"In ten years, he's never said to me, 'Nice muumuu,' or nothin'."

You've heard of bad hair days, right? I know I've had my fair share of them. My hair has actually been pretty well-behaved lately, but I think it gave my pants a few tips on how to make my brain feel as scattered as a dandelion in front of an oscillating electric fan set on high in the mornings.

There are plenty of days (usually the few days right after laundry day) when my pants fit me pretty well. They stay on my body, they look fairly flattering, and I feel comfortable in them. Those are the grand mornings when I can roll out of bed, throw on any clothing I own--matching or not--and get out the door on time, feeling great.

There are also plenty of days--once my pants have been worn once or twice--when they don't quite fit like I want them to, but I still feel okay about the way I look in them.

And every now and again, I have days when my pants go on strike and refuse to fit my butt. Like, they decide to fall off of it instead of staying where they should. (Disclaimer: There are also some days when my clothes have the opposite butt-problem, but we don't like to talk about those days. Plus that hasn't happened for a while so we're pretending like it's not an issue.) Now, I suppose I could just go on strike and refuse to wear pants, but that means I'd either have to wear shorts, a dress, or nothing to cover my butt. It's getting too chilly for shorts and dresses, and I'd never get out the door if half-nakedness were the only option.

Now, I tell you all of this so you understand what I mean when I tell you that today was a really bad pants-strike day. This morning, I tried on almost every pair of pants I own to try and find some that didn't have a saggy bottom, but to no avail. I tried the dress route, but even the dresses hated me today. It got frustrating enough that at one point I found myself thinking that I wish I lived in Florida so I could go raid grandma's closet, because even one of her muumuu would look better on me than my clothes were looking.

I finally put on the least-saggy pair of jeans I could find and went on to have a sufficiently good day. But man, oh, man, I sure did scare myself with the muumuu wish. I guess it's time to do laundry and/or whip out my sewing machine!

Talents

One of the best things about being graduated is how much time I now have to spend on my hobbies and developing my talents.  My reading time has increased, I've learned to crochet, I have opportunities to cook a little more often, I've spent a little more time playing guitar, and I get to sew sometimes.  I really love it!

I think it's really been good for my self-esteem.  My insecurities about certain things have, in the past, caused me to interact with people in a way that is less than perfect.  I won't go into detail, but let's just say that I've finally started to see just as much value in myself as I see in other people--that is, I am trying to see myself as Heavenly Father sees me--and I feel more confidence in myself and love for other people than I've probably ever felt before.

I'm not saying that you have to cook, sew, be musical, and be a genius to value yourself.  All I'm saying is that I've finally started to see how my talents can add meaning to my life, not because I'm "the best" at any certain thing, but because I have simply been striving to become better.  Geez, it has taken me a long time to figure that out.

Now, I'm not the best singer in the world, but I still sing.
I'm not the best guitar player in the world, but I still play guitar.
I'm not the best or fastest crocheter in the world, but I still crochet.
When I sew I get really excited and end up sometimes skipping small but important steps that would make the final product look so much better, so I am certainly not the best seamstress in the world, but I still sew.  (Side note: At first I actually typed that I'm "not the best sewer in the world."  Also true.)

Mostly I do these things because I enjoy them, but hopefully I can soon figure out how to better serve others with those abilities, because I think that is the true purpose of talents and gifts.  Each of us has been blessed with talents--both spiritual and temporal--that are characteristics we've inherited from our Father in Heaven.  These gifts have been given to us to enrich our lives and improve the lives of those around us.  So much of our world is based on competition to be the best at something, when really we should just strive to be the best versions of ourselves.  I know people who have the gifts of joy, love, hope, and perspective, among many others.  As we all share those unique and special gifts, our power and influence for good increases.  What gifts do you have to share?

Why I am beautiful

Let me preface this post by saying that this is not meant to come across as conceited in any way.  I just want the record to show that today I re-realized that I am beautiful.  I'm sure there are plenty of days to come when I won't feel this way, so I want to be sure and remember this.

This morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and instead of my usual, "You look pretty," I told myself, "You are beautiful."  It caught me off-guard, the difference between "you look" and "you are."  Beauty is not about how we look.  Beauty is about how we are.

So while I also look beautiful, I want to remember why I am beautiful.  It's not because I am a certain height, weight, body type, or facial structure.  It's not because of my hair color, eye color, skin color, or even teeth color.  It's not because of the clothes I am wearing or the makeup I apply.  It's not because of the number of dates I do or do not go on.

I am beautiful because my smile is genuine.
I am beautiful because my eyes are expressive and look for the good in life and in other people.
I am beautiful because my mind works hard.
I am beautiful because my ears listen to friends in need.
I am beautiful because my hands serve others, often through my many talents.
I am beautiful because my arms hug tight with real love.
I am beautiful because my legs take me to places where I can do good.
I am beautiful because my mouth speaks kind words.
I am beautiful because my heart can love people until it hurts.
I am beautiful because my Heavenly Father created me.

I believe in Christ.

This video has been spreading amongst my LDS friends like wildfire the past couple of days, and it has sparked quite the discussion.  There are plenty of things I could tackle on this subject, but I just wanted to say a couple of things.

1. If people want to define a "Christian" as one who agrees with principles set forth in the Nicene Creed, namely the belief in the nature of the Godhead as the Trinity, then I am just fine with not fitting their definition.  It is that difference in belief that separates us from other faiths; in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, we believe in modern prophecies and revelations, that our Father in Heaven continues to speak to His children today.  It is through one such modern revelation--Joseph Smith's First Vision--that we gained our knowledge of one of the fundamental principles of our religion: that God, our Eternal Father, His Son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit are three separate, distinct beings, although all are one in purpose.  Their purpose?  To "bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man" (Moses 1:39).  A basic understanding of the Plan of Salvation, which is truly the crux of our existence on this earth, brings this issue into perspective, and that knowledge is something I would not be willing to give up to fit certain definitions of "Christian."  I find it unfortunate that some do not see us as such, but if our belief about the nature of the Godhead is a standard whereby people can better understand the differences between the beliefs of LDS and those of others, then let people call us what they may.

2. That said, I will never say myself that I am not a Christian.  I am a follower of Christ.  I believe in Him; I rejoice in His life, Atonement, and Resurrection, and I try every day to follow His example (See 2 Nephi 25:26.).  I am sure that I am not the only one in this world--and certainly Latter-Day Saints are not the only ones--to try and be kind to others, serve those in need, and "mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort" (Mosiah 18:9).  Is that not what Christ did?  Did He not spend all His time caring for others--healing the sick, teaching with compassion, and performing countless miracles that were not just serving as a way for people to know who He was, but were also a living testimony of His devotion to God?  Again, I think it's unfortunate that some people do not see us as Christians, for Christ said himself, "By their fruits ye shall know them." (Read here for my brother's take on this subject.)  As for me, I know that Christ is my Savior and exemplar, and I will share that knowledge in the way I speak, the way I treat others, and the way I strive to live my life as a witness of God.  In the end, regardless of who gets called Christian and who gets called a cultist, it is not going to hurt the world at all if people of all faiths live their lives with love, compassion, and kindness. 

I Believe in Christ.  I know that He is the founder of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  He and our Father in Heaven restored, through the prophet Joseph Smith, the Church as it existed in His day.  Our Heavenly Father continues to speak to us today by the power of the Holy Ghost, both through our living prophets and through the individual, personal revelation.  I know that He loves us, His children, individually and perfectly.  I know that through Christ, through His infinite Atonement, we can be cleansed of all our imperfections, insecurities, and fears and someday return to live with Heavenly Father.

If you have questions about what I and other Latter-Day Saints believe, ask one of us!  You can also visit lds.org and mormon.org.

"For worthy friends . . ."

I'm sure you've heard people say things like, "He knows me better than I know myself" about a best friend, spouse, parent, or sibling.  I've never really liked that statement that much, because in my opinion there is only One who truly knows us better than we know ourselves.  However, recently I've realized that I have several friends to whom that cliche can be justly attributed.  I'm starting to understand now that it isn't so much that they actually know me better, but that they remember me--they remember who I am in God's eyes.  They see me for my goodness and for my potential, forgiving me of my weaknesses and faults.

