Reverence Does NOT Begin with Me. (Part 1)

(What Sunshine, Dinosaurs, and Potatoes Have In Common.)

I have attended church regularly throughout my life. I'm actually in a point in life where I love going to church. I no longer have to wrestle unruly toddlers or soothe cranky babies, I no longer have to pick up spilled crayons from under the pew or try to locate a child's lost shoe that has inexplicably disappeared sometime in the past 45 minutes. (PSA to Mothers of Young Children: IT GETS BETTER.) Being at church helps me rejoice in Jesus, motivates me to be better, and knits my heart to my ward (congregation) family. And most days, it fills my soul bucket. 

But reverence has been a bit of a problem my entire life. And sadly, I'm not really growing out of that.

For much of the past 10 years, I have served in Relief Society, which is the women's organization. First on a ward level, and then representing 12 wards on the stake level. I loved loved LOVED the women that I got to work and interact with in this calling. Amazing women! Rubbing shoulders with, and learning from them was a great blessing. However, I really should always be relegated to the sidelines and not front and center. Because things just tend to go south when I am in the spotlight.

Case in point. There was the time I was conducting a meeting, and it was the first time we had all met together as a ward. (During my four years in the ward RS presidency, we changed boundaries 3x, so 4 different configurations.) Anyway, as it was our first time meeting together, a large portion of these women had not yet been introduced to me or to my Christy Moments. 

I started off with a rah-rah (but sincere) speech about how excited we were as a presidency to get to know everyone, and how grateful we were for the opportunity to love & serve & learn from them. I then announced the rest of the agenda:

"We'll have an opening prayer by (name). And then our opening hymn will be page 227,"There is Sunshine in My Hole." 

Except the name of the song is "There is Sunshine in My Soul." (Not to be confused with hole.)

It might have slid by with only a handful of people noticing. But then my pal Emily, who was the 2nd counselor, incredulously called out from her seat, "Did you just say 'Sunshine in my HOLE'?" And things went downhill from there.

I told my family about the faux pas, and because we all have the sense of humor of a 3rd grader, we laughed and laughed. My nieces and nephews got in on the joke. My brother Spencer alone told 3 or 4 dozen of his closest friends. 

So now I have ruined that hymn for at least 95 people. And by sharing it on my blog, I've probably hit 100. I actually feel a little bad about that. But giggles and craned heads ensue whenever any of us are in a meeting and they start singing that song. And my phone blows up with texts whenever the Tab Choir sings it. 

I think I'll have everyone sing that at my funeral. It only seems appropriate.

But for the record, if we find that "There is Sunshine In My Soul" doesn't make the cut for the New Hymnbook, you can blame me.

I think during that very same RS meeting (or one right around that same time period), I had another Christy Moment. I was holding a tupperware container filled with 100 tiny little slips of paper. Sheena, our fearless president (whom I adore), had painstakingly written every single woman's name on an individual slip of paper.  Each week, we would draw a name from the bowl, and that sister would take some time to tell everyone about herself the following week via the "Friendship Basket".

I was holding the container in preparation for that week's drawing, and I'm not sure exactly what happened. But suddenly, the bowl went flying, and all of those little papers went flying into the air. They then slowly drifted down, like a ticker tape confetti parade, right in church. And I found myself on my hands and knees, in front of everyone, picking up every last scrap of paper and wishing we had used a different method of choosing people. And Sheena was wishing she had used a different method of picking a 1st Counselor.   

I'm sure the Stake RS President could relate with Sheena. When I was called into the Stake RS Presidency, the poor president, my pal Susan, had no idea what she was in for... at least until one of our very first meetings. I thought I should warn the presidency of a few of my limitations. As a way of introduction, I told these ladies, "So I am really good at helping set up or clean up or anything else you might need me to do. But I am TERRIBLE at planning activities or events. For instance, I wouldn't have the slightest clue of how many pans of funeral potatoes would be required to serve 100 people."

Well, that's what I meant to say.

Instead, I said, "For instance, I wouldn't have any idea of how many baked potatoes would be required to serve 100 people."

There was a pregnant pause, the other three ladies looked at me in confusion, and my pal Julie said, "Um.... wouldn't that be 100 potatoes?"

Noted.

And now you (and I) know. 100 potatoes for 100 people. Go figure.

Speaking of Julie, she's one of those people that I really cannot sit near -- (Or within eyeshot. Or within earshot. Or really within a mile. ) -- during an event requiring a serious or reverent or professional tone. (Read: No Giggling Allowed.) So that was often problematic, as most of our interactions together happened to be during church meetings. 

One time we were visiting with the presidency of a ward in our stake. While driving to make some visits, somehow the topic came around to my dear friends Kaleigh and Taylor who have a pet snapping turtle. Except my mind completely went blank, and for whatever reason, it could not pull up the phrase "snapping turtle."

"They have the COOLEST pet," I said, "It's a ----shoot.... what is the name...I'm spacing it.... "

And then, trying to narrow things down, I said thoughtfully, "Hmmmm.... It's not a dinosaur...."

Noted.

Julie immediately said, "Well I would hope not!" She then said, straight-faced, "I'm so glad you clarified that though. Because "dinosaur" was at the very top of my list of Possible Pets your friends might have. So it's a good thing we got that crossed off the list, because that's one of the first pets I would've guessed"

We then laughed until we cried. For the next 1.5 hours. 

