"It isn't as bad as you sometimes think it is. It all works out. Don't worry. I say that to myself every morning. It will all work out. Put your trust in God, and move forward with faith and confidence in the future. The Lord will not forsake us. He will not forsake us. If we will put our trust in Him, if we will pray to Him, if we will live worthy of His blessings, He will hear our prayers."
President Gordon B. Hinckley, from the funeral program of his wife, the late Marjorie Pay Hinckley
Do parents ever stop trying to control their children's lives? They do actually want what's best for us, right? Like what will make us most happy? Maybe they just look at situations with the hindsight and regret of middle/old age. Will some parent who reads this please help me understand your perspective?
On a more serious note, whoever first put together chocolate and pretzels is a genius.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Friday, February 05, 2010
I am a child.
This is what journalism is all about.
This is what the gospel is all about.
This is my stake.
Please read this article. Let me know your thoughts.
I know the people in this article. I have gay friends and relatives. I think we all do. I think this article (as well as the movement in my stake, all of which happened while I was a missionary) is the best I've ever read on the subject. But, tell me what you think.
I will not say which school I subbed at today. I will say it was a harrowing experience, one that's left me spiritually, emotionally, mentally exhausted. A transvestite was in my first period class. Probably 17-years-old. Throughout the day I was exposed to lewd, base, immoral conduct and vulgarities, from high school-age BABIES. As a good friend of mine once commented to me (a non-LDS friend): "Lisa, how can I bring kids into the world with all the evil and wickedness? I just can't do it. It's not right."
No, it's not right, but we must do it anyway. We must be unafraid. We must grow our faith until it trumps our fear.
I've asked myself many pivotal questions today, those questions whose answers reinvent our spiritual core. What will I do if the man I marry turns out to be gay? What if I have a gay child? What if my children choose to disobey the gospel for a time? For the duration of their lives? What will I do when my children are mocked and belittled for their beliefs?
I know what I will do. I will stand tall. I will arm myself with faith. As one of my favorite hymns says: "Gird up your loins. Fresh courage take. Our God will never us forsake. ...All is well."
And it is.
This is what the gospel is all about.
This is my stake.
Please read this article. Let me know your thoughts.
I know the people in this article. I have gay friends and relatives. I think we all do. I think this article (as well as the movement in my stake, all of which happened while I was a missionary) is the best I've ever read on the subject. But, tell me what you think.
I will not say which school I subbed at today. I will say it was a harrowing experience, one that's left me spiritually, emotionally, mentally exhausted. A transvestite was in my first period class. Probably 17-years-old. Throughout the day I was exposed to lewd, base, immoral conduct and vulgarities, from high school-age BABIES. As a good friend of mine once commented to me (a non-LDS friend): "Lisa, how can I bring kids into the world with all the evil and wickedness? I just can't do it. It's not right."
No, it's not right, but we must do it anyway. We must be unafraid. We must grow our faith until it trumps our fear.
I've asked myself many pivotal questions today, those questions whose answers reinvent our spiritual core. What will I do if the man I marry turns out to be gay? What if I have a gay child? What if my children choose to disobey the gospel for a time? For the duration of their lives? What will I do when my children are mocked and belittled for their beliefs?
I know what I will do. I will stand tall. I will arm myself with faith. As one of my favorite hymns says: "Gird up your loins. Fresh courage take. Our God will never us forsake. ...All is well."
And it is.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Mosiah 18:9
Fourth grade yesterday. The kids were good. SO GOOD. Their teacher must be amazing.
Just before music an eager-to-please young lady remarked to me: "Wow, Miss R, your teeth look like fangs!" Other students looked at her, wondering if she had any clue what she'd just said. I told this student, "You're lucky my feelings don't get hurt. That was not a nice thing to say to someone. I would advise you never tell anyone their teeth look like fangs ever again." Meaning, you could get beat up for talking to someone like that, and you're in fourth grade, so you should know better by now.
I had morning recess duty. A young boy who was not in my class and who I had never seen ran over to me, immediately locked arms with me, and hung on like a baby cub being stalked by a predator. He told me his name, that he was from Japan. He wouldn't look at me. Then, in an unprecedented move, he hugged me! Was it a dare? Did he fall sway to that unspeakable attraction many children have toward me? I don't know, because just as quickly as he came, he left.