To quote myself from an April 2009 blog post, "[. . .] Others, especially my Father in Heaven and my Savior, Jesus Christ, see me in a better light than I often see myself.  It's like I'm always looking at myself in fluorescent lighting, highlighting all my imperfections, while They see me in perfect, glorious sunlight."

Whenever I see myself through the lens of my own insecurities and doubts, I obscure my own view of my potential.  I'm not going to deny that my friends see those insecurities, but they won't see them as roadblocks to my worth.  I am grateful for friends who refuse to know anything other than the best version of me, even when I can't seem to acknowledge that my best self could ever exist.

On Teaching

I have some great news to share: This week, I get to start going into one of the local preschools to teach some of the SEEL lessons my coworkers and I have been writing.  I cannot wait!

Also, the tutoring program between my ward and the Spanish ward down the road is really starting to come together!  We're getting a great idea of how many people we can expect each week and what their needs are.  We've also had several people from my ward--even in addition to those who have received it as their calling--who have volunteered their time to come help us teach every Tuesday night, even though I'm sure they have other things they could be doing.  It makes me so happy to see my peers willing to spend their time in such a meaningful way.

I suppose lately I've just felt empowered to know that there are so many people dedicated to the improvement of lives by education.  It has certainly changed my life for the better, and I am glad I get to play a small part in extending that power to others.

Friendlove part 3: Ty Rone Farnsworth

Right around four years ago, I met a boy who had less in common with me than probably anyone else I'd ever met. The circumstances of our first meeting were vague and un-extraordinary, and quite frankly, I don't even really remember them. He was good friends with my FHE brothers in my first BYU ward, so he just kind of appeared in my life one day.

On paper, Ty and I are pretty much complete opposites. Ty is from Arizona; I'm from North Carolina. Ty's humor is very witty and sarcastic; mine is more corny and punny. Ty is smooth; my charm is in my goofiness. Ty is lean and athletically inclined; I am a little chubbier and have to try and be aggressive in sports since I have no real skill. Ty is tall, dark, and handsome; I am shorter, fair-skinned, and . . . well, we've always had the good-looking thing in common I guess. Still, on so many levels we are so different from each other that it kind of blows my mind that we've become such good friends. Somehow, out of all the people I met during college, he is the one who stuck around and stayed close for the entire 4 years. Now, a lot of that may have to do with the fact that many of our friends have gotten married, but I think it's bigger than that. We just learned that we have a lot more in common than we originally thought. I think the thing we have in common that has made us such tight friends is that we appreciate true friendship. We've both had our share of some great and not-so-great friendships, and the not-so-great ones really make you appreciate the loyal, uplifting, and inspiring friends in your life.

I love Ty's advice; he sees things fairly objectively (especially compared to my sometimes overly-emotional view of situations). The best thing, though, is that he has a gift for knowing when to give advice and when to just listen. He knows how to tell me things I don't want to hear in a way that I can deal with them. He sees a lot more potential in me than I see in myself sometimes (especially in the dating category). He's a great example to me of honesty, loyalty, and faith in God.

For the past few years, he and I have had this running joke about how he doesn't have a heart, but the truth is, Ty has one of the kindest, most loving hearts of anyone I know. He's loyal to his friends and would sacrifice anything for those he loves.

(Mushytime is over now.) As great as Ty is, I mostly decided to write this post because today is his birthday! Woot! So happy birthday, Ty. Thanks for always being a great friend. Love you!

Mumbo Jumbo

I don't know if I ever announced that I have a new(ish) calling! I'm the tutoring committee co-chair in my ward. (There's only one of me, so I've thought about getting rid of the co, but then I sound too conceited. So "co-chair" it is.)

Anyway, our ward has a "sister ward"-- a Spanish ward that meets down the road a bit. So every week, we go and tutor people in the ward in various subjects--piano, guitar, violin, math, English, etc. I may even be teaching their Stake RS President how to speak Spanish! So far, I love it and I'm really excited to get more people involved. The word "tutor" still makes me giggle though, so I don't know how much people will want to deal with my immaturity in that manner. Oh well. I'm excited to get a little more experience teaching people.

That leads me to another announcement I'm not sure I've made: Next August, I plan to start getting certified to teach Special Education. I'd love to go to UNC for that--I've always been a spiritual Tarheel, but it'd be great to make it temporal as well--so I may be moving back to North Carolina next year! I'm excited to be closer to my parents, my siblings that are there, and my precious niece. Oh, and black people. But of course, if a special man comes along and wants to love me forever, my plans may change.   As of right now, though, I'm getting excited for NC. We'll see what Heavenly Father has in store for me. :)

I've also committed to accompany a musical number in Sacrament Meeting in a couple of weeks. I got the music Sunday, and let's just say I'm extremely out of practice and it's gonna take quite a bit of work. Still, I got to practice with the singers last night, and they sounded glorious. Pretty sure even if I mess it up, it's going to be a beautiful, touching piece. You can listen to a MoTab arrangement of it here.

In other news, there were no forks left in my office today, so I used two plastic knives like chopsticks to eat my lunch. The food tasted even better after having to struggle for a few seconds to get it stable between the knives.

Where's my fish?

The Life and Times of Ronaldiago Weasley Cox-Gentry

     On the sixteenth day of October, in the year 2010, two roommates, Debra and Katelyn, found themselves bored on a Saturday night with nothing to do. Desperate for some more companionship since their roommates were elsewhere with their own families, the two lonelies decided to go to Wal-Mart and buy a fish. Upon arriving at the pet section of the store, Debra and Katelyn were immediately drawn to two types of fish that happened to be listed as good tank mates for each other. One was an Oranda; the other was a Black Moor. Being lovers of fish, literature, and good corny jokes, Debra and Katelyn decided to get the Black Moor fish and name him Othello. They knew not the name-to-be of the Oranda, but would decide after some time.

     These fish had what the girls thought to be personality, but in reality, the fish were just broken. Othello's head was too heavy for the rest of his body, so he often flipped his fins as if he were backpedaling to keep his head upright. The other fish, who was livelily following the girls' fingers in the store, started playing dead as soon as they got in the car to ride home. It was as if, once removed from the tank, his life was devoid of purpose and he had no desire to smile, as it were, at their fishy games. Katelyn also noticed that this fish, who was all white with the exception of an orange spot on its head, had a little hole at the base of his dorsal fin, just a fraction of an inch from the front. It was decided, based on both his coloring and that hole in his fin, which could serve as a convenient wand-holder, that this fish would be named Ronald Weasley.

     It was not even two days later when tused-to-be-lonelies realized that Ronald was back to his playful self, swimming all over the tank, albeit backward and sideways more than forward. But wait! Where was Othello? Alas, he had sunk to the bottom of the bowl, head down in the rocks, with the rest of his body pointing toward the surface.

     It was then that the girls recognized Ronald's previous weirdness as nothing other than a symptom of his frenzied thoughts of premeditated murder. Ronald had, in fact, killed Othello, which caused his owners to re-think his name. The fish's namesake would never have committed such a cruel act. He needed a name that better fit his harsh personality and heinous crimes. Thus he was renamed "Iago."

     After some time, the girls forgot about Iago's temper and forgave him for his offenses. They decided his full name should still reflect both sides of his personality, so he was then called "Ronaldiago" (in a very Spanish accent, with the rolled "r" and everything).

     Ronaldiago lived a long life (at least, compared to his 2-day bowl buddy) and overcame many hardships, including an accidental 10-day fast over Christmas break. Regardless of the low room temperature and the lack of food, as soon as his owner returned from celebrating the Christmas holiday with her family out of state, Ronaldiago perked up and swam around the bowl. He ate his food and became a happy fish once again.