Throughout the rest of our meeting, we were completely and utterly useless. We would pull it together only to snort-explode back into tears & laughter. (#sorrySusan)

It's apparently one of those "you had to be there" moments. Because even recently, years after the fact, we were trying to tell Julie's husband about it, and we both were laughing so hard we could hardly get the words out. And for some absurd reason, he was NOT crying and gasping for air and looking for the nearest restroom.

Just know if you ever need to break me, simply whisper to me, "It's NOT a dinosaur..." and I will come completely undone.

Speaking of breaks, it's probably time for one. While it would be nice if these were my only Major Church Reverence Breakdown Incidents, they are not. So stay tuned for Part 2. 

Seven Seconds, and Naked Cartwheels.

First, I would like to make something perfectly clear. I have never done a cartwheel, naked, in front of the TV. But Chad's family thought for years that I had. 

We'll get to that later.

My parents really liked sports. Particularly BYU sports and any game their child happened to be playing at the time. I would occasionally inwardly squirm at my mom's loud commentary on how she 'didn't know why the coach insists on playing that kid, he always misses his shots.'  Or my Dad holding his eyeglasses up and hollering to the ref, "Need these?"  But in a warped, "I've Become My Parents" twist, to my embarrassment, when watching my kids play ball, the Peppy Parent would come out and I'd find myself a-hollering. 

Usually it wasn't at the refs. It was just a constant stream of Helpful Tips to the Team, as if they might forget to BOX OUT or play DEFENSE if I didn't yell it. (#you'rewelcome)

I have a difficult enough time remembering the appropriate order of things (Think First. Speak Second.) in normal day-to-day life. But when my kids were playing sports, it was worse than normal.

My sideline chatter often got me in trouble. One that I still feel bad about, years later, is that time when Chad filmed our daughter Aerin's high school basketball game. And gave a version to the coach WITH audio. I do not know what I said, but I must have had some less-than-Christlike-commentary, based upon the coldness that the coach and some of his parent friends exhibited afterwards.  My weak excuse is that she was my first and I got better at not being an obnoxious parent with subsequent years and children. But still. It makes me sad that I said anything unkind, and I cannot laugh about it.

However, there are other incidents that we laugh a lot about, which have become part of our oft-repeated Family Lore. 

Like the time I was watching Morgan play on a comp basketball team. We were in a high school gym that had the scoreboard made up of the red bulb lights. We were at a weird angle to the scoreboard, and it was difficult to see. At least that's the excuse I use to make myself feel a bit better.

At the end of the game, I looked at the scoreboard clock, and the time was running out. There were only 7 seconds remaining. Yet our team was just nonchalantly dribbling the ball down the court. Obviously they were not paying attention to the timeclock. In the Helpful Tips Fan Mode referenced above, I screamed at the top of my lungs, "SEVEN SECONDS!!!"

My daughter Aerin, who was sitting next to me, turned and said, exasperated, "Until What??!!" A few others in front of me turned and looked at me with curiousity. 

It was at that point that Aerin showed me that there was something like 8 minutes and 7 seconds left. Not 7 seconds. And it was not even close to the end of the game. I'm not sure why I was so confused. Part of me wanted to yell an addendum like, "SEVEN SECONDS.....UNTIL YOU HAVE 8 MINUTES LEFT...... AND BY THE WAY, DON'T FORGET TO BOX OUT!"  

But for once in my life I stayed quiet. 

I was quite reverent, in fact, for the rest of that game. (#Reverencebeginswithme) (Except for when it doesn't.)

In another stellar Fan moment, I was watching Aerin play high school basketball. Our school, Lehi, was playing Grantsville. At the beginning of the game, when they lined up for the Tip Off, the dreaded Peppy Parent came out, and I yelled encouragingly, "ALRIGHT, LET'S GO ALTA!!!"

Alta is the high school I attended, something like 25 yrs earlier. 

Apparently once a Hawk, always a Hawk.

Because I had picked a time for my outburst when the gym was relatively quiet, and then there was a slight delay in the jump ball, it kind of echoed throughout the gym. Lots of people seemed to hear it. There was a pregnant pause as people processed the fact that I was cheering for a team that was NOT actually playing this match. But then one by one, heads turned to look at me. It was like the wave, only with heads turning, row by row, up the bleachers to where I sat. 

Had I been smart, I would have turned and looked behind me, at the idiot cheering for a random unrelated team. But I think I have already proved that my brain was not razor sharp that day.

After that, my kids often chose to sit with friends at the games. Or strangers. Or the opposite team. Or the opposite team's band. Just as long as it distanced them from their mom. (#sorrykids) 

Chad is a big sports fan. Particularly football and basketball. He played football for a year in college. He's coached little league for all but 2 of the past 20 years. Chad is also a very FOCUSED person. I learned back in high school that it was not a good idea to try to have any sort of a conversation with him on Game Day. In college, I learned to not expect interaction for the entire week leading up to a game. And after we were married, I learned that the same passion and focus he had when he played was now just directed at watching the college football game on the TV screen.

Shortly after we were married, while poking fun at his obsession and laser focus, I told his family that when a college football game was on the TV, I could do a cartwheel naked and he would simply tell me that I was blocking the screen. I was speaking theoretically. It was an exaggeration, of course. At least I meant it to be. I never actually tested the theory. 

Because I'm just not that good at cartwheels.  

But his family took me literally. And for years, they thought I made a practice of cartwheeling around our tiny duplex buck naked. And that Chad simply took no notice. I think they were a bit disappointed when, years later, that little myth was cleared up. (Perhaps Chad was a little disappointed as well.) 