No sooner had this young man left, when five girls from my class started stampeding toward me, shouting something. At a ten foot distance, they were still charging, so I ran. What are they shouting at me? I thought. "Catch the cutie!" they yelled. "Catch her!" "You're too cute to not be chased!" "Miss R, do you have a boyfriend?" (This is the number one question I'm asked by female students). "Catch the cutie catch the cutie catch the cutie!"
After talking with the herd for a few minutes, "fang" girl ran up to me holding a picture she drew. Of me.
"Wow, thanks," I said.
"Miss R, can I sing you a song?" "Fang" girl says. "Sure."
The herd left as "fang" girl, who was the nerd of the class, serenaded me with her best rendition of "You Raise Me Up." It was actually mildly impressive. She was perfectly in tune, and that song requires some technical skill. "Well done," I told her. I meant it.
When I arrived at the school in the morning, the TA who took me to my class told me about one "problem student." Behavioral issues, she said. This little boy was the sweetest little boy all day. I saw anger in him, for sure. But my heart went out to this kid. Later in the day, the kids worked on their "What it means to be a friend" essays. This boy was working on his concept map, but not very successfully. "What is wrong?" I asked him. "I can't write this essay because I have no friends. I don't know what it means to be a friend because I have no friends."
It reminded me of a kid in my fifth grade class, Bowie. One day, as we worked on a similar friend project, Bowie told my teacher he couldn't complete the assignment because his rolodex of friends was empty. My heart cried out to Bowie that day, just as it did to this little boy yesterday. It went out to him because, from my observations at recess and in the class, he was telling the truth. No one talked to him, and if they did, it was to berate him. I caught multiple children doing that to him throughout the day, and to "fang" girl. Behavioral problems aside, the one thing I DO NOT tolerate in children is talking down to one another. This young boy was intelligent. He had trouble focusing on his own, but he could multiply and write and spell and read as well as the brain of the class. He just needed someone to sit with him and help him keep on task. As I sat with him to work on his idea map, me trying to hide my tears, this little boy opened up enough to tell me he felt like his teacher was his only friend. His teacher. So we listed qualities his teacher had as his only friend: He would do anything for me, Friends defend each other, Friends are always there for each other, Friends never leave each other. It was so pure. I'm tearing up even now. Because friendship denotes the purest love. That's what I saw in this boy. The pure love he wanted to share with others if given a chance.
It's times like these that confirm for me how much I want to be a teacher. I have always detested loneliness. It's difficult and undeserved at any age. But for a child to feel so lonely and unloved and outcast. It's not right. It breaks my heart.
I got the job at Wells Fargo.
Just before music an eager-to-please young lady remarked to me: "Wow, Miss R, your teeth look like fangs!" Other students looked at her, wondering if she had any clue what she'd just said. I told this student, "You're lucky my feelings don't get hurt. That was not a nice thing to say to someone. I would advise you never tell anyone their teeth look like fangs ever again." Meaning, you could get beat up for talking to someone like that, and you're in fourth grade, so you should know better by now.
I had morning recess duty. A young boy who was not in my class and who I had never seen ran over to me, immediately locked arms with me, and hung on like a baby cub being stalked by a predator. He told me his name, that he was from Japan. He wouldn't look at me. Then, in an unprecedented move, he hugged me! Was it a dare? Did he fall sway to that unspeakable attraction many children have toward me? I don't know, because just as quickly as he came, he left.
No sooner had this young man left, when five girls from my class started stampeding toward me, shouting something. At a ten foot distance, they were still charging, so I ran. What are they shouting at me? I thought. "Catch the cutie!" they yelled. "Catch her!" "You're too cute to not be chased!" "Miss R, do you have a boyfriend?" (This is the number one question I'm asked by female students). "Catch the cutie catch the cutie catch the cutie!"
After talking with the herd for a few minutes, "fang" girl ran up to me holding a picture she drew. Of me.
"Wow, thanks," I said.