     Fast forward approximately 6 months. On the morning of the tenth of June, in the year 2011,  Ronaldiago started to fade. He could only swim on his side, and couldn't make it up to the top to eat the food that was given him. His owners thought he wouldn't make it through the day; they kept asking him, "Ya dead?" and when he wasn't (but acted like he was), they decided he deserved just one additional name before his life ran out. And so it was that the fish became Ronaldiago Weasley "Sanka" Cox-Gentry. He passed away late that night/early the next morning, after a hard-fought battle to reach the top of the bowl. His owners had been watching Seven Pounds. They wrote a beautiful eulogy for him in the form of a song, the lyrics of which I will share at this time: 

Bye, bye, Ronald Weasley just died.

Named him "Sanka" 'cause he sunk-a

When he swam on his side.

When we woke up this morning, he was barely alive,

Singing, "This'll be the day that I die!

This'll be the day that I die!"

     And so it was that the fish departed. Katelyn and Debra were the only two present at the intimate,  beautiful service, which consisted of a slow saunter to the toilet, accompanied by the playing of Taps by Katelyn's nose-harmonica. It was the saddest toilet flush of their lives, but both knew that there would be other fish in the sea (or fishbowl . . . and probably toilet bowl too) some day.

Disclaimer: This is not actually Ronaldiago.

Ronaldiago Weasley "Sanka" Cox-Gentry

October 2010-June 2011

May he rest in pee. I mean, peace. 

Update, apology, and advertisement

So I didn't finish half of the things on my 22 by 22 list. That was kind of lame. But it was a fantastic weekend anyway, and I really loved being able to do the things that I did. I'll add the rest to an overall bucket list and get them done soon I hope!

I've been a bad blogger lately, but I'll pick it up, especially because I'm even worse at keeping a journal besides this. Oops. 

On a fairly unrelated note, here's a shameless plug for my mama's business/hobby. If you want a way to spend your free time doing something fun and creative, go to www.mysweetmemorybooks.com and sign up under my mom's Heritage Makers account and create some stuff! You don't have to pay anything to just make things online. But if you want to publish something--which I do recommend, because it's so much fun to actually get the product that you make--then there are plenty of options. I am working on some 4x8 photo cards (which are really cheap) to just hang around my room and my office, as well as sending to some friends just because they're cute. (I will post a couple of my projects on here so you can feel better about your creative abilities, since I don't really have that many.) 

Talula: A tribute

Today I had a new (and glorious) experience. I rode my bike while wearing a dress. And before Mama can fuss at me for not being lady-like, I'll go ahead and clarify that yes, I did wear my stretchy pants underneath. Eet's for fun.

I guess I could always learn to ride side-saddle, but I still felt like a princess.

See, this summer I've really fallen in love with that bike. The weather is starting to cool down, and while I love it because it means cuddle season is on its way, I'm a little bit worried about what it's going to do to my relationship with Talula.

See, we've been through so much together this year. Since I won the custody battle (Maddie decided I'd be a better parent than her grandparents' garage), Talula has been my primary means of transportation to and from work, dinner group, the grocery store, and to a bajillion parks in the area. We've gone up and down hills together. We've visited friends and family together. We've gone to Utah Lake together. We even went to the temple and looked at houses together, so I guess you could say it's gotten pretty serious.

Talula has taught me a new definition of summer, such that when I even think of the word, I will always think of trips to the library, picnics in the park, and riding along sidewalks that seem to have curves meant just for us--for my bike and me--to weave in and out, left and right, all for the pure joy of the ride.

Now, don't think that we haven't also had our fair share of unpleasant-ish experiences. There were those nasty hills that our friend Steven made us go up. There were those bumps in the sidewalk on the way to work that almost made my laptop fall out of the basket. And then there was our wreck when someone didn't see me trying to turn and smacked into Talula--right in the butt! But through all that, Talula has remained a strong, trusty, and pretty adorable friend.

In fact, she's done a lot of what all of my good friends do for me:

1. She makes me a happier person. Every time we go for a ride, I end up grinning from ear to ear.

2. She protects me physically. She jumped in front of a train car for me. (And I bet if some guy ever charged me with a machete, she'd let me hit him in the face with her.)

3. She protects me emotionally by giving me a way to escape from my own stressed thinking.

4. She gives me rides to places when I need them most.

5. She strengthens my friendships with others. (First of all, we go on bike rides with our dearest friends, but also since I'm all the time grinning, people are friendlier while we're riding down the street.)

6. She makes me look good. Seriously. Do you see this?

I mean DANG, right?

I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . just . . . this. Forever and ever.

My new 22 by 22

Since I am nowhere near finishing all the books I wanted to read before turning 22, I decided yesterday that I would come up with 22 things (dirt-cheap/free/pre-planned) that I've never done before or haven't done in a long time, and I will do them before I turn 22 in a week. Here they are: 

Tuesday 8/30

1. Go kayaking down the Provo River.

2. Make chicken cordon bleu and share it with my dinner group.

3. Get Slurpees with Maddie and Debra.

Wednesday 8/31

4. Go the whole day without looking at myself in the mirror--this includes reflections in windows. 

5. Serenade someone--guitar and all.  

Thursday 9/1 

6. Visit the BYU Museum of Art.

7. Go all day wearing absolutely no makeup and make a conscious effort to smile more. 

8. Survive a P90X workout.  

Friday 9/2

9. Take a road trip to California.

10. Create a new car dance move. Share it with the world. 

11. Read a book aloud to my friends (to keep the drivers awake).

Saturday 9/3

12. Walk on the Golden Gate Bridge while singing the Full House theme song.

13. See Alcatraz. (I'm not going there, just seeing it.)

14. Buy a flower and give it to someone.

Sunday 9/4

15. Attend church in California.

16. Step feet in (and hopefully watch the sunset over) the Pacific Ocean.

17. Send an uplifting message in a bottle.

Monday 9/5

18. Do at least one cartwheel each time we stop on the way home from San Fran.

19. Crochet a pair of baby booties.

20. Design my dream home.

Tuesday 9/6  (The big day!)
21. Go to the BYU Museum of Paleontology. Call at least one dinosaur skeleton a "clever girl."

22. Kiss a boy. Or maybe just have a blacklight dance party. 

. . . Does this mean I'm officially a Utard?

I don't know how familiar y'all are with the weird Utah dating phenomenon that is the whole "creative asking" thing, but from my understanding it can get kind of out of control. Instead of just simple phone calls or face-to-face conversations, people make huge signs, put Oreos on people's cars, deliver a billion balloons with puzzle pieces that spell the question out (like in the movie The Singles Ward), and all sorts of other crazy extravagant things.

As fun as all that can be, I always swore I'd never be one of them. I never want to make dating a big deal until it deserves to be a big deal. And that's never the case on a first date, in my opinion.

But what was I supposed to do when my best friend Kaitlin and I had the best idea in the world of re-writing lyrics to Justin Bieber's "One Less Lonely Girl" to ask a couple of our friends out on a group date? I mean, it wasn't fair. We had to record it burn it to a CD and then doorbell ditch them, didn't we?

Yeah, I think I've been in Utah too long. But since I'm sure you're dying to hear the beautiful musical stylings of Kaitlyn (that's Kaitlin and Katelyn put together, in case you couldn't tell), just click below and enjoy.


***This version of the song has been anonymized. Those poor boys are probably really embarrassed.

Two Less Lonely Boys by Kaitlyn

Both:   There’s gonna be two less lonely boys.

              Two less lonely boys.

              There’s gonna be two less lonely boys.

              Two less lonely boys.

              How many Friday nights have y’all spent inside

              Wishin' you had somethin' to do?

              Well, we’re here to say we gon’ make your day

              ‘Cause we got a question for you.

              But you gon’ have to wait. We won’t ask it yet,

              ‘Cause we gotta fill the rest of this verse.

              And it hurts to be this cute and coy.

              There’s gonna be two less lonely boys. 

              We’ve wasted so many pretty faces 

              Just waitin’ on you,

              So now we comin' to you.

              Don’t think we hatin’ and impatient ‘cause we ask you.

              Your loneliness will be destroyed.

              There’s gonna be two less lonely boys (Insert boys' names.).

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys

              We wanna take y’all out!