Although whether he would have noticed or not is still up in the air.

However, my expectations for Chad's undivided attention have mellowed through the years. I try to keep the interruptions to a minimum when he's watching a big game. (Which in our world means 75 interruptions instead of 7500. #you'rewelcomedear)  

And every so often, I'll join him on the couch to watch the big game. And to remind the football team to BOX OUT.  

"My, don't you look (pause).. SPARKLY?" (Makeup Mishaps, Part 2)

So now it's time for a continuation of Beauty Blunders by yours truly, Part 2 of our Makeup Mishaps series. Some of these unfortunate events are due to plain old dumb luck. Others had more to do with dumb choices. 

For instance, it's completely my fault that I turned into Quasimodo one fateful evening.

I was experimenting with essential oils, having heard much about their Magical Cure All Properties. I had been struggling with an illness -- I'm gonna guess sinus infection because historically that was my main nemesis. My kind friend Sheena lent me some of her essential oils to help me get over it.

One warning her husband gave me, when delivering the oils, which I did not fully appreciate at the time, was "Hey, don't get the oregano in your eye." Well, duh. Why would I put oregano in my eye, for heaven's sake?

Except somehow it got on my fingers. And then I rubbed my left eye. And then all heck broke loose.

It hurt. It mushroomed and swelled up like Quasimodo's eye. It was red and tender and huge and spectacularly noticeable. And it successfully completely distracted me from my illness. Because hey, what's a sinus infection compared to walking around looking like an animated character? My kids were greatly entertained and noticeably impressed. (In fact, "Remember That Time Mom Put Oregano In Her Eye?" still comes up quite frequently.)

Fortunately, by the next day, my eye was still raw and dark pink, but the swelling had gone down and my eye was no longer on the verge of bursting from its socket. Narrowly escaping being awarded Best Halloween Disguise in the middle of springtime. 

However, I had a bout with Bell's Palsy that was not as short-lived nor as humorous. I awoke one day feeling like part of my face was numb. I had been fighting a - yep - sinus infection. So I thought the infection was extending from my sinus cavities into my face. I took some decongestant and soldiered on through the day.

Until midafternoon, when I was chatting briefly with my neighbor and good pal Emily. Emily is quite blunt. I adore Emily. She said, "What in the WORLD is wrong with your face, Christy?" (Never a good thing to be asked, by the way.) I told her my hypothesis and brushed it off, and she said, "Ummmm. I think not. Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

(Sidenote: Why do people keep asking me that?)

The answer was, of course, NO.

So I went inside and looked in the mirror, and my face was sagging as if I had suffered a stroke. It was quite terrifying.

Fortunately, it was Bell's Palsy and not a stroke. I wish I could make jokes about Bell's Palsy, but I can't. It was scary and freaky and humbling. I learned that I have a lot more vanity than I realized, and that my desire to interact with the human race was negatively impacted by my insecurity over how "deformed" I felt. It's easy to joke about being an animated character when that look only lasts 12 hours. When the outcome and the recovery is uncertain, it is much more troubling.

I also learned that eating from a spoon or using a straw without drooling and dribbling were amazing skills I've taken for granted since I had mastered them at 18 months old.

I realized that my sagging mouth was much less noticeable if I didn't smile. So I tried determinedly, when I was required to be in public, to Not Smile at People. But it quickly became apparent that my basic instinct is to be a Smiler. Even when I am worried.

There are worse things, I know. But it was funny how hard I worked to master the "I'm-not-mad-at-you-although-I'm-not-smiling" Pleasantly Somber expression. I never did quite get it down.

Fortunately, my Bell's Palsy gradually got better within about 2 weeks. I was one of the lucky ones. I know it doesn't work that way for many. It can last a long time or it can come back from time to time. Blessedly, that has not been the case for me.

Full vulnerability disclosure here. I have never felt particularly pretty. I am, and have been, surrounded by so many gorgeous women - friends, family, roommates, etc. But I was always more of the Buddy type. Not hideous, but nothing to garner a second glance. I also never felt I was particularly wrapped up in my appearance. After all, people have to remind me to look in mirrors. But here's the thing. Bell's Palsy did impact my confidence. It squashed my desire to be around people. It turned me INWARD, worrying about what people were thinking, instead of OUTWARD, listening and loving and supporting others. Was it vanity? The effects of internalizing societal messages about beauty and worth? I am not sure. But it was sobering to realize how much it impacted my interactions with others. 

A much less traumatic and introspection-generating Face Fail happened a year or two ago. I made the foolish mistake of purchasing some glittery eye shadow. My daughters Aerin and Annie occasionally wear a copperish glittery shadow, and it looks really nice on their tan skin, and is suitably subtle. So I thought I would try, although we have completely different skin tones. (Fun Fact: Ogden Family DNA is very dominant. Which I think is a great thing.)

The girl at the Avon shop recommended the shadow, but added the disclaimer that it could get pretty glittery. She said that she had found, ironically, that the more shadow she applied, the more it became about color and not just glitter. She also said the more you rubbed the shadow to blend it, the more glittery it became.

So the fact that the Avon girl felt she needed to give me a few tips probably should have "tipped" me off that this product was not for a makeup novice like me. But I didn't grasp that.

Until the fine Sunday morning I decided to try it.

It didn't go well.

There was glitter everywhere. So I applied more shadow. And then more. But rather than subduing things, it just seemed to spread the glitter, amoeba-like, across my face. Glitter was on my forehead. On my cheeks. Above and under my eyes. Everywhere. It was a disaster.