"Miss R, can I sing you a song?" "Fang" girl says. "Sure."
The herd left as "fang" girl, who was the nerd of the class, serenaded me with her best rendition of "You Raise Me Up." It was actually mildly impressive. She was perfectly in tune, and that song requires some technical skill. "Well done," I told her. I meant it.
When I arrived at the school in the morning, the TA who took me to my class told me about one "problem student." Behavioral issues, she said. This little boy was the sweetest little boy all day. I saw anger in him, for sure. But my heart went out to this kid. Later in the day, the kids worked on their "What it means to be a friend" essays. This boy was working on his concept map, but not very successfully. "What is wrong?" I asked him. "I can't write this essay because I have no friends. I don't know what it means to be a friend because I have no friends."
It reminded me of a kid in my fifth grade class, Bowie. One day, as we worked on a similar friend project, Bowie told my teacher he couldn't complete the assignment because his rolodex of friends was empty. My heart cried out to Bowie that day, just as it did to this little boy yesterday. It went out to him because, from my observations at recess and in the class, he was telling the truth. No one talked to him, and if they did, it was to berate him. I caught multiple children doing that to him throughout the day, and to "fang" girl. Behavioral problems aside, the one thing I DO NOT tolerate in children is talking down to one another. This young boy was intelligent. He had trouble focusing on his own, but he could multiply and write and spell and read as well as the brain of the class. He just needed someone to sit with him and help him keep on task. As I sat with him to work on his idea map, me trying to hide my tears, this little boy opened up enough to tell me he felt like his teacher was his only friend. His teacher. So we listed qualities his teacher had as his only friend: He would do anything for me, Friends defend each other, Friends are always there for each other, Friends never leave each other. It was so pure. I'm tearing up even now. Because friendship denotes the purest love. That's what I saw in this boy. The pure love he wanted to share with others if given a chance.
It's times like these that confirm for me how much I want to be a teacher. I have always detested loneliness. It's difficult and undeserved at any age. But for a child to feel so lonely and unloved and outcast. It's not right. It breaks my heart.
I got the job at Wells Fargo.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
What a difference a day makes.
I wonder these days if I am too independent. Too confident. I've been told many times that I am very intimidating, but I've also been told many times that I'm not intimidating at all.
In high school I was voted "Least Intimidating" because of my happy-happy-joy-joy pep and demeanor. I think old age and life experience has softened this a bit, though I do frequently resort to being insatiably happy. Why not, when life is what it is.
A wise friend once told me that marriage is for two people who don't necessarily need each other, but they want/choose to be together, because they love each other. They make each other better. In time, because of this betterment, they realize that they are nothing without the other person. I've observed this in many relationships. Namely my parents'. Sometimes they're hard to get along with, and who isn't, but I treasure those times that I've watched them work it out. It doesn't take much. It takes love. But I was always in awe of this as a child, that two people who got frustrated with each other could refrain from getting upset, from getting irritated, from yelling and fighting as my siblings and I were so wont to do.
There are few times in my life that I've needed someone, and I used to pride myself in this. But as I've grown older, I've learned that just like I needed my parents when I was a baby, I need someone now to help me grow into who I need to be. It's a weird feeling. I think I realized it best as a missionary, sharing both good and not-so-good times with companions.
I guess what I'm saying is that to those of you who've seen me at my weakest, thank you for sticking with me. I don't like showing weakness. I rarely do. I feel vulnerable when I do. But I know I need to. I frequently feel at my weakest these days, as the frustrations of job hunting and the haze of the future rest squarely upon my shoulders. I have been unduly blessed with the best of friends. And I feel so humbled every time I feel your love and support. Undeserving really.
I slept for 9.5 hours last night, and I am feeling much better.