              If you don’t wanna go, we’ll pout.

              But if you do, we’ll be filled with joy,

              And there will be two less lonely boys.

              Hey boy and other boy, we want to take y’all out

              To go Skittle bowling Friday night.

KG:       Hey boy, I hope you’re free to go out with me.

KJ:        And other boy would be my date? 

KG:       That’s right.

Both:    We’ll get a bag of Skittles and bowl till midnight.

              We’ll even pay if that’s alright. 

              It’s no ploy!

              If you go out with us, there’ll be joy

              And there’ll be two less lonely boys.

KJ:        I saw so many bearded faces before I saw you,

              And I liked so very few,

              But it worked for you.

              Now you don’t have your bearded face, and that’s okay too.

              If you wanna go, just make some noise.

              There's gonna be two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.).

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys

Both:    We wanna take y’all out!

              If you don’t wanna go, we’ll pout.

              But if you do, we’ll be filled with joy,

              And there will be two less lonely boys.

KG:      Hey boy, you are a first-class friend.

              So I hope that you want to spend

              Friday night with me, yeah,

              On a group date to Skittles bowl (KJ: Skittles bowl!)

              Skittles bowl. (KJ: Bowl with me!)

              With me . . .

              You’re smart and fun, and I hope you’ll go with me.

              I’ll take you and we’ll go bowl with two less lonely . . .

Both:    There’s gonna be two less lonely boys.

              Two less lonely boys.

              There’s gonna be two less lonely boys.

              Two less lonely boooooooys (Insert boys' names.)!

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys (Insert boys’ names.)

              Two less lonely boys

              We wanna take y’all out!

              If you don’t wanna go, we’ll pout.

              But if you do, we’ll be filled with joy,

              And there will be two less lonely boys.

Both:     So whaddy’all say, shawtys?

Robbers' marshmallows

I have a friend who inspires me. Well, all of my friends inspire me, but this one in particular has inspired me with an increased passion for learning about anything and everything that I even have the slightest curiosity about. It's gotten to where if I wonder about anything at all I get really nerdy and excited to look it up in an encyclopedia or read about it online. It's almost always something little, but I love it. It's fun to have answers about little things I've always wondered about.

Recently my curiosity was piqued by a memory from my childhood. When my cousins came over, we liked to play Cops and Robbers in my backyard. The police station was over by the patio and the robbers' hideout was a little opening in the trees where the lowest branches made something like a little cave. Inside this tree cave, there was an abundance of this plant:

Kinda pretty, right? The seed pods, however, were our favorite part.

Every time we went to the robbers' hideout, we'd "roast marshmallows," which just meant we'd make a pile of sticks, break the seed pods off the plant,  and hold them over the "fire" while we sat and didn't say anything. The twiggy stems were perfect marshmallow-roasting sticks.

Every now and then, I've thought about those "marshmallows" and wondered what exactly they were. As it turns out, a 10 minute internet search supplied me with the pictures and a description of the plant. Because of its transluscent pods, through which you can see all its seeds, the plant is called "honesty." I thought that was pretty ironic, considering it was in the robbers' hideout. As it turns out, though, another name for it is the "money plant" or the "silver dollar plant." We were a lot richer than we thought, I guess. I just can't believe we ripped up and "burned" our money!

My parents don't live in that house anymore, but I don't remember seeing that plant in the back yard for a long time. I guess we killed honesty.

"Go on, feel it. I made dem."

My first crochet project!

And here's a special shout-out to Kathryn, who provided the beads--she made them for girls' camp and gave them to me, probably seven or eight years ago. (?!?) Call me a pack rat, but I'm just really glad to have finally found a good use for them.

If you're interested in making your own, I basically followed this pattern. I have a feeling I'm going to be making a lot more of these, and in so many colors. I'm in love.

Revised reading list and quick update

Hey readers! I've neglected my blog for a while so I have a ton of catching up to do. First of all, I've changed my mind about the 22 by 22. I am still going to read as many books as I can, but I am changing some of them on the list from popular reads to some of my ancestors' journals. A good friend of mine has been doing a lot of reading lately about his family history, and he has inspired me. So instead of Don Quixote, Under the Tuscan Sun, and Memoirs of a Geisha, I'll read the journals of Jesse Nathaniel Smith (my 7th (?) great-grandfather on my mom's side), Elias Smith (my 6th great-grandfather on my dad's side--and yes, he and Jesse N. are cousins), and Sadie Hulet Avery (my great grandma on my mom's side). I am really excited to get to know a little more about my heritage and the strong people who came before me.

So here's the revised list. I really haven't gotten very far at all. Don't make fun; employment and friends just take all my time.

And remember, I love color coding, so here's the code: 

Currently reading

Finished

Next on the list 

1. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith (528 pages)

2. Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson (349 pages)

3. Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie (200 pages)
4. Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen (~400 pages)
5. Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum (496 pages)
6. Led by Faith by Imaculee Ilibagiza (264 pages)

7. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (400 pages)

8. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis (160 pages)
9. Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis (227 pages)
10. The Great Divorce** by C.S. Lewis (144 pages)
11. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd (302 pages)
12. Peace Like a River by Leif Enger (320 pages)
13. Journal of Elias Smith
14. Journal of Jesse Nathaniel Smith
15. Journal of Sadie Hulet Avery
16. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan (288 pages)
17. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (208 pages)
18. Life of Pi by Yann Martel (326 pages)
19. The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros (110 pages)
20. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne (244 pages)
21. Yo-Yo Boing!* by Giannina Braschi (256 pages)
22. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao* by Junot Diaz (339 pages)

**I found a dirt-cheap copy of this book in Spanish, so I'll actually be reading El Gran Divorico.

In other news, life is fantastic. I absolutely love my job. Even though I'm going to have the exact same schedule for the next year, the routine is not difficult or boring because everything I do is so much fun. Lately I've started being able to really get creative and write lesson plans, and that's probably my favorite thing about the job so far. Whenever I'm not busy with that, I'm spending a lot of time with some amazing friends. The Lord has really blessed me with more than I deserve. 

My parents came to town a couple of weeks ago before the family reunion that I wasn't able to go to, so it was really great to spend time with them. They joined our dinner group one night and Daddy's one-wire provided plenty of entertainment for one of my friends. (If you don't know what one-wire is, ask me and I'll tell you a couple of great stories.) We also went up to Idaho to see Uncle Glade and his family. All I can say is that I'm pretty sure his son Jared and I have some sort of mental and emotional bond. We're pretty much the same person. I love that kid (and everyone in that family) so much!

Now I've started to become a domestic goddess. I started crocheting over the weekend, and I've already made one crappy slipper and half of a really good one. (I'll post pictures once I get them finished.) I'm also buying a sewing machine this weekend and I can't wait to get started on some cool projects like making cute dresses for 6 dollars and stuff. 

This is all for now since I want to finish the slipper before I go to bed tonight, but just to get you excited, I'll tell you what you can expect in the near future:

Reflections on grocery shopping with Mama

Robbers' marshmallows

The Life and Times of Ronaldiago Weasley Cox-Gentry

At least 3 more friendlove posts

A buttload of pictures

See you soon!

Lower-ks. It's like "lowercase," get it?

I've noticed something about myself recently. Let me tell you a story. It's called "I like 'k' better than 'K.'" It goes like this:

I really like the lowercase version of the first letter of my name better than I like the capital version. Don't you think it looks cooler? Here they are side by side for comparison:

k K

Maybe it's a reflection of my desire to be a part of the crowd rather than standing out too much. Maybe it's reminiscent of my younger years, when writing in either ALL CAPS, Small Caps, or no caps was a manifestation of creativity in handwriting. Or maybe it's just the asymmetry that is so appealing to me. Whatever it is, it creates kind of a funny dilemma. See, since I just think the lowercase looks so much nicer, I enjoy typing it that way, especially when signing my name at the end of emails. It usually looks something like this:

--katelyn

(And, for comparison's sake again)

--Katelyn

I just like it. I think it looks nice and polished. I think it's how the top right stem of the "k" is the same height as the "a." Whatever.