So I called it. I scrubbed my face with soap and water for a total makeup redo, without the glitter eyeshadow. But even with washing my face, the glitter didn't come off.

Anyone who has ever made the irreversible choice of allowing glitter in their house - be it a craft project, a valentine, a non-Quasimodo Halloween costume, or whatever - realizes the Incredible Staying Power of Glitter. 

I've decided glitter is the cockroach of makeup. It quickly multiplies, and Just. Won't. Die.

So on that fateful Glitter Sunday, I took a washcloth to my face a second time. And then gave up, because I was going to be late for church.

"It's not that noticeable," Chad lied.

The first friend I saw greeted me with, "My, aren't you (pause) 'sparkly' today?"

Yes, yes I am. Thanks for noticing.

To make matters worse, Chad & I were substitute teachers for the 16-18 yr old Sunday School class that day. Which is the greatest class in the world to teach, but they weren't about to let me get away without mentioning my glitter bomb makeup.

"What's with all the glitter?" one girl asked. I sheepishly tried to explain, then just kind of trailed off, ending by lamely blaming the Avon store lady for telling me to put more shadow on for less glitter.

"It was too glittery, so you put MORE on?" the girl asked, completely baffled. "WHY would you do that?" I feebly tried to answer. But she was just so puzzled, she kept asking, "But I don't get it. WHY would you put more on?"

Because I'm an idiot, Olivia. That's why. 

I came home and washed my face again, and here is what it looked like after 3 different washings.

Glitter 1, Christy 0.

Perhaps you are like my daughters and can pull of glittery eyeshadow without looking like you lost a fight with a preschool Valentines Day project. But I learned, without question, that I do not possess that skill.

So here are my Beauty Tips for today:

#1    Don't put oregano in your eye. Ever. (Unless you are aspiring to win the office Halloween costume contest.)

#2    Stay far away from glitter makeup. (Even if you're aspiring to win the office Halloween costume contest.)

#3    If you get Bell's Palsy, just go ahead and smile. 

We Interrupt This Blog Again, Because, Well, Covid's Still a Squatter

Warning: This is not a humorous post. And it is not a religious post. It's simply me trying to process. If you want a play-by-play of how I'm feeling, read on. If for some inexplicable reason, hearing me whine doesn't sound particularly fascinating or appealing, you have my blessing to just move along. I totally understand.

I just re-read thoughts I blogged  last February about my experience being a Covid Long Hauler. I was about 5 weeks in at that time, and was processing Lessons Learned and Insights Gained. I wonder what I would have written, had I known that 7 months in, Long Covid would still be hijacking my life. 

It's probably good that I didn't know.

I'm in a different place now. Oh, the insights I shared over 5 months ago still are very applicable, and I have to remind myself of them quite regularly. And I know I am still learning and re-learning lessons, the most obvious one being, "I am not in complete control of my world." 

But I haven't made peace with this. And I am no longer philosophical about it. In biblical terms, I am kicking against the pricks. I am alternately raging or grieving or frantically searching for answers, because I want my old life back. 

I want to make plans with friends or family without having to worry that I will be too dizzy or too sick to participate. I want to be able to simply drive myself where I need to be, when I need to be there, without a second thought, rather than having to make last minute arrangements for a ride or a raincheck. I want to exercise vigorously, to sweat and feel my heart pounding and my muscles exerting, without being flat in bed the next day. I want to go up and down stairs without an iron grip on the handrail. I want to see tasks that need to be done, and just do them. Or stand for more than five minutes without looking for a wall to lean against. I want to be able to go grocery shopping without things starting to spin. I want to be able to walk Thanksgiving Gardens or even my former regular 2 mile neighborhood loop. (I've realized how much I love to walk. Oh, how I miss walking!) I want to lie in bed at night and not ache deeply, everywhere, even to my fingertips. I want my right tonsil to be its normal size and quit hurting. I want the sporadic insect buzzing in my ears to quiet down. I want my body to behave when I tell it to do something (for example, the simple instruction to "Just snap out of this ridiculous colossal freakout already.") 

I want to NOT be so self-absorbed and hyper-focused on my own well-being. I'm in my head so much, analyzing why today is a good day and how to replicate it, (or why today is a terrible day, and how to fix it), and I'm weary and bored of being there. I'd like to regain the portion of attention and mindspace currently consumed with managing life, and apply it to a less egocentric purpose. Like seeing others' needs and jumping in to help.

And I want a doctor to tell me, "This is what is wrong; take this pill or undergo this procedure and everything will be back to normal." But so far there have been very few answers, other than the label of Long Covid.

Years ago, I went on a backpacking trip in the High Uintah mountain wilderness with my Dad and some other family members. I think I was in college, although I could be mixing up trips and may have been younger. We were headed to the aptly-named Lost Lake, a magical place where, according to my Dad's memory, the fish were plentiful and huge and very anxious to attach themselves to the end of our fishing lines.

Lost Lake was never easy to find. (Go figure.) There was a subtle trail. Blazes cut into the trees helped guide us when the trail was not discernable in the thick forest. It was 7.5 miles to the lake, but in Heavy Backpack Mileage Reckoning, it seemed much farther.

On this particular trip, we were about halfway there. Shoulders were starting to ache with the weight of our backpacks. Our backs were damp with sweat. We were getting tired, but it was okay, because we were following the trail and knew where we were headed.

