. Often, I’m awfully off key-in more ways than one. But I've realized, even in the last few months, I don't have to be so timid or apologetic, so incessantly worried about pleasing the masses that are utterly impossible to please. I can be bold without apology. I can be brave without self-doubt. And whenever I'm off key-because it happens to the best of us-the show will go on.

I miss Boss every day, and I'm not going to get over it like I know she’d tell me to. I wish I could tell her thanks, for teaching me I belong because I’m good at helping others belong. I'm in law school now, largely thanks to her. I want to be a voice for those who need a bold advocate. A voice for the voiceless. Cheesy, I know. She always made me feel cool for wanting to do that, to be that. Like I could make a difference just by loving people. She has made the biggest difference by loving me. 

My first year of law school helped me find my voice in an unexpected way. The first semester, I felt like I did at the vocal showcase: completely out of place and inadequate. I was so worried about pleasing people, terrified to look stupid, and I exhausted myself from never feeling good enough. I had nightmares about getting called on in class and cared about other’s opinions way too much. I let some toxic, hurtful people who I went out of my way to befriend take advantage of my vulnerabilities. And I let the pressure of the grading curve and cutthroat atmosphere undermine me. In undergrad, straight A’s came easy. Here, my determined efforts and hard work seemed in vain. I survived the semester just fine, but was left depleted.

It was daunting. Everyone else seemed to have loads of legal experience and confidence, and at least one attorney relative to help them out. Not me. I worked with kids with special needs before law school and adored my work with all my soul, but I had no place here. I had a bachelor’s degree in child development, zero legal experience, and I’d never even been in a law firm, except to get divorced. 

Second semester, I thought a lot about what Boss taught me; how I’m kind and smart and capable. How I’m a passionate and strong advocate for others. How I don’t need to let people bring me down or pathetically waste all my energy trying to please the un-pleasable. I remembered that hitting a few bad notes doesn’t mean I should give up, but instead, move forward with determination to do better. Because why be mediocre when you can sparkle, right?

One day in my criminal law class we read a child advocacy case, and for the first time in law school -seven months in - I remembered why I came here. I came here because I want to speak up for those who society underestimates and disregards. I came here because I have a gift and passion for championing the underdogs. I came here because I have so much to learn, but also so much to offer! That day it finally clicked: I was worthy to be here as much as anybody else. And I wasn’t all the sudden worthy; I’d been worthy all along. So, be worthy! I thought. Somewhere in heaven right at that moment a certain voice teacher was gloating. 

I’ve never dared run the risk of being confident, but I realized that I finally needed to “get over it.” Quietly, but boldly, I decided to rise from the ashes and finally believe in the version of me Boss always saw me being.

Thanks to her wisdom that still teaches me daily, I finally had the courage to stop being a punching bag for people - obviously without being unkind, but also without being sorry. My grades improved immensely because I finally accepted that I had something to offer as much as the next student. I didn’t suddenly think so highly of myself - not at all! Instead, I humbly remembered whose opinion of me matters. Every day second semester, I asked for God’s help in enabling me to succeed. I was gently reminded there is more to life than law school, but also encouraged to do my best. My hard work, my deliberate effort to be comfortable in my own skin, and my five zillion prayers paid off. My grades, my first legal job, and more importantly, my relationships with others, made me proud. I finally refused to be a doormat for the wrong people, and focused on the amazing ones I am so blessed to have, instead.

Y’all, Boss was right. About everything. But especially this: what others say about you or how others treat you cannot dull your shine. So, step up to the plate, get out of your cocoon, acknowledge the divine being within you, and BECOME!

Boss, I cannot possibly express my gratitude for all you’ve done for me, so I promise to keep singing when I can and looking out for all the underdogs. Thanks for instantaneously believing in a 15-year old underdog and for deliberately and patiently giving her the chance over and over and over to be heard, even when she was barely brave enough to whisper. 

By physically losing my voice, I found the one that’s been inside me all along. Somehow, Boss was right that first day I walked into her office those many years ago. My unorthodox, inadequate voice is so much braver and bigger and more worthy of being heard than I could have ever imagined. And I'm [almost] not even sorry about it. 