Here's the problem, though. It's called "I am a college graduate now and I kinda sorta have a real person job." I often find myself wondering if it sends a weird message about me when I sign my emails with a lowercase k. I use great (if not perfect) capitalization and punctuation within the body of my emails; I just can't not do it anymore. I sometimes try, but my guilty conscience gets the best of me and I inevitably edit it before I send it. It's the signing, though, that puts me in a fit.

Now, with personal emails, it's no big deal. I sign those with all lowercase all the time. It's like saying to someone, "I can be myself around you. I don't feel the need to be perfect. I trust you not to judge me for not capitalizing my name." But for work emails, I always face this dilemma: do I follow my heart and stay true to my true preferences, or do I grit my teeth and follow the conventions that I am so dogged to keep 99.9 percent of the time anyway? It's not that I worry too much that my coworkers will think I'm stupid, but rather that it might send a message of carelessness when, in fact, I lowercase with all the care in the world. Lowercasing my name has become part of who I am.

The real difficulty comes when I have crossed the lowercasing line once, even if by accident. I did this a couple of days ago when I signed a work email (nothing too crazy, just a quick check-in with one of my supervisors) with all lowercase letters. Like I said, it's part of who I am and I think it looks good. I don't think I even realized I had done it until she replied and I saw my original email signed by "--katelyn." The next time I email her, what am I going to do?! If I capitalize my "k" after that incident, I'll feel like a sell-out. Like, "Oh, I was going to follow my heart and be myself but then I got scared of what you might think." Plus, in my mind (I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who thinks this), it would emphasize the fact that my name was lowercase the first time, thus suggesting that the signature on the original email was a careless or lazy mistake on my part.

However, if I keep it lowercase, it's like I'm reassuring the recipient that I know what I'm doing when I write my lowercase "k." I do it on purpose, and she does not need to doubt my competence. Or maybe it will just make her doubt it even more, as that would make multiple emails in which I didn't capitalize my own name.

I know this is all very silly and I probably sound like I'm being overly dramatic about this. (I mean, really, is there anybody out there over the age of 16 who has ever had a thought process this ridiculous?) But this is real life for me, folks. I face this every time I write an email. Having written about it in detail, though, I'm feeling like I should just lowercase my name all the time, except for in my handwritten signatures (because I really like my capital cursive "k") and in really important things like job application emails, etc. But once I've been hired or maybe just shared this post and/or my rationalizations for non-capitalization of my name, they can expect a valiant effort if not near-perfection in everything I do except writing K at the beginning of my name.

The end.

Love,

katelyn

Daddy!

In honor of Fathers' Day, I wanted to write down a few quotations from my daddy that demonstrate some of the important life lessons he's taught me.

Daddy has always taught me about good hygiene. On several occasions when I've told him I'm going to shower because I smell bad, he has said, "When you finally smell yourself, you know that everyone else started to smell you three days ago." (This might explain why every time I walk in the door and say, "Hi, Popsy," he responds with "Hey, poopsie.")

Daddy always encouraged me to find out who I am and be proud of it. This is exemplified by his song that pretty much just goes, "I'm a blue jean man. Whomp. Whomp." He always comforted me through the times I was trying to figure out who I am and how to love myself. He told me, "They always say Mormons are peculiar, but you've got it extra bad because you're Gentry. And you've got an extra dose of weirdness because you're the Geoffrey brand of Gentry. Sorry." I know now that that is so true, but I can't help but be excited for when I fall in mutual weirdness with someone who appreciates my Gentryness.

Anyone who has been close to me recently knows that my favorite piece of advice is "follow your heart." This can be partially attributed to the way Daddy sings songs that he doesn't know the words to. Somehow, he always works in the phrase "Oh, my heart." Daddy knows the heart is where it's at.

It's also because of Daddy that I have a weird sense of humor, cowlicks, and Shuler legs, but we'll forgive him for that. 

On a more serious note, Daddy has always been there to give me advice when I've been going through difficult times. He's taught me about my Savior and the power in the Atonement and the strength that comes through prayer. After one heartbreak in particular, he told me that "rejection isn't failure; it's feedback. Learn from it." I have learned many things working from this philosophy. Anytime I feel like I have been rejected or like I need to improve, I remember these words and try to move forward with faith. I will never forget the wisdom in those words. 

One of the most important things Daddy has taught me is that happiness is a choice. He once told me, "When things get hard remember that no matter where you are, you're only a few minutes away from laughter." Daddy has chosen to be happy and smile through so many trials in his life. That is a lifestyle and attitude that I hope I can adopt as successfully as he has. I love him so much and I'm glad he's my poppy!

Friendlove part 2: Clarky

If you've read this blog for a while, you have probably heard of Clark before. That's because he was my fake fiance on April Fools' Day. (Oh yeah, I never revealed the prank on here, so if you didn't find out through facebook, then . . . joke's on you! You're now a May and June fool, too.) Anyway, even though Clark is not my eternal-companion-to-be, he is still one of my dearest friends and he deserves to get some lovin'.

Clark and I have been friends for a little over 2 years now. We were in the same ward for a while before we met, and he was really close with our good friend Tamara. Around the same time Tamara moved out of the ward, I decided I needed to expand my circle of friends. I figured that if Clark was cool enough to be that close with Tamara (because she's pretty dang amazing too), I should be his friend too. I think that the first few times we met, he thought I was a crazy person. Maybe even annoying. But for some reason, we kept on being friends, despite some differences in our personalities. (Clark is one of the few people who knows how to say things so random that I will have absolutely no response. That's helped keep my humor on its toes, though.) Within the past year--but especially in the past three or four months, though--Clark and I have gotten pretty close. He's seen me in some of my best times (Wookiee noises in the library) and in some of my worst times (feeling worthless after throwing up all night), and yet we're still tight. He really is a fantastic friend.

I've seen Clark work through some really difficult trials. He has never stopped putting his best foot forward and making the best of whatever situations he has come across. He is also an enormous example to me of setting goals and working toward them. He is a man of action. Whether his goals be physical, emotional, spiritual, or otherwise, I think that Clark has a gift for seeing his potential and working hard to achieve it. After deciding to do a triathlon only three weeks before it happens, he inspired me to do one too (though I'll be working on that until early September). He is an inspiring person, and I'm glad he's in my life.

Friendlove part 1: Kristen

Kristen is a distant cousin of mine (3rd, I think). She grew up with my brothers, so when I was growing up I didn't know her very well, but throughout the past couple of years as we've been blogging buddies, I feel like I've come to know her pretty well. She is the mother of four beautiful children, and with every post she writes about those little rascals, she adds to my excitement about being a mother one day. One of my favorite things about her is the way she deals with the hilarious messes her kids make. (And by that, I mean, the messes that Paige makes.) In my eyes, Kristen is the epitome of cherishing motherhood and keeping the eternal perspective. I should also make note that she and Cory have raised their kids to be Tarheels, so you know they're righteous parents.

I really admire Kristen. Everything from her sense of humor to her sense of style and her incredible testimony is a tremendous example to me of the kind of person and mother I want to become. And I can only hope my kids will be as cute as hers.

And, finally, if you ever need an extra smile, try watching this. 

I had an idea today. Lately I've been reflecting about the things that are important in my life and what makes me happy, etc. I've realized that a lot of my happiness comes from love--loving others, being loved by others, etc. I've also realized that I do a lot of conditional loving. And by that I mean that I tend to just love people and if I can tell that they love me back, I make more of an effort to show them I love them. Otherwise, I put less time into expressing that love and nurturing it. But that's not the way God loves, and it's not the way I want to love. He loves unconditionally, regardless of how much they show affection and appreciation for Him. My ultimate goal is to become like Him, and I honestly believe that one of the biggest ways for me to begin that journey is to try and love like Him. I know that I won't love perfectly in this life--only He can do that--but I can still improve the way I express the admiration and gratitude for the people in my life.