Then we came up over a rise, and saw a huge swath of burned trees. A forest fire had roared across this area apparently. The problem was, we could no longer see the blazes in the burned stalks left behind. We wandered. We picked up the trail (we thought). We were wrong. We went off in another direction, only to stop again in confusion. We crisscrossed the blackened landscape for quite some time. Which meant extra miles and extra time required for an already tough hike. We knew the end goal was Lost Lake, and we knew generally where on the mountain above us it could be found. But we just couldn't find the darn trail to get there.

That's how I feel right now. I am lost. 

I know the end goal - restored health. I am not willing to consider any other goal at this point. I still believe I can get there, if I just can find that stinking path. 

Doctors so far have not been very helpful, although they've been intrigued. I'm discouraged and desperate. At my last appt with my Dizziness Doctor (who probably prefers the term ENT), he kept checking his watch. I held it together until the end of the appointment, when I had a very public and very embarrassing breakdown, bursting into tears when the receptionist simply asked for my name and date of birth. 

So I'm trying to fix it myself. I'm working to educate myself, reading articles and viewing graphs and listening to podcasts. I'm praying for discernment, pleading with God to lead me to the person, place, or information that can help me find the right path. I'm searching for blazes in the trees, and just when I think I've found one, and maybe even several in a row, it dead ends.

My patient and supportive husband reminds me that I'm still moving; I'm still progressing. But sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Especially on the bad days. And even though I should know better, when a bad day comes after a string of good ones, I am despondent. 

Sometimes the Middle of a journey can be a hard place to be. 

I'm sure that eventually I will figure this path out, whether it leads to being cured or somewhere else I am supposed to go. And hopefully, through the journey, I will gain a bit more wisdom, much more compassion, as well as greater gratitude, purer humility, and stronger endurance. 

But right now all I see are dead trees. 

They Ran (unedited version)

 Note: This is a religious blog that I wrote a few months ago. My church was kind enough to feel it was worth sharing, and after some edits, recently posted it on their general website. (Even in different languages!) I am touched by their willingness to publish it. But because of all of the language translations needed and length requirements and likely other aspects I don't even grasp (i.e. cultural sensitivities, publishing protocol, etc.), there were some edits in the version they posted. There are a few things I wish had not been changed, but I do understand. However, I wanted a version of my original as well. So I'm posting it amidst all of my embarrassing ChristyMoment stories. 

They Ran.

While I am no great scriptorian, I am deeply moved by the accounts of Peter in the New Testament. Brazen, impetuous, fiercely loyal and loving... the original "Rock".

I particularly love the images from two different stories, both happening shortly after the Savior was crucified. First, in both Luke 24 and John 20, we're told that early in the morning of resurrection Sunday, Mary Magdalene, Mary the Savior's mother, and others were there at the tomb, ready to care for his body. (Sidenote: Of course the women were there, at the first opportunity to serve Him. They recognized the need, and despite their own overwhelming anguish, there they were, at the tomb at sunrise, ready to minister to Him, even in death. I love that.)

When Mary and others came running to the disciples, telling of angels and folden linen and an empty tomb, it says Peter and John ran to the sepulchre. (Sidenote #2: In John's version, he wants to make sure we know HE won the footrace to the tomb, with Peter coming in 2nd place. That always makes me giggle. (#guys) )

But I am inspired by the fact that they RAN. They didn't know what they would find in the tomb. They were reeling, I presume, with feelings of grief and loss, confusion (How could this happen?! And why, when he raised so many from the dead, did He not save Himself?), betrayal and bitterness (How could they crucify the most loving and holy individual to walk the earth?). 

I'm certain there was physical and emotional exhaustion (It had been a rough few days), paralyzing fear (What now?) and so much more.

So they had a lot they were dealing with, to put it midly. But instead of debating and analyzing Mary's assertions, or curling up in their grief and depression, or focusing on seeking revenge, or Peter wallowing in self-hatred for denying Christ not once but 3x in His hour of need... they RAN to the tomb. Not knowing what was ahead, they still RAN to Him.

Often when I am feeling bloodied and bruised, exhausted or empty, preyed upon or put upon, weak, wounded, less than, confused, abandoned, discouraged, outraged, fearful or tearful or sinful, all too often, I withdraw from Him. I close the door, turn out the lights, and curl up in bed (figuratively).

But Peter seemed to know better. He seemed to recognize that healing and strength and clarity would only be found in the Lord's presence. And he ran to seek that influence.

He showed his willingness to rush (or more accurately, to swim) to the Lord once again just a short time later. We learn about it in John 21. Peter decided to "go a fishing² and several of the disciples thought that sounded like a pretty good idea. However, their opinions may have changed after a full night of fishing without any success.

"But when morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore: but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus."³

After calling out to them, and learning they had "no meat", Jesus suggested that they cast their net on the right side of the ship. When the nets were suddenly filled to the breaking point with fish, John said to Peter, "It is the Lord."⁴

That's all it took.

"Now when Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he did cast himself into the sea."⁵

Man overboard.

He couldn't wait even long enough to row the boat back to shore. He threw himself headlong into the water. I love the image of him, furiously swimming. (Sidenote #3: Apparently walking on water is still a challenge.)

I can see him paddling, splashing, water spraying everywhere as he urgently and clumsily half-swims, half-staggers up the beach from the shallows. It is the LORD! And nothing is going to keep him from the Savior's side. He is exerting all of his strength and energy to draw near to his friend and his Redeemer.