So, y’all, please learn this lesson much faster than I did: BE YE NOT DISTRACTED! What others say about you, or how others treat you, CANNOT diminish your personal glory as a child of God. And maybe you don’t believe in Him like Boss and I do. But, at least trust me on this: you are made of the same stuff as stars. So, sparkle. Shine. Be great. Be glorious! Hell, sing in the hallways. The grocery store. The law firm conference room.

And really give them something to talk about.

Love Thy Freaking Neighbor

Let’s get one thing straight right now: I'm not a huge fan of self-righteous people. Maybe that makes me self-righteous for not being thrilled about the self-righteous. I don't know. 

Righteous people? I'm a big fan. Note that righteous is not an adjective exclusively for religious folks. Anyone can be a righteous human being! Righteous is synonymous with noble, ethical, good, honorable, decent, principled, upstanding. Whether you're a person with deep religious convictions that you strive to live or you're simply a good person regardless of any religious affiliation, then please keep doing your thing. I do not expect anyone to be perfect, as that would be incredibly hypocritical of me, not to mention disappointing. But if you're doing your part to be a nice human, I am genuinely a huge fan. Or in the words of the leader of the Free World, "Yuuuuge fan."

Anyway. 

I happen to be one of those religious types, who I hope is also a decent human. Because I’m well-aware that being a religious person does not automatically equate to being a "righteous" one.

I was super blessed to have been raised by parents, who were (and are) righteous, in every sense of the word. My entire existence, they have taught me to be good. They still do. Their wisdom and insight has blessed my life immensely, and their devotion to what they believe is commendable to say the least. In part because of their devotion to their religion, and because my parents are just good people regardless, they have taught me all sorts of lessons, largely by example, even when they didn't realize I was paying any attention. 

They always encouraged me to sit by the person who was sitting alone. They are both great examples of looking out for the underdogs. They encouraged turning the other cheek when people were less than polite, and they taught me to pray to God before I was in preschool. My relationship with Him has been the biggest part of my life and the biggest influence on who I am trying to be. Emphasis on trying. My parents never forced anything, but instead have fostered my faith by living it so well themselves. They have taught me the importance of being like Jesus and what that actually looks like. But, spoiler alert - I have eons to go before I am anything remotely like Him. So please, don't hold that against me. 

One funny thing my Mom has frequently said since I was a little girl has always stuck with me. She is known for excitedly shouting, almost in a singing or catchy jingle sort of way, this specific phrase. Anytime I complain about someone being rude or in the wrong, anytime I get frustrated, anytime I have the sass turned up a little too high, my momma responded with her famous slogan: "Kindness begins with....."

And then one of my siblings or I was supposed to race to finish the sentence with, "ME!" 

Not only was this fun as a kid, and still fun as an adult, because who doesn't like yelling the word "me" at the top of their lungs?  But this lesson that she still reminds me to learn taught me that being kind is valuable. Being kind trumps being right. Being kind trumps being prideful. Being kind trumps being rude. Being kind trumps being judgmental. Being kind even trumps being important. If you get my drift. 

Now, you might prioritize kindness differently than that. That's just the way I see it and I cannot speak for anybody else. But spoiler alert: I'm going to anyway.

One thing that has really bummed me out lately has been watching people that I love and respect share all sorts of hate-filled things in the name of "Christianity" that are not even remotely aligned with true Christianity. It seems that a few folks have forgotten to live the 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be a Hateful, Self-Righteous Idiot. 

I am not suggesting that Christians are the only type of people who may tend to exhibit symptoms of self-righteousness. There are good eggs and rotten apples in every religion, culture, neighborhood, socioeconomic status, or professional occupation. Close-mindedness is not only evident in the Bible thumpers on the far right. Close-mindedness goes ALL directions, and I am well-aware that the pendulum can swing both ways.

But lately, I've been extra disturbed and saddened by some of my fellow Christians sharing hate-filled rhetoric. And that's not the worst part - the worst part is that they actually believe they are taking the moral high ground. It's sick and twisted and I'm SO over it. 

I know that sharing my feelings probably won't change anyone's mind, but I must say that I do not condone the way many people have chosen to treat others, using the scriptures as an excuse. I would love to know one thing: how on earth is acting like a jerk the same thing as being like Jesus? I must have missed that Sunday School lesson...

People can be so close-minded and condescending, and in the name of religion no less. Now, I can't eliminate this problem, and I've probably inadvertently contributed to it myself before because I am so far from perfect and there is always room for improvement. So, excuse my self-righteous sermon on kindness because here it goes.

Enthusiastically wanting to kick people out of our country solely on the fact they are not white or "American" or Christian, is NOT Christian. Wanting to tear children apart from their parents is NOT Christian. 

Treating others as less than yourself because they don't speak English, because they wear different clothes, because their skin color is a few shades darker than yours, because they get married differently than you do, or pray differently than you do, or don't pray at all - those things should all be COMPLETELY irrelevant points in how we decide to treat people. We should just treat people with kindness because they are PEOPLE. 

The thing that KILLS ME and literally EATS ME UP INSIDE, SO MUCH THAT I FEEL A NEED TO DRAMATICALLY KEEP CAPS LOCK ON JUST TO MAKE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR - is that not only can people be obnoxiously, hateful idiots, but THEY CAN BE OBNOXIOUSLY, HATEFUL IDIOTS IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST. 

If you're going to use the Bible to back up your bigotry, you obviously missed the point. While the Old Testament has some pretty intense stories, the New Testament is by far my favorite part of the Bible. 

If you've read the New Testament, then you understand that the entire mission of Christ's life and ministry was to LOVE. And He didn't just love a select group of people. Nope. He loved ALL people EQUALLY. He particularly demonstrated why it was important to love those who were "different," those society views as "lesser," because God loves them JUST the same. Christ didn't hang out with the popular, fancy people. He fished with fishermen. He blessed little children. He administered to those who were crippled or inflicted by diseases. He advocated for sinners and forgave their offenses, teaching others the importance of not casting stones. Yes, he never condoned sin or wickedness. BUT He loved and loves the sinners, because hello?! Aren't we ALL sinners?

The parable of the Good Samaritan illustrates Christ's teachings beautifully. The man known as the Good Samaritan helped a stranger on the side of the road who had been robbed, beat up, and essentially ignored by several other men passing by. One key thing about this story: the Good Samaritan's kindness was culturally unacceptable because the stranded man was a Jew, and the Jews and Samaritans were not huge fans of each other. But the Samaritan man cared more about being kind than he cared about tradition or prejudice. He did the right thing because it was right. He went against a stereotype only to receive no glory or accolades. He didn't do it for the accolades. He spent his own money and his own time on a stranger, a stranger that he had been taught to disregard. But he didn't. Because kindness began with him. 

And it begins with all of us, if we simply decide that it does. Yet, how many of us have passed by others who are suffering without offering them any compassion or encouragement or even good manners? How many of us are too busy? Too self-centered? Too "good" to help someone that isn't as important as we think we are? 

Why is it that we place ourselves above others and think that because we are a certain religion or color or culture, we are better than those who are not like us? Because, fun fact: Jesus Christ was a Jew from the Middle East. He wasn't white. He wasn't blonde. He didn't speak English. And He was even a refugee. 

Just throwing that out there. 

I'd like to mention that I have friends, family, and associates on both sides of the aisle; some staunch Republicans, some diehard Democrats, and everything in between. The stereotype that all Republicans are a bunch of racist, sexist, xenophobic, deer huntin', tobacco spittin' uneducated, country bumpkins who beat their wives and don't share their cake is often untrue. And the stereotype that liberals are a bunch of Godless, arrogant, pompous, immoral sleaze bags who love to murder babies and freedom all while hugging trees is also incredibly inaccurate. 

We all know at least one person who fits each stereotype. Trust me. I grew up in the reddest county in the country where the 2nd Amendment is taught before the alphabet. I am well-acquainted with the bleak reality of stereotypes. But don't forget to thoughtfully evaluate your own snap judgments of others because some idiot(s) may have ruined it for the rest of the group. 

Yes, some of those conservative, white trash, gun-slingin' rednecks can be so kind and so loving and all be darned, so can those snooty booty, arrogant hippie liberals. Amazing, isn't it? 

Politics aside, I'm not saying that to be a good Christian you have to adopt 52 Muslim refugees and wear a "Nasty Woman" shirt to church. Although, both of those things sound really fun. Maybe add them to your bucket list. 

I'm just saying that to be a good Christian, you DO have to be nice. Or at least be TRYING to be. None of us are perfect, but if you profess to be a follower of  Jesus Christ, then let your light shine by being kind to others. Isn't that the whole point of the Gospel? It isn't to force your beliefs on others, it isn't to condemn anybody to hell, and it isn't to judge everyone else's sins when you have your own repenting to do. The point of the Gospel is to treat other people the way that the Savior would. It's a tall order. And trust me, it isn't easy at times. I am not the prime example of how it's done. 

All I'm saying is instead of placing yourself on a pedestal as a good, impressive, noble religious human being, maybe JUST BE ONE!

We've already established that religious people aren't the only ones who elevate themselves on pedestals. I get it, I am well-acquainted with the opposite side of the spectrum and the "open-mindedness" that  is often more closed than my Torts casebook. But I frankly just can't stand watching people use Christianity as a tool to discriminate and mistreat other people. I know it's been going on for years. (I'm looking at you, Crusades.) But it's 2018 and I think it's time we get with the program. 

Under the giant umbrella that is Christianity, there are so many religions. Contrary to popular belief, Mormons are Christians too. The name of our church is the Church of JESUS CHRIST of Latter-day Saints. The Savior is literally the whole point of Mormonism. Because of our belief in Him, we value taking care of the poor and needy; we value the importance of gaining an education; we value the importance of religious freedom for ALL people - including the right to not worship; we value being kind to everybody, period, no matter what; and we value the principle of agency - that men and women are free to choose for themselves whether we agree or disagree. I understand that Mormons, Catholics, Protestants, Baptists, Methodists, Non-Denominational Christians, etc., vary in practice, doctrine, and culture. But for anyone who considers themselves to be a Christian or simply a decent human, isn't being nice the basics? The bare freaking minimum?

It's not as hard as we sometimes make it. If you disagree with someone's religion-great. If you don't like an aspect of how someone lives their life-cool. 

Generally speaking, I don't really care about your opinion. I will [generally] respect it whether it differs from mine or not. If you hate dogs or support white supremacy, then I truly have no clue how to talk to you. Ultimately, I care about how you treat other people. But if you worship or live or think differently than me, fabulous. Isn't that the point and premise of this country? Aren't we supposed to be diverse and not divisive? 

But when you express your stance on an issue by using racial slurs? By insisting that orphans in Aleppo deserve to be blown up because their parents are probably terrorists, and therefore terrorism is in their DNA? Matthew 18:6 teaches us that anyone who harms little children is in for a harsh sentence from the Big Man Upstairs. It would be better for someone who hurts children that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea. For the record. Be careful what you say about any of God's children. #childadvocacysoapbox

How about calling Muslims terrorists? Do you even know anything about what Muslims believe? What about all the white trash terrorists committing "heritage-not-hate" crimes? I took an Islam Studies class at my Mormon college and it was incredibly insightful and enriching to learn about a different religion than my own. Turns out Muslims and Mormons (and all Christians) have a lot more in common than most folks realize. Knowledge is power and ignorance is not bliss. 

How about calling Mexicans rapists? I have one word on that: WRONG. Google Brock Turner's white privilege and his slap on the wrist sentence and get back to me. Just look at all the creepy white people you know. There sure are a lot who like to brag about grabbing women by certain body parts. And a lot who like to assault women with no consequence. But hey, it's just show biz. If you can't think of any creepy white people, I have a list you're welcome to borrow. Also, if you seriously can't think of any at all, maybe it's time for you to self-evaluate. 

Let's discuss presidents of the United States that DON'T brag about sexually assaulting women...I must say that if you were not on the Obama train, fine. I admit that I'm sad for you because I miss that man and Michelle more each and every day, but I concede that you don't have to like him or agree with him. However, it's not okay to be a racist bigot and call our former president derogatory words even though they match perfectly with your Confederate flag bumpersticker. #classy 

Disagreeing? Go for it. Disliking? Sure. Being racist? Being sexist? Being condescendingly CRUEL all while quoting SCRIPTURE??? Come on, y'all. I know we all have our sins. But stick to smoking or drinking or cussing. No need to be disgusting toward your fellow men and women. 

Having strong opinions is fine but when you're sharing them in the name of Christianity, make sure that the way that you are sharing those opinions actually denotes Christianity. 