Now, back to my brilliant idea. I'm going to start that process by writing individual blog posts about the special people in my life, and you, dear readers, are to be some of my subjects. Of course I'll write about my family members and close friends who may never even see this, but I'm gonna write about all y'all too.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the best at keeping a journal other than this blog, and I don't want to forget the people who have helped me become me. So watch out. One of these days, you're gonna be featured. I'll probably start tomorrow; I've got lots of cleaning and stuff to do today. I'll write about people in no particular order, so don't be offended if you're not one of the very first to be featured.

I love you. The end.

Summer to-do list

This summer, I will:

Eat healthier--have smaller portions and fewer treats
Cook good food and share it with people
Run a 5K (The Dirty Dash)
Ride my bike at least 4 times a week. Maybe I'll even form a biker gang.
Feel good enough about my legs to lose the over-the-swimsuit shorts
Stay skin-cancer free, but not pasty. Or red. I just want a little bit of pigment.
Read The Book of Mormon twice--once in English, once in Spanish
Learn at least 2 new things each day--1 spiritual and 1 secular--and write them down
Kiss a boy. And by "boy" I mean "man."
Make 3 new friends (or significantly improve 3 current friendships)
Work hard
Play harder
Play more guitar, keep singing, learn harmonica
Take a road trip to California
Read all those books
Make at least two tie-dye shirts per month
Fly kites
Play Wiffle Ball
Have adventures

Twenty-two by Twenty-two

Here we are again. It's prime reading season! I've always looked forward to summer because freedom from school made it easier to read for fun. This summer is no different, except actually it might be better because now I'm completely done with school, which is still kind of crazy.

To celebrate my (almost) 22 years of life and learning, I'm going to read 22 books by my 22nd birthday on September 6th. If I get through all of these by the end of the summer, I'm all for adding more to the list, so I'm open for suggestions. A couple of the books on the list are ones I've read before, but I read them back when I was in middle school; I think I could get a lot more out of them now that I might actually understand what's going on. Also, I'm going to start reading some books in Spanish (and a couple in Spanglish) because now that I don't have any more Spanish classes, I need something to keep my language skills up. I'll star those so you'll think I'm cool.

And, since I like color-coding things, here's a key to my color-codingness.

Currently reading

Finished

Next on the list

Here goes:

1. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith (528 pages)

2. Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson (349 pages)

3. Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie (200 pages)
4. Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen (~400 pages)
5. Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum (496 pages)
6. Led by Faith by Imaculee Ilibagiza (264 pages)

7. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (400 pages)

8. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis (160 pages)
9. Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis (227 pages)
10. The Great Divorce** by C.S. Lewis (144 pages)
11. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd (302 pages)
12. Peace Like a River by Leif Enger (320 pages)
13. Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes (304 pages)
14. Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden (448 pages)
15. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan (288 pages)
16. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (208 pages)
17. Life of Pi by Yann Martel (326 pages)
18. The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros (110 pages)
19. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne (244 pages)
20. Don Quixote de la Mancha* by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (~1000 pages. Gonna be a doozy.)
21. Yo-Yo Boing!* by Giannina Braschi (256 pages)
22. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao* by Junot Diaz (339 pages)

**I found a dirt-cheap copy of this book in Spanish, so I'll actually be reading El Gran Divorico.

So that's 119 days to read approximately 6,900 pages. Sweet bidness. Wish me luck!

Knock Knock! Who's there? Diploma. Diploma who? Diploma's here to fix de sink!

     My diploma will be in the mail tomorrow. It's real life!
     I don't think I ever did any explaining on here about the crazy life decisions I've made over the past few weeks, so I'll do that now. The past few months have been an incredible spiritual journey for me and I have seen the Lord working in my life, and I'm understanding a little better now how small means bring about great things.
     See, my plan for the past two years has been to complete the TESOL minor. I had it all planned out: I would complete all the coursework except for the internship by April 2011, then do that internship during the summer and be officially graduated in August. But starting in February, I started getting little inklings that I might not want to teach ESL for a living. The thought occurred to me a couple of times that I should drop the minor and just graduate with my B.A. in Linguistics. Since I had taken all the TESOL classes and went on study abroad, I still had enough Linguistics elective credits to graduate with that option rather than needing a minor. But I told myself "no." I thought that it was just the senioritis speaking and trying to get me to take the easy way out. I suppressed those thoughts and kept doing my thing.
     A few weeks later, I was tinkering with my resume to try and make it more TESOL-specific, and I realized that a lot of my work experience has been with people who have disabilities. The thought crossed my mind, "Maybe you should do something with special education." I chided myself, "Maybe you should have done something with special education, but it's too late. You're pretty much only 150 internship hours away from graduating college. You're not going to change career paths now." I ignored it and moved on.
     Two days after that, I had a chance encounter (or so it would seem) with my friend Becky, who was the Relief Society President in my ward during my freshman year. As we were catching up, she mentioned that she was teaching special education at a school in town. That surprised the beans out of me--she'd graduated with an Art degree a year ago, but she wasn't really doing anything with art education with these kids. She explained that a friend had hooked her up with the job and she has started working on getting certified to teach special education--Utah State University has a program that lets you work toward licensure while teaching--and she gave me the details of that program. I read a little bit about it that night and then put it on the sidelines of my thoughts. I still wanted to make something happen with the internship and was pretty much just determined to finish what I had started.
     Shortly afterward, General Conference weekend rolled around, and as usual, I had some questions that I wanted answered. I had started to feel kind of uninterested in my studies, but it wasn't like senioritis. Trust me, I've had plenty of experience with that, and it was nowhere near the flat-out laziness and antsy feeling that senioritis gives me. It was more like I felt that the things I was learning to prepare for teaching ESL--even though they came easily to me--were not very well suited to my personality. Now, I've always wanted to be a teacher, and I think I will be a great teacher. But through taking the TESOL courses, I realized that I may not be the best "educator," in the sense that I feel more inclined toward being a mentor--a source of emotional and psychological support--rather than being a formal educator who holds students accountable for grades, etc. Now, I know it isn't as black and white as I just made it sound, but it's the only way I can describe it in words. At any rate, I felt like my personality and the TESOL industry were not the best match. I prayed to be able to receive direction and guidance about what the next step in my life should be.
     I can't pinpoint one talk in particular that gave me the huge epiphany I was waiting for--though these (1 2 3) were really great. I just felt like I could be at peace with whatever decision I wanted to make. I felt that Heavenly Father was pleased with me, that I was making good umbrella decisions and heading in the right direction overall, and the specifics at that point could be up to me. Pretty much, I was reminded time and time again how much He loves me. It was a phenomenal weekend.
     The Tuesday after Conference, I got snapped back into real life when my computer screen stopped working. This was a week before my senior thesis was due, and I was about to just give up and cry. Talk about awful timing. Luckily my brother was able to come over and hook me up to another monitor so I could still work on everything. He's such a huge blessing in my life, and his technology knowledge and tendency to have lots of extra cords and accessories on hand are only a portion of the reason for that. I asked him for a Priesthood blessing, knowing that I would need the extra strength and support through the next week. I was floored by the power and specificity of the blessing. I know that Brad was serving then as God's mouthpiece; I had not expressed any of my school/career concerns to Brad, and yet he spoke these words in the blessing: "You have been blessed with a variety of abilities. Your talents are diverse. Do not feel like you are tied down to one specific field or area of interest. Use those various talents and gifts to help with whatever you choose to pursue as your next step in life."
     There it was. My answer. I went in the next day to the Advisement Center, officially dropped the minor and applied to officially graduate on 21 April 2011. (Reason #2894759125 why I love BYU: You can make an earth-shattering decision about your career path just two weeks before graduation, and when you tell your academic advisers, "General Conference and a Priesthood blessing changed my life plan," they'll support you in a heartbeat, no questions asked.)
     I knew this was the right decision. For so many reasons, I could have been freaking out and going crazy about what I was doing. The biggest thing? This meant I'd lose my on-campus job and would have to find a new one soon. I was going to be in the same position I was in two years ago--desperately searching for a job so I could pay the rent for the contract I'd already signed. That was a pretty miserable time, but even facing the possibility of those difficulties again, I felt peaceful and confident that things would work out.
     Now, a month later, I have a job that I'll begin at the beginning of June. It's something that I know will be both meaningful and enjoyable. I recognize that my being able to get a job so quickly is a specific answer to my prayers. Through these experiences, Father has strengthened my testimony of the direct relationship between action and progression.
     At this point, with some of the opportunities that may be available during and after this new job, I don't know if I will end up in special education. That's certainly the goal right now, and I'll be working toward that, possibly starting as early as August. But I'm sure that if I wanted to go on and do something with TESOL, I can be successful with that as well, but here's the bottom line: I'm excited to pursue this new goal and see where it leads me. I've been reminded of how good it is to have the Lord on my side. I know that He is guiding me. I've always been told I'd be able to do good things in my life, and now I finally feel that way.