This reminds me of how I felt when my missionary children arrived home. My family teases me, because I went a *little* crazy. Nothing could hold me back when I saw their tired but beautiful faces step onto the airport escalator. With a strange fusion of Happy Dance and Ugly Cry, I rushed to embrace my children. I was overjoyed to see them. Perhaps it was a similar type of emotion that drove Peter. (Sans the happy dance, perhaps.) 

I've pondered a great deal about what I can learn from Peter's example. His desire, his focus, his humility, his love. How can I run to the Lord? How pure and compelling is my desire to be in His presence? And how urgently do I seek Him?

As those questions have prompted self reflection, I've had a few thoughts. For me, I think running to Him begins with loving Him. Not in an abstract way, but in a deeply personal, one-on-one relationship sort of way. Before Peter was even fully dried off from his swim, the Lord was asking him, "Lovest thou me?"⁶  And lest we skim and miss that question, the Lord repeats it 3x. Obviously it matters whether I love Him and how I show that love.

In addition, running to someone requires intention and direction. President Nelson has encouraged us, "Our focus must be riveted on the Savior and His gospel. It is mentally rigorous to strive to look unto Him in every thought. But when we do, our doubts and fears flee ... Such reaching requires diligent, focused effort."⁷

Elder Neal A. Anderson referred to President Nelson's counsel, and added, "The Savior said, "Look unto me in every thought." In a world of work, worries and worthy endeavors, we keep our heart, our mind, and our thoughts on Him who is our hope and salvation."⁸

I believe that our love for Him and our focus on Him form a cycle. The more time we spend by His side, the more we love Him. And the more we love Him, the more we'll want to run to His side despite what is happening around us.

Oh how I wish to strive to do this better! To reject the tendency to get distracted, to wallow, or to wait. No, I want to consciously RUN to Him. In my distress, in my fear, in my confusion, in my pain, in my whatever, not always knowing the end from the beginning. Because He is the Beginning and the End. And He is Risen.

 

1. John 20:4

2. John 21:3

3. John 21:4

4. John 21: 5-7

5. John 21:7

6. John 21:15

7. Russell M. Nelson, “Drawing the Power of Jesus Christ into Our Lives,” General Conference, April 2017

8. Neil L. Andersen, “We Talk of Christ,” General Conference, October 2020

Wait, what? I have to wear mascara on BOTH eyes?? (Makeup Mishaps, Part 1)

I could fill a book with all of the makeup fails that have occurred over the years. Starting with the unfortunate assumption that bright blue eyeshadow, lid to eyebrow, was a good look in seventh grade.

As a child I was never good at coloring within the lines, and that has extended to my adulthood. The mass destruction I can cause with a liquid eyeliner is truly remarkable.  

So personal grooming has never been a particular talent. (See the other plant-wearing, skirt-losing blog entries for more proof of that.) I once moaned to my pal Susan Eyre that I needed to hire a personal groomer (and stylist… and hairdresser...and please-don’t-walk-out-the-door-looking-like-that-sentry- person). 

Susan replied, and I quote, “Christy! You have one! It’s called a mirror. Use it!”

But there have been a few pretty spectacular Fails that rise above the simple lipstick-on-the-teeth embarrassment.

(Sidenote -- I deeply regret that as a 9th grader I made fun of my kind and encouraging English teacher Mrs. Conrad for her lipsticked teeth. Keeping lipstick off one’s teeth is a tricky business. Karma has really humbled me for my 9th grade snarkiness. And I’m pretty sure Betty Conrad has been laughing from above all this time.) 

One notable incident happened years ago when my children were very young. I was hurriedly getting ready for the day while simultaneously talking on the phone. But because this was centuries ago, there were no cell phones (at least none that were affordable for normal people) and the speakerphone option on a home telephone was lacking. I had stretched the corded phone into the bathroom and was cradling it with my chin as I multitasked. 

Now typically, there is an innate order to Makeup Application. Foundation first. Contouring/blush. Eyeliner on one eye, then the next eye. Eyeshadow on one eye, then the next. Mascara on one eye, then the next. See the pattern? Lipstick on both sides of your mouth.

But this day I bucked the natural order of things. The phone was against my cheek, and so I put makeup on my left side only.  Apparently I was feeling glam that day because instead of a more natural look, I had it all… eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, etc. I intended to switch the phone to the other side and finish off. 

But something happened, and I became distracted, and forgot. I’m pretty confident I can blame it on my kids. I could blame a lot of unexpected interruptions on them. In fact, the Unofficial Theme of Parenting for me at that time was “The Era of Interruptions, Day or Night.” 

So I completely forgot to apply makeup to the right side of my face. I rushed around, oblivious, driving kids and diapering kids and cleaning up after kids and so on, until later that afternoon, I ran to the grocery store. 

While at the checkout counter, I chatted pleasantly with the grocery checker. (Apparently the children in tow must not have had the typical meltdown at the checkout counter, so it was very noteworthy I was even able to chat at all, let alone pleasantly. Just sayin.) As we made small talk, the checker suddenly did a DoubleTake. 

And then I instantly knew. 

He didn’t have to say anything. The surprised, then puzzled, and then intrigued look on his face acted as a bolt of lightning, suddenly reminding me that I was walking around with complete makeup on one side of my face, and nothing on the other side. 

I did not know how to even begin to explain. So I decided to just let him think I had pinkeye or something.  But it wasn’t a good look. Had I been a little lighter in my makeup application that day, it would have been much less noticeable. 

But Glam Makeup needs to be on both sides of one’s face to really pull it off, in my humble opinion. (Beauty Tips by Christy. You’re welcome.)