Today I subbed in a 2nd grade class in Sugarhouse. Music was playing on the PA as I walked in--old time music that takes you back to a time you wish you lived in because supposedly everyone was happier then and life was simpler and cars were longer and bigger and Mac products hadn't even been thought of yet. The kids didn't believe me when we played two truths and a lie and I told them I play in a rock band (true, although it may or may not be classified as a rock band). One of the kids wrote a book called "Captain Fart Man" in honor of the Captain Underpants series (one of my favorites. My brother's Captain Underpants name was Poopsy Chucklebutt). Another kid called me over as he wrote his story. He said to me: "Miss R, I used to live in London for five years before that I lived in Boston when I lived in London I went to a building that was never bombed because Hitler wanted it for his office my story is about Nazis my great-grandpa fought in World War 2 he was American he won lots of medals he died when I was four i met him and two days later he died. Mrs. R I need to know how to spell Hitler."
Whoa there.
Which grade level should I request for Teach For America?!?!?! I love them all!!! I have no clue.
Anyway, I am off to bite the bursitis bullet. Meaning, I am going running!!!! I am so excited. Pray that I don't get bone spurs for this one.
In high school I was voted "Least Intimidating" because of my happy-happy-joy-joy pep and demeanor. I think old age and life experience has softened this a bit, though I do frequently resort to being insatiably happy. Why not, when life is what it is.
A wise friend once told me that marriage is for two people who don't necessarily need each other, but they want/choose to be together, because they love each other. They make each other better. In time, because of this betterment, they realize that they are nothing without the other person. I've observed this in many relationships. Namely my parents'. Sometimes they're hard to get along with, and who isn't, but I treasure those times that I've watched them work it out. It doesn't take much. It takes love. But I was always in awe of this as a child, that two people who got frustrated with each other could refrain from getting upset, from getting irritated, from yelling and fighting as my siblings and I were so wont to do.
There are few times in my life that I've needed someone, and I used to pride myself in this. But as I've grown older, I've learned that just like I needed my parents when I was a baby, I need someone now to help me grow into who I need to be. It's a weird feeling. I think I realized it best as a missionary, sharing both good and not-so-good times with companions.
I guess what I'm saying is that to those of you who've seen me at my weakest, thank you for sticking with me. I don't like showing weakness. I rarely do. I feel vulnerable when I do. But I know I need to. I frequently feel at my weakest these days, as the frustrations of job hunting and the haze of the future rest squarely upon my shoulders. I have been unduly blessed with the best of friends. And I feel so humbled every time I feel your love and support. Undeserving really.
I slept for 9.5 hours last night, and I am feeling much better.
Today I subbed in a 2nd grade class in Sugarhouse. Music was playing on the PA as I walked in--old time music that takes you back to a time you wish you lived in because supposedly everyone was happier then and life was simpler and cars were longer and bigger and Mac products hadn't even been thought of yet. The kids didn't believe me when we played two truths and a lie and I told them I play in a rock band (true, although it may or may not be classified as a rock band). One of the kids wrote a book called "Captain Fart Man" in honor of the Captain Underpants series (one of my favorites. My brother's Captain Underpants name was Poopsy Chucklebutt). Another kid called me over as he wrote his story. He said to me: "Miss R, I used to live in London for five years before that I lived in Boston when I lived in London I went to a building that was never bombed because Hitler wanted it for his office my story is about Nazis my great-grandpa fought in World War 2 he was American he won lots of medals he died when I was four i met him and two days later he died. Mrs. R I need to know how to spell Hitler."
Whoa there.
Which grade level should I request for Teach For America?!?!?! I love them all!!! I have no clue.
Anyway, I am off to bite the bursitis bullet. Meaning, I am going running!!!! I am so excited. Pray that I don't get bone spurs for this one.
Monday, February 01, 2010
I saw Spring today.
Junior high. Thank you for the laughs. Today I was asked on a date by a student. I overheard some not-so-discreet young men discussing my level of hotness. I was mistaken for Taylor Swift. I was deemed "coolest sub ever" by sixth period.
Glad to know I can roll with 8th graders.
Glad to know I can roll with 8th graders.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thank you, Jeffreys.
The poet Robert Browning wrote:
"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”
Some of you may wonder: Is there any future for me? What does a new year or a new semester, a new major or a new romance, a new job or a new home hold for me? Will I be safe? Will life be sound? Can I trust in the Lord and in the future? Or would it be better to look back, to go back, to stay in the past?
- Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
---
As President Monson poignantly put it in the April 2009 General Conference: "The future is as bright as our faith." How true that is.