Snippets:
1. Maddie has moved out, and I miss her. But I'm proud of her and so grateful she's been in my life.
2. My friends are amazing and make me smile and laugh every day.
3. I rode a bike 4 times last week and it's been magical. I'm pretty sure I'll be doing that a lot this summer.
4. I am so grateful for family members who support me through everything I do--spiritually and emotionally, as well as temporally when they can (and sometimes even when they can't).

The Whippoorwill Song

 This is a story written by my sweet grandma about the blessing and privilege of being a mother. She is one of the many amazing and inspiring mothers in my life, and I am grateful for her example of joy in motherhood. It is because of her, my other grandma and my Mama that my main goal in this life is to be married and have children. Her words are powerful and have touched my life and strengthened my testimony and understanding of family, so I want to share them with all of you. Happy mothers' day!

----------

"For of Such . . ."

     (The following letter is an excerpt for a booklet of the above title. It is an account of the first four years of the short lifespan of Gregory Neil Gentry, son of Mildred "Tookie" Shuler and Paul Murphy Gentry. Gregory died, a victim of cerebral palsy, at age 7 years and 4 months on the 8th of April, 1959. He was born December 9, 1951. It will serve as a frontis page for this story, "The Whippoorwill Song.")

     My darling son,

     You are only 4 years old as I write this.
     The purpose of this letter: so that as you grow older and wax strong in body and spirit, you will have these things written so that it will bring all things to your remembrance.
     It will serve two purposes:
     (1) To show you the great difficulties you will have overcome.
     (2) To enable me, your mother, to win the battle that is being constantly waged--sometimes faithfully and sometimes ashamedly, faithlessly.

     I hope, as you grow older, that when you read these things you will come to know me better. Your ultimate recovery is my dearest wish. You have been my greatest teacher. You have taught me to know the full measure of compassion. I love my fellow man more sincerely because of you. You have taught me the true way to obtain happiness. You taught me this by my observing how happy anyone else being happy makes you. You enjoy your happiness through others and so you have taught me an object lesson in selflessness.
     For you, my life has been richer--fuller than I might ever have been permitted to experience without you.
     And, at times I have thought that your and my experience was more than I could bear, I found solace in the words of the Apostle Paul: II Corinthians 12:7-10.

     7 And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.
     8 For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.
     9 And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.
     10 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distressses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong.

     Read this, my son, when you are in need of comfort. This, my son, is for you. And for anyone else whom it might, in any small way, help. If perchance another mother who reads this and is either encouraged or helped, then I feel that it is a story worthy of being told.

Your loving mother,
Mildred "Tookie" Shuler Gentry

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The Whippoorwill Song

By Mildred "Tookie" Shuler Gentry

(Mrs. Paul Murphy Gentry)

     The clear, piercing, yet mellow notes of thie whippoorwill's song rang out through the pre-dawn darkness. The mother lay motionless, stopped momentarily from her restless tossing and turning. She waited, raising her head slightly, straining forward as if to hear it better. Emotions flooded her heart and mind as memories flowed forth in a torrent, cascading and falling in ragged patches, bringing with it suppressed longings and desires.
     There! The lilting call rang out again and she lighly and quickly drew in her breath as the bird's call rang clearly in the early April skies.
     "It's happened again," she told herself in a soft whispered voice. In eighteen years, to her certain knowledge, it always happened within the first week of April--more times than not, as today, on the eighth of April. In a rush of emotion, tears welled in her sleepless eyes and flowed onto her tightly-clutched pillow. Loneliness and a deeply pervading longing and emptiness filled her being. Her arms felt suddenly empty and ached in the old familiar way, weighted with a strange, terrible emptiness and uselessness. The old defeating feeling of having lost one's "need to be needed" washed over her. Once she had known how very much she was needed. Yes, even further, that she was almost indispensable and--she strongly felt--irreplaceable.
     The tears flowed more swiftly as she momentarily allowed her spirit to explore and to delve into the deep longing and self-pity she experienced--but only momentarily. She would not indulge herself long in such emotions.
     "There, you silly ole goose! What do you mean, not needed? The mother of thirteen children not needed? Hah! Not needed, indeed," she chided herself. "Dry your silly ole tears before you wake him up."
    She raised herself up onto her bended elbow and peered closely into her husband's face as he slept peacefully unaware in the moonlit room.
    "That's a laugh," she smiled to herself in the midst of her tears. "It'd take more than a few silent tears to wake him until it's time to get up for the day's work! There have never been sleepless nights for him, for that is not his nature. That's your specialty," she reminded herself.
     The whippoorwill sang out again and its mate answered in the same clear, syllabled ringing a little further down in the field. The mother sank back into her pillow with a deep sigh. Her eyes absently followed the shadowy beams overhead as her mind traced the sharp, clear memories the birds' calls evoked. Almost ashamedly she wiped the tears from her eyes with the corner of the sheet.
     "The little mutt," she thought. "He always loved it when we called the whippoorwill his bird." She could see in her mind's eye his special little smile when the whippoorwill called, and he would suddenly "freeze" in a listening attitude, every muscle waiting for the response he had come to expect from his mother. He would quickly look toward her and mutely question with those intelligent, sharp eyes if she, too, had heard his bird.
     "Greg, I wish you'd tell your ole bird to hush up," she'd say next., at which his little head would turn, his little legs churning, and his beautiful open-mouthed smile would light his face. That smile! His one and only real ability--and how he used it! He showered it upon everyone. He had a sort of "sidewise" smile if he was uncertain of one's intentions, and a slow, tight-lipped, light-up-your-eyes smile if he was teasing and testing. But he saved his open-mouthed, smile-all-over-his-body kind of smile for specials. This one his mother called his "mockin' bird" smile. This one was ofttimes reserved for just the two of them--when they shared thoughts alone and with an uncanny rapport knew what the other thought and meant. AS, for instance, when the whippoorwill sounded and he breathlessly waited for her words, she withholding them until he could bear it no longer. Then, eyes meeting, they would both burst out in a fit of laughter. She would then rush to him, scooping up his tiny body close to hers, and they would roll over and over the floor with whoops of laughter.

    [Father in Heaven, is it wrong to miss someone so much? I know it's been eighteen years, but Father, it is so clear and sharp in my memory and thoughts and I am too human. It's not that I would call him back, Father, even if you'd allow it, but may I long to touch and feed and care for him at least on this particular day? And, oh yes, Father, I will not oppress others with my thoughts and needs. I will not be maudlin or inflict upon others my memories, but thou knowest a mother's love and needs.]

     The bird, closer now, called out its questioning notes three times in rapid succession--Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!--garbling one into the other as though through terror or warning. This prompted the mother to gather her vagrant thoughts. "The first time!  Oh yes, I well remember how the whippoorwill became Greg's bird."
     The mother shifted on her bed, settling her tired and sleepless body to a more restful and better position and remembered how the bird became Greg's own, and how any whippoorwill's calling immediately became "Greg's bird."
     "He was about two years old, then," she reminisced, "and he was such a beautiful child. I was always so glad of that."