Oh there are so many, many more stories. Like my Quasimodo Episode. And an unfortunate Sunday Glitterbomb Fail. Just to name a few.  I think I’ll actually have to do a series under this theme. 

But there is one common denominator. Most involve people asking me, at some point, “Have you looked in a mirror lately?” 

Beauty Tip by Christy #2 -- That is never a good question. 

 

"Pardon me, Bishop, but could you pick me up some maxipads? Extra Super Heavy. Thanks."

If the sight or the discussion of blood, or an overabundance of TMI makes you squeamish, just stop right here and move right on to less offensive reading, like seagull attacks. Or the Trump Impeachment Trial Redux. Because this is not the most refined of posts. But it really happened. (Despite the fact that my Bishop and I sure wish it hadn't.) And it's been long enough that the horrifying-to-humorous ratio is slowly starting to even up a bit. So I can talk about it without starting to rock back & forth. Most of the time.

Here's the story:  Prior to getting my much-needed hysterectomy, I was bleeding a crazy amount of volume for a crazy number of days per month. It was completely out of hand. 

Unfortunately, this happened to hit during our church's annual Summer Girls Camp. We were camping in the mountains about 2 hours from home. I was up there as a Young Women leader. I thought I was stocked and prepared. But I really should not have left the house at all. 

In the 2 hours it took to drive from the church to the campsite, I had already soaked through my shorts. And I hadn't brought very many pants & shorts to camp. It was one of the few times in my life I chose to "Travel Light" and may be the last. So while everyone was setting up camp, I was scrubbing my shorts with a bar of soap and freezing cold pump water, then lying them out to dry on a rock.

Things went downhill from there.

Within a day and a half I had completely used up all of my "feminine supplies". So I began to travel the camp asking 12-18 year olds if they have any I could bum off them. (#LeadershipatitsBest) 

Fortunately, the camp director came prepared with a box filled with medication, bandages, and "feminine supplies". So I started liquidating her stockpile. To avoid having to walk through the camp to the outhouse (oh yes, did I mention that Fun Fact?) holding such supplies, I kept them in my car near the outhouse. But then my daughter Annie, who was also at the camp, decided to grab something from the car. She borrowed my keys, and locked them in the car. Two hours from home. Tragically, the precious and much-needed "supplies" were locked in there as well. 

Not good.

So I once again traveled the camp, asking innocent 12 yr olds if they had a tampon I could borrow. (IMPORTANT CORRECTION: NOT BORROW! KEEP! I HAD NO PLANS TO RETURN THEM!) I was like the camp drug addict, wandering from person to person, pleading for a fix. I found enough to buy me a few hours. 

A few people were coming up to camp for dinner that night, and we realized if we could catch them before they left, they could bring my extra car key. Because being able to drive myself and the young girls home from camp was another priority, only second in importance to obtaining tampons. 

But there was no cell service anywhere near our camp. So, in order to get cell service, someone would have to travel about 30 minutes to the nearest town -- a place near and dear to my heart-- Hanna, Utah. (HOLLA FOR HANNA!)

The Bishop was already at our camp, having come up a bit early. So he was the person who volunteered to drive down to town to make the call. We also needed some other things like tent poles and a few other necessities. For a reason I cannot remember, I was tied up in some activity and couldn't drive down with him. So, instead, we had the following conversation.

(Oh wait... first, did I happen to mention my Bishop was a self-proclaimed Introvert with Social Anxiety, who is an amazing man and great leader, a man I absolutely think the world of, and enjoy a warm friendship with, but a man who had to force himself to interact with his flock, because it was so against his general nature?  So yeah. There's that.)

So here was our conversation.

Me: "Hey, Bishop, I really need you to pick me up something when you are at the store down in Hanna."

Bishop: "Sure. What do you need?"

awkward pause from me

ME: Deep breath....  "Ummmm... I need some.... feminine supplies?" said with a question at the end.

BISHOP: long awkward pause, followed by an attempt to act nonchalant.... "Oh, okay... um... what do you need?"

ME:  "Well... I need some maxipads...and some tampons...and..."

BISHOP:  awkward pause again, desperately trying to act casual as if I'd asked him to please pick up some Kraft Mac & Cheese, AAA batteries and a quart of milk... "Okay... Ummm... what kind?"

ME: "Well, whatever they have. But Super. Or Overnight. Or Heavy Flo-"

BISHOP: cuts me off... "Actually, I know from trying to shop for my wife and daughter that brands and details count with this. I don't want to grab the wrong thing. (apparently assuming that the gas station at Hanna, Utah has a vast array of feminine supplies). Why don't you type into my phone exactly what you want me to get." (Hands me his phone.)

ME: slowly starting to type in "Extra Super or Overnight Maxi Pads...With or Without Wings... Extra Super or Overnight Tampons..." while thinking to myself, "Extra. Super. Humiliating..." 

But just then, a miracle occurred, the Red Sea parted (feel free to groan at that one), and I was rescued! A leader found someone else in the camp whose "feminine supply stash" had not been completely raided by me already. So it bought me time until my car keys arrived, and it rescued the bishop and I from a horrifically awkward situation.

I don't think there was one person, adult or child, male or female, at Girls Camp that year who did not know that I was on my period. I'm sure the forest rangers on the other side of the mountain were probably in the know as well.