"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”
Some of you may wonder: Is there any future for me? What does a new year or a new semester, a new major or a new romance, a new job or a new home hold for me? Will I be safe? Will life be sound? Can I trust in the Lord and in the future? Or would it be better to look back, to go back, to stay in the past?
- Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
---
As President Monson poignantly put it in the April 2009 General Conference: "The future is as bright as our faith." How true that is.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Things I should have done.
Thank you Weiser Idaho for a memorable weekend.
I rode a horse, drove a tractor, fed cattle, peed in a lean-to, watched a dog cuddle with a dead calf, went to a high school basketball game, and remembered how much I love being a missionary. All of these were firsts except the first and last. I am all about firsts.
I found out today that my old music teacher died of stomach cancer on the 15th. One day as I put the neck on my saxophone, Tony, a die-hard astrologist, cried, "Whoa Lisa, when were you born?" I told him. He pointed to a poster of Charlie Parker, hanging on the wall above me. The birth date said August 29, 1920, only a few days after mine. Then he pointed to the neck of Parker's sax, and to the neck of mine. "You're both Virgos," Tony said. "And look, you play with the neck at the same angle Charlie Parker did." Tony thought I channeled Charlie Parker when I played. Maybe I did. I was playing "Fly Me to the Moon" pretty decently after two lessons, so I could have.
Tony got me started on the bass guitar, and he sold me my Fender Mexican Strat and little Danelectro amp. And I think he was my biggest fan. He encouraged me to pursue music as a career. "You have what it takes," he'd say.
Over Christmas I felt prompted over and over that me and my siblings needed to go visit Tony. We knew he was sick. Every time I'd drive by his studio I'd think, "Go see Tony." Of course I ignored it and we didn't go.
The summer before Grandma died, I thought and thought, "I need to interview Grandma on video." Then I thought, "No, I'll do it at Thanksgiving." She died November 5.
The morning Kaye died, I was cooking spaghetti sauce. Sister Morrill had just had surgery and was dozing in a Vicodin-induced super slumber. I needed some herbs; I wanted fresh basil from Kaye's garden, just across the street. I should just go get some, I thought. Really I need to. The thought came and came and came, but I stayed put and stayed put and stayed put because I wasn't supposed to leave Mo.
I will never know.
I rode a horse, drove a tractor, fed cattle, peed in a lean-to, watched a dog cuddle with a dead calf, went to a high school basketball game, and remembered how much I love being a missionary. All of these were firsts except the first and last. I am all about firsts.
I found out today that my old music teacher died of stomach cancer on the 15th. One day as I put the neck on my saxophone, Tony, a die-hard astrologist, cried, "Whoa Lisa, when were you born?" I told him. He pointed to a poster of Charlie Parker, hanging on the wall above me. The birth date said August 29, 1920, only a few days after mine. Then he pointed to the neck of Parker's sax, and to the neck of mine. "You're both Virgos," Tony said. "And look, you play with the neck at the same angle Charlie Parker did." Tony thought I channeled Charlie Parker when I played. Maybe I did. I was playing "Fly Me to the Moon" pretty decently after two lessons, so I could have.
Tony got me started on the bass guitar, and he sold me my Fender Mexican Strat and little Danelectro amp. And I think he was my biggest fan. He encouraged me to pursue music as a career. "You have what it takes," he'd say.
Over Christmas I felt prompted over and over that me and my siblings needed to go visit Tony. We knew he was sick. Every time I'd drive by his studio I'd think, "Go see Tony." Of course I ignored it and we didn't go.
The summer before Grandma died, I thought and thought, "I need to interview Grandma on video." Then I thought, "No, I'll do it at Thanksgiving." She died November 5.
The morning Kaye died, I was cooking spaghetti sauce. Sister Morrill had just had surgery and was dozing in a Vicodin-induced super slumber. I needed some herbs; I wanted fresh basil from Kaye's garden, just across the street. I should just go get some, I thought. Really I need to. The thought came and came and came, but I stayed put and stayed put and stayed put because I wasn't supposed to leave Mo.
I will never know.
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