     [Father, was that alright? To be glad for something so trivial and unimportant? For your prophet Isaiah told us your Son would not be comely. I was not glad in a vain way, Father, but I felt that because he was so pleasant to look upon  that it made him more acceptable to others. It did seem to me to soften the expressions of pity and, too often, that of revulsion that strangers--and even family too, Father--showed when they first realized that he was severely afflicted by cerebral palsy, this terrible and terrifying malady that robs each victim in various ways as it damages vital centers in the brain, leaving some blind, mute, deaf. Some, as our son Greg, are left with sight and hearing unimpaired, yet their ability to speak or use any part of their body at will has been destroyed. I'm grateful to thee, Heavenly Father, for sparing him the grimace, the droolings and contortions of facial features that so often accompany this brain-damaging malady. I hope that was not wrong! For even if he had not been spared this, I would have loved him still. I also thank thee, Father, for sparing his mind. I know how quick and bright his mind was, even if the doctors doubted. AFter all, a mother can tell that he understood the things we talked of, even if all the talk was one-sided. He did speak to me with those dark brown and shining eyes and with his quick, open-mouthed "mockin' bird" smile, and with his sad, down-turned mouth when cross words were spoken.]

     The bird had flown to a different and closer spot, and now its clear, fluting voice rang more loudly in the early morning air. This jogged the mother's divergent thoughts and she mentally groped for her original thought. The first time. Yes! She remembered it so very clearly.

     [It was such a little thing, Father, but it was a vital turning point for our lives.]

     She had been feeding him his evening meal--or trying to. "'Trying' is a good word," she thought, "for it most certainly was that--trying." Because of his inability to swallow at will, mealtimes became one of the hardest obstacles the mother had ever been called upon to master. The more the child liked a thing, the more uncontrollably and violently his spastic muscles would react. Instead of eagerly accepting the proffered morsel, his reactions were to push away in the opposite direction all the harder. His neck turned his head cruelly against the mother's body, his body would twist, feet scissoring and churning, arms extended with fists tightly closed. Rigidly, his teeth clenched tightly together. Soon, both mother and son would be drenched in perspiration as they battled together to get his mouth open and the food deposited. To get even a small amount into his tiny body required well over an hour of physical and even greater spiritual labor.
     In the midst of this ordeal on this very special day, the mother's eyes filled with tears of frustration and helplessness and unconsciously she plead with heaven to inspire her with the needed abilities to know how to cope. The answer came in a very unexpected manner.
     Suddenly, in the twilight evening, right beneath the kitchen window where they sat--"Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!" quickly, close together and in such a volume as to seem deafening by its nearness and unexpectedness.
     The child, startled, ceased his fearful twisting and pushing, then lay unusually still, listening intently. His eyes, bright with questioning and some fright, searched first his mother's face for an explanation and then he cast a worried glance toward the open window. His mouth lay open and receptive and she quickly deposited the spoonful of food into his waiting mouth, at which he began chewing motions and swallowed it quite naturally. His eyes returned to his mother's face, his mouth agape. She seized this unexpected opportunity and filled his mouth again. He swallowed again and turned his eyes once more to the window. The bird, as if on cue, repeated its previous performance and so amazed was the child, that he, too, repeated his. A miracle! The mother realized that herein was the answer to her prayer: to divert his attention so that his spastic muscles could obey. She began to talk in a low voice about "Greg's bird" and how it would like to come in and eat Greg's dinner. And so the meal was finished. Each time his attention turned from the bird, the mother in a conspiratorial voice would half-whisper, "Listen, Greg. Listen to your bird!"

     "That's the way it began--Greg's bird," she smiled to herself. No one had to tell the mother that this was inspiration--heavenly inspiration. She never doubted it.

     [Father, the task was very difficult, so much so that in my weaker times I despaired. And, had it not been for a stubborn streak within me that disallows defeat, and had it not been that you made me cleverer than I by nature had ever been before or since, I know it never would have been possible for me to meet so great a challenge, at times. I do so thank thee for Greg and the challenges that a special child brings to a home.
     Now, Father, thou knowest I would never have chosen so great a challenge, for I am weak, but I can know now that it was the thing that has taught me, that has enlarged and enriched my life beyond any other task life brings.
     Did you know, Heavenly Father, that I may never have noticed the really important things in life? That I may have taken common blessings for granted, such as how intricate and wondrous our minds and bodies are? Do other mothers of only normal children see or get the great thrill that I do when I see a baby learn to crawl, to sit up, and to see the first step? When tiny hands reach up to touch, and fingers work together to hold or pick up an object? Do their throats constrict with unshed tears of delight when an untidy sleeve wipes an unruly nose? Do they praise thee when their child holds his head erect?]

     I thought my first two normal, into-everything children were wondrous, but I never would have known how wondrous except through our little Greg. After Greg, never again with all our other healthy, normal children would I take for granted the workings of a normal body and mind! Every act is so magnified--tying a shoelace a mind-boggling accomplishment!

     [Oh, I do so thank thee, Father, for singling us out for the blessings of a special child!]

     Now the mother turned restlessly upon her bed, her thoughts shattered by a different "song." She had become so engrossed in her memories, she had through familiarity failed to notice, as she listened to the whippoorwill's song, the preliminary rumblings emanating from her sleeping spouse which were but the prelude of louder snores to come. They came in mounting crescendos until, at the peak of volume, it seemed to her now tattered and weary nerves, that something surely would have to break or tear. She, again as countless times before, cupped his shoulder with her hand and with a combined shake and a pushing motion said, "Turn over, honey," in an absentminded, familiar and mechanical way. He, in his own familiar and repetitous way, looked up with sleep clouding his kind face and good-naturedly asked, "Huh? Which way?" at which he promptly settled back down on his back without turning either way. She wondered, as she always did, why he always asked for directions, and--as she always did--resigned herself to listening as he began his preliminary rumblings that would in the end begin the whole process of "Turn over, honey." "Huh? Which way?" once more.
     "What a delight he has been," thought the mother.

     [Of course, Father, Greg's condition would have been unbearable except for this choice companion thou hast given me.]

     Yes, God had given him to her, for hadn't she prayed for him to happen? And hadn't she pleaded with him to find her a suitable companion? And hadn't she, at age 17, left her home and family to travel to a distant city to find her a good , Mormon husband? After all, she had reasoned, when one lives in the South and the only Mormons in the school are yourself and two sisters, then one must make sacrifices--and opportunities--for a proper marriage.

     [Well, I did take a beauty course while I was searching, Father, but you and I both know I really went to find him. Thank you, Father, thank you! Thank you! My nonmember friends say their marriages were made in heaven. I always say mine was sealed in heaven. Oh, please help me to be worthy for this to be!]

     The mother pulled the bedcovers over her shoulders and moved closer to her sleeping husband. He slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer and in a half-asleep voice said, "Greg's bird is back again." She lay quietly beside him, enjoying the warmth and nearness of his strong body.
     "It's a good thing he's so strong," she thought. "He works so hard for our large brood with never a murmur." After thirty-one years of marriage, he never ceased to amaze her with his love and gentleness--his innate goodness. Of course, the children adored him.

     [But none as much as Greg did, Father. And he loved Greg with a depth of love that was beautiful to watch. Greg loved so much to be in his daddy's strong arms. He carried him everywhere! Oh, how Greg loved to watch his daddy play ball on the town team. All of our children were so small then. I would have a young baby in my arms, and the one I was pregnant with, and several more runnin' around, one in tow, and then--then would come Greg and his dad. What a sight we must have been! How excited Greg would get when his dad was up to bat. I can see him now, standing--with braces on within his barrel we made from an oil drum, padded all about. That was an inspiration, too, Father. Thank you for helping us to be clever--to build things to help Greg be happy.]

     "He would be 25 years old now," the mother thought, and she tried to imagine how he would look. "All thirteen have looked so alike."

     [Seven years and four months is not very old, Father, is it? Your Son was only 33! Not very old, either, but each lived long enough to serve out his mission, didn't they? Our sons were alike--are alike--in so many ways, Father. Yours was a sinless one, and mine too--free from the power of Satan because of your Son, for Greg had not yet reached his years of accountability. They both will inherit the celestial kingdom and reign with you there. Your Son's mission was to assure our resurrection. My