Later that night, people came up to camp from home and brought me my extra set of car keys. Hooray! Crisis averted. #GodisGood

Later that night, we were having the traditional Girls Camp Cryfest, aka our testimony meeting around the fire. Everyone was sharing tender feelings and insights, expressing praise & gratitude to God, talking about how they didn't want to come to Girls Camp but now were so grateful they had, and passing around the Kleenex. 

At a certain point, I felt the desire to share, so I stood up. I began,"Well, as most of you know..."

I was going to talk about how my mom had passed away the year prior, and a few things I'd learned from God since. The girls and the leaders already knew I'd lost my mom earlier that year. Hence my opening line. 

But my good friend Jamie heard, "... as most of you know" and thought to herself with shock, "NO! SHE IS NOT! SHE CAN'T!!!!.."  She was absolutely aghast because she thought I was going to talk about being on my period during testimony meeting. (Because, after all, why not? That is all I had talked about the entire 3 days of camp.)

My friend Jamie makes me giggle on a regular basis. We should NEVER sit next to one another when reverence is required. But when she pulled me aside after the meeting to tell me of her mistaken assumption, and her great relief that no, I was just testifying about life after death, not menstruation run amok, I nearly wet my pants laughing. 

Which would have been unfortunate. And would have required yet another Big Ask of the Bishop. Because I was completely and totally out of pants. 

 

We Interrupt This Blog Because... Covid.

There are not a lot of funny things I can write about Covid today. Maybe eventually there will be.

What I write today is different than what I would have written at the day of onset of symptoms. (When I ranted, and I quote: "Nobody gets a cough anymore. Nobody gets the sniffles, or a cold, or a sore throat, or allergies. IT'S ALL COVID! Now that Covid is on the earth, every single symptom is automatically Covid. Nothing else." )  I was sure that my symptoms were just a cold. Except they weren't.

What I write today is different than what I was saying 3 days in, when I was grumbling over a Covid test I was sure would be negative. Except it wasn't.

I feel differently today than 4-5 days in, when I said, and I quote, "I realize it's really bad for some people, but for us, it's just like a flu (cold flu, not stomach flu). I've definitely been sicker in my life." I have been sicker, but I've never experienced a more bewildering disease.

I also made the mistake of saying, with relief, about 14 days in, "I am actually kind of glad that we got it and are done with it. Because now we can move on with our lives and don't have to worry anymore about getting our parents sick, getting other people sick... it's a relief and makes life so much easier." Except I didn't "move on with my life" and it definitely didn't make life easier, at least yet. Today, I definitely wish I'd never gotten Covid.

The other day, I impulsively decided to process my feelings, 5 weeks into the Covid journey, on social media. Because, well, what safer place is there than social media to explore tender feelings and process hard things and nuanced experiences? (#amIrightoramIright) 

Here's what I wrote:

5 weeks in, today. I did not plan on Covid being such a Squatter. There is no question it is the strangest disease I have ever had. Last night the room wouldn't stop spinning and as I tried to sleep, I distracted myself by trying to think about the Life Lessons I have been clumsily learning through this. 

I feel differently about many things than I did 5 weeks ago. I better understand why strong emotions can be evoked. I have no desired to post my opinions on what YOU should or shouldn't be doing. But I do feel like sharing a few recent realizations. For my own processing, if for no other reason.

Reminder #1 - Comparison Gets Me in Trouble. Every. Single. Time. I get discouraged when I think about how I have not bounced back from this in the same way that others have. The Inner CrossFit Coach tells me to Man Up! Quit Being a Wimp! Positive Thinking, etc.! I wonder why my family members are recovered and on top of it, and I am not. And sometimes I feel shame about that. Conversely, when I compare myself to others on the opposite end, I also feel shame. How can I complain about dizziness, chest pain or exhaustion when people are losing their lives to this? I have not had to be hospitalized. I have not had to be hooked up to oxygen. How dare I whine about non-life-threatening symptoms? But either way, the comparison doesn't change my reality. Despite some having it better, and some having it worse, it is still my current state. And I can choose to be patient with and realistic about that, or not.

Reminder #2 - People Experience Things So Differently. The range and severity of how people experience Covid is so vast. Furthermore, the range and severity of how I have experienced Covid is mindblowing, and has been all over the map. I've never had a disease that felt so much like Whac-a-Mole, with symptoms coming and going, new ones popping up, old ones improving and then recurring with a vengeance 2 weeks later, oh and here's something new for the mix as well. It has been bewildering and discouraging at times. Takeaway - I can't slip into assuming my experiences are like anyone else's, with Covid or with life. And people can't assume their Covid battle will be anything remotely close to mine.

Reminder #3 - Progress Is Not Always Linear. I was feeling disheartened the other morning because symptoms had gotten worse over 2 days instead of better, despite steroids and my 2nd round of antibiotics. But Chad correctly reminded me that when I look at where I was 3 weeks ago, there has been definite, marked, improvement. (One indication of this is I no longer feel compelled to wear my winter parka/hood zipped up 24/7 indoors 😉 ).  I have to look at the Big Picture to get a truly accurate view of progress, not just the terrain of the recent past. In Covid and in Life. 

Reminder #4 - My Self Worth Is Not My Productivity. I am a pretty energetic, busy person by wiring. I value Getting Things Done with work and home. And unfortunately, I can slip into the mistake of linking worth to output. There's no question that my productivity has tanked over the past 5 weeks. But I've been reminded by a loving God that I am His daughter, healthy or sick, strong or weak, productive or idle.

So there you go..... Covid Life Lessons by Christy. ("Baby step to the bus... baby step on the bus... I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful...")  #WhatAboutBob