Nothing about Jesus' life or ministry or love for ALL men AND WOMEN-nothing about HIM ever, ever, EVER excused hate-fueled judgment as "righteousness." Nothing about Him ever allowed racism. Or sexism. Or xenophobia. Nothing about Him ever promoted being rude or conceited or acting better than anybody. 

He - He who was and is PERFECT - was never self-righteous. And when those good old Pharisees were, Christ condemned their behavior. He stood up for a woman who committed adultery; he literally saved her life! He defended the defenseless and emphasized that every single soul is valuable to God. REGARDLESS of what each soul has or hasn't done. 

When I hear people who read the same scriptures as me, mock refugees or make derogatory, uneducated statements about their fellow human beings, my blood literally BOILS. And folks, it takes a LOT for my blood to boil.

Some people justify their hate with good old patriotism. Look, I'm glad to live in America too. But our nation is far from perfect. I mean, we are #1 for gun violence among first world nations, but is that actually something to brag about? Not to mention, our education, healthcare, and justice systems could all use an extreme makeover.

But let's just say our country was perfect. It still would not be acceptable to exhibit all this nastiness at people because they "aren't American." Because they don't speak English that well. Go to Mexico and try to speak Spanish as well as the locals. Best of luck with that. You'll need to know more words than "tacos” and tequila.” 

Aren't we supposed to be a melting pot? Wasn't our country founded by immigrants? Do you think the Native Americans were thrilled  about their home being invaded by a bunch of white, high-maintenance British dudes who fought wars and bickered obnoxiously? At least they brought such a lovely housewarming gift of small pox. I'm no history guru, but I don't remember that the colonists really gave the Native Americans much of a vote on immigration. Unless the Trail of Tears was voted on.... #crickets... Now it's awkward. 

Immigrants who wanted to worship differently-or who didn't want to worship at all is why we have the nation that we have. That is why they crossed the freaking pond! They were sick of being uniformly told how to live their lives and who to pray to. Some of them didn't even like praying! They were so over the Church of England. That's WHY they came! And if it wasn't for that bunch of rebellious, radical immigrant refugees, where would you and I be?

Finally, I want to drive home with a snippet of Mormon history and I hope it resonates with not just people in my church, but everyone else too. 

The early Mormons were literal refugees. They were driven from state to state starting in New York, all the way to the wild, wild west of what is now Utah. I'm still sad they didn't hike a few more miles to California, but whatever. Utah was built by refugees, but before they made it there, many were tarred and feathered, beaten, raped, and killed. They were literally massacred; men, women, and children. The prophet Joseph Smith and several other leaders were repeatedly falsely arrested and imprisoned in deplorable conditions, they were treated violently, and they and their families suffered immensely at the hands of injustice. Why? Because they were different. Because they were new. They were perceived as a threat because they were seen as "infiltrators." With all due respect, who on earth would ever want to infiltrate Missouri? #kansaspride 

Especially in their early history, Mormons were very misunderstood and mistreated as a result of how they worshipped. Others feared the Mormons would outnumber them, take their resources, influence politics, and invade their towns. Sound at all familiar? #merica2018

But there's this super cool guy from history that I've always admired immensely. His name is Alexander Doniphan and he was a nationally renowned lawyer and Missouri politician. He was never a Mormon, but he fought for the constitutional rights of the Mormons, because he was a firm believer in the integrity of the law. For Doniphan, the law trumped being important or cool or popular. He believed in fairness, citing the Constitution as his guide.

Doniphan represented Joseph Smith and other Mormons leaders when they were falsely accused and imprisoned. In 1838, Lillian Boggs, the Missouri governor, specifically ordered Doniphan to kill Joseph Smith for something he did not do. Doniphan was the Brigadier General. He refused to obey this command at the risk of his own life and reputation. He boldly responded: “It is cold-blooded murder. I will not obey your order. My brigade will march for Liberty at 8:00 tomorrow morning, and if you execute these men I will hold you personally responsible before an earthly tribunal, so help me God.” 

Doniphan advocated for a group of people who were deemed peculiar and unwelcome. He didn't advocate for them because he liked what they believed. He advocated for them because he knew they deserved the same rights and privileges that he had. He advocated for them at the risk of his popularity and prestigious career. Even at the risk of his life! He clearly valued kindness and fairness above being cool. Above being powerful. Above being popular. Above being important. Doniphan valued the law and adhered to it in the strictest degree. 

Later that year in October, Lillian Boggs issued the infamous "Extermination Order", which allowed Missourians to legally murder Mormons and run them out of the state. Despite Doniphan's efforts, and the efforts of many other righteous allies, the early Mormons fled for their lives from Missouri to Illinois. Several years later, the prophet Joseph Smith was murdered and the Mormons were driven all the way to the desert and mountains of Utah, where they started to arrive in 1847. 

I was born in Salt Lake City, Utah because of those refugees and because of the many allies who helped offer them refuge. And as much as I love to make fun of all the awful Utah stereotypes, the hiking in Salt Lake City is pretty phenomenal, especially because I've never had to hike while pulling a handcart. And Utah culture aside, I'm way proud of that part of my heritage. I don't think the early pioneers were perfect human beings. But I think they were some pretty dang good ones. I don't think their history is perfect. I do think they were unjustly persecuted for what they believed and I am grateful for their sacrifice and courage; and the many "good Samaritans" who stood by them in spite of their differences.

In my opinion, Mormons better be the kindest and most compassionate people to all the other "underdogs" out there; all the other people seeking safety and refuge. Mormons better be willing to stick up for all people and whatever they believe. Religious freedom is not exclusive to Christianity. Remember that. 

In the name of Jesus Christ, many people designate our nation as belonging to Him, as belonging to only the people who worship Him. 

In April 2016, in a worldwide semi-annual General Conference for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Patrick Keaton stated: "The Savior knows how it feels to be a refugee - He was one. As a young child, Jesus and His family fled to Egypt to escape the murderous swords of Herod And at various points in His ministry, Jesus found Himself threatened and His life in danger, ultimately submitting to the designs of evil men who had plotted His death. Perhaps, then, it is all the more remarkable to us that He repeatedly taught us to love one another, to love as He loves, to love our neighbor as ourselves."

Brother Keaton continued: "We must take a stand against intolerance and advocate respect and understanding across cultures and traditions. Meeting refugee families and hearing their stories with your own ears, and not from a screen or newspaper, will change you...Let us come from our safe places and share with them, from our abundance, hope for a brighter future, faith in God and in our fellowman, and love that sees beyond cultural and ideological difference to the glorious truth that we are ALL children of our Heavenly Father."

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love." (2 Timothy 1:7) 

Shouldn't Christ's believers be the most compassionate? The most willing? The most empathetic? Shouldn't His disciples be the quickest to offer aid and kindness to those who are suffering at the hands of fleeing violence and destruction? Those who are humbly seeking room in the inn?

You can agree with whatever side of the political spectrum you want. But please, do not use the Savior of the World to justify the way that you treat other people, when it is significantly less than polite. That goes for both donkeys and elephants. 

"Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." (Matthew 25:40)

Okay, y'all. Enough of this sassy calling people to repentance. I need to work out my own salvation. It is my sincere hope and prayer that those of us who profess to be disciples of Jesus Christ will take so very seriously our sacred duty to emulate His love that He has for EVERYONE. 

Because, whether your mom sings this to you on a regular basis or not, kindness begins with... 

YOU.  

Build Love, Not Walls

One of my favorite experiences so far in my life was when I went on an undergrad study abroad to Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize.

A lot of my friends assumed I was partying it up and drinking on the beach the whole time. But this was not a typical American spring break-esque excursion. In fact, we only went to the beach for a couple of days right at the very end of our trip. And not one shot of tequila was ever involved. #Mormoncollegestudentlife.

Instead, we stayed in hostels. We spent time with orphans. We went to a school in the middle of nowhere in the hills of Mexico to show the students there how to brush their teeth. Some of the people from that village had never seen a bus before. The entire experience was so surreal and such a privilege to be a part of. 

We even had the privilege of staying with Mormon host families for a few days. My host family bought me and my roommate a brand new fan so that we would have cooler air at night. The three young boys gave us their beds and slept on the hard floor so we could be comfortable. The shower, which was a separate unit, outside of the house, was filled with spiders and the small stream of water that came from the shower head wasn't enough to rinse my wavy, thick hair out. I remember one morning while showering, and trying to avoid the clump of daddy long legs in the corner, I stood there in the heat of the early morning and cried my eyes out. Not because I missed running water. Not because I was worried about my hair (I mean honestly, have you seen my hair? Am I ever actually worried about it? #LostCause) No-I cried because I had never before fully appreciated the amenities I have always been blessed to have; amenities that I have since tried to appreciate on a 24-7 basis. I cried because this poor, humble, hardworking, sweet, Christlike, Mormon family in Tuxtla Gutierrez, Chiapas, Mexico went out of their way to give two strangers everything they had so we could be comfortable in their humble home. A home full of hardly anything material-but filled beyond capacity with love.

On the study abroad, we went to church in places so remote and so run down-places off the beaten path, places with names I could not pronounce no matter how hard I tried. Many of the congregations were small, with Mormon populations in certain areas being more sparse. But their conviction to the Gospel of Jesus Christ was nothing short of big and bold. One of the meetings I particularly remember was in the middle of nowhere in the jungle of Guatemala. Our student group doubled the congregation there in that tiny, remote meetinghouse and we all fit in a small classroom to take the sacrament.

In every village or city we attended church, the members of my church sang the same hymns I sing every Sunday, only in Spanish. This wasn't surprising at all, because the Mormon church is universal all around the globe, with even the Sunday School lessons being on the same schedule in all parts of the world. But what was surprising was that the good saints of Central America seemed to sing with more enthusiastic reverence than I ever had. At one church, the bishop asked me to play the piano in sacrament meeting because nobody in their congregation did. I was thrilled to do something so silly and small to help. A little girl I will never see again turned the pages of the hymn book for me. I will never forget her.

We did plenty of touristy stuff too, don't get me wrong. We hiked pyramids and fed monkeys. I held a wild tarantula. We explored rain forests and caves and zip lined over Guatemala City. We ate incredible food and went swimming in lots of neat places. We also enjoyed countless hours laughing together as friends on a bus with several awesome bus drivers who happily drove us all over Central America-often with no luxury of A/C. 

Many of my friends on the study abroad spoke Spanish. I did not and still do not. I tried my best to roll my "R's." 

But I didn't care. There were times where I felt awkward and stupid because I couldn't dialogue with people as well as my peers could. But something I learned EVERY day on that experience was that love and kindness translate SO much more smoothly into ALL languages than we sometimes realize.

I have an immense love for Mexico, as well as the rest of Central America, and the people who live there. In six short weeks, they taught me so much. They taught me how to be a better Mormon. They taught me how to be a better American. They taught me-without feeling any kind of sorry for themselves-just how much I have been given. And just how grateful I should be-on a daily basis. They taught me that happiness does not come from things. It comes from relationships and making memories. It comes from being kind. It comes from being good. 

Those good people taught me that barriers-whether they are language barriers or something more tangible-don't need to be an issue. They just don't. Life is more fun and more happy and more sweet when we find ways to connect instead of divide. 

I will forever be grateful for my study abroad experience. I'm not being dramatic when I say it was life-changing. I literally think of those sweet people every morning and night when I brush my teeth or when I turn on the water for any reason. 

I think of them when I'm half heartedly singing in my Mormon congregation in Lawrence, Kansas. And when I do, I sing a little louder and prouder. I think about why I'm sitting in that pew and how I can try a little better to be more like the Savior.

I think of those sweet people when I meet someone who has a hard time speaking English. Because heaven knows-my Spanish will never be very eloquent. And on a very small scale, I know how it feels to be the one who talks different. The one who is different. 

I hope humanity will seek to show that walls are not necessary to put between one another. Walls are not worth it. Walls are not kind. 

I am forever indebted to the people of Central America who accepted me fully, in spite of my crappy Spanish and my larger than life, frizzy blonde hair. (Lots of dry shampoo + humidity = major volume, people.) My heart has never been the same since meeting such wonderful people; people who I want to be more like when I finally grow up. 

I hope to live in such a way that demonstrates the principle that kindness trumps hate. Kindness builds bridges. Kindness is a verb. And because of my study abroad experience, I am better at doing it. 

Build love, not walls. Go. Do. Be. 

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.