realizations

It’s been a minute, but I’ve got a story.

Yesterday my flight took off forty minutes late.  This wouldn’t be a problem, except that I only had a fifty-minute layover, and my connection took off ten minutes early (I didn’t even realize taking off early was a thing).  I wasn’t thrilled about taking a later flight, but then all of these things happened:

I got a snack, and the employee discounted my purchase (I paid it forward with her tip).

My yogurt was delicious.

I found a great book and got some candy that I rarely eat but really love.

I got to charge my phone.

When I got on my flight, no one was sitting in the two seats next to me. I had an entire row to myself!

I watched four episodes of a hilarious tv show and had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

The  flight attendant gave me pretzels, cookies, and peanuts.

After a trip away from home, that layover and that flight were delightful introvert recharging time for me.  (I ended up throwing up on the flight–a first–due to some wicked turbulence, but that’s a story for another time.)

When I got home, I took a shower, my dad brought me some Sprite, and I settled into the comfiest pajamas and the comfiest bathrobe and snuggled up under my new Moana blanket.  I fell asleep as the fireworks went off.  It was the best.

 

This reminded me of a pattern in my life.  I (almost always) know what I want, but then I don’t get it, because God has something better in store.  He knows what I need without my even knowing what I need.  I wanted to get home quickly–He knew I needed that layover.  I wanted to be an English major–He knew I’d love teaching.  I wanted to be married at 21–He knew it was not the right time.  I couldn’t see it then, but I am so, so glad that I was not getting married in the midst of what happened the year I was 21. I’m so glad for rescheduled flights, and failed relationships, and promptings to move.  I’m so glad for all of the times I have not gotten what I’ve wanted, because then there has been room for what I’ve needed.

Advertisements
each life that touches ours

The text came in at 12:05, and I thought it was about work so I answered.

“What are you doing?” the message read.

Within fifteen minutes my friend had picked me up, and within an hour we were at a temple south of here.  It was a beautiful night, but dark (1 am can do that to you) and as we drove back I could just barely make out the Wasatch front lining us on the right.

“The mountains are so pretty,” I said, like everyone says.  They’re what friends from Utah missed most during our mission in Virginia.  But I don’t love the mountains because of their beauty; I love them because of what they represent: fortitude and strength and resilience and thousands of years of growth.  They’re a visual reminder from God of, Look, it’s okay, I’ve got you.  Living in this valley is bit like being cradled in the hand of God.

I feel this is true because I always feel a bit like a baby.  The more I know, the more I need.  And all around me are these people who help me.  I didn’t know them three years ago or even 9 months ago but they feel like angels sent from God.

Maybe that’s part of why I came here in the first place.

byu, each life that touches ours

After I stayed up until 6:10 am,

IMG_3657

my best friend met me on campus with a Mountain Dew.

Later we met for an early dinner and talked about #thefuture (vague hashtag referring to housing next year, grad school, careers, and what we’ll eat tomorrow).

Still later she gave me advice on how to respond to a friend’s text about a boy, and then offered to bring me Mountain Dew again tomorrow because, as of 1:08 am, I have had 3.6 hours of sleep in the past 24. She is the world’s greatest.

When I’m sad that a romantic relationship hasn’t worked out with whatever boy is currently on my mind, I’m reminded that I’m so blessed to have a best friend like Karisa.

 

byu, each life that touches ours, literature i love

These parents of mine

Screen Shot 2015-12-23 at 12.06.07 AM

from Pinterest, naturally

Today I sat in my dad’s office and watched my parents exchange business cards.  One of them had just gotten a new one or something, so they swapped and it was really funny but I didn’t have time to Snapchat it.

I tease my parents a lot: “Remember that time I broke my arm and no one believed me?”

Dad: “Yeah, I think we made you go to your siblings’ soccer game.”

Mom: “I know, I know, we’ve scarred you all…”

All joking aside, they’re great parents, and here’s one thing they did really, really well—they encouraged us all to read.

When I was younger we’d go to the local library all the time. I’d write book reports, sometimes for school, sometimes for fun, about stories I read.  In the summers we’d do the reading programs.  For fun, we went to the movies and dinner and the beach, but more than anything we went to Borders.  Night out to dinner? Definitely going to be a Borders trip afterward.

And this is what they did really, really well with encouraging us to read: whenever anyone was in trouble (e.g. sent to their room, grounded) nothing was allowed except reading.  There was no TV, no music, no phone, no hanging out with friends…but reading was totally kosher.  And that, my dear friends, is how one of my brothers ended up reading this random novel my mom had picked up the previous year but no one had touched yet…which is how we all discovered HARRY POTTER and our lives were forever changed for the better.

So last week I took three finals on Monday and first thing Tuesday morning I went to the library to treat myself.  Picked up a foreign film, two classics, and a book. Because that’s fun to me.  And amidst studying for finals, packing to come home, and now being at home, I’ve been switching between Jon Meacham’s book about the friendship between FDR and Churchill, and a biography about Sandra Day O’Connor, and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

Now, back in my house, I’m reminded of all of the books I’ve yet to read, just within my own house. I never did finish The American Political Tradition back when I started it as a sixth-grader and learned what “hindsight” meant.  Or Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth.  There are dozens of religious books written by professors I can take classes from at BYU (how cool is that. Three weeks ago I went to a lecture with 300 other people to hear a world-renowned scholar expound on the relationship between understanding the nature of God and understanding the nature of man, and all I could think was, “My mom has books by this guy.”).  And of course, my mother’s nightstand is layered with novels and self-help books and fitness books and all sorts of knowledge.

It took me a long time to realize how good my parents are at fostering a love of learning, but I’m so grateful that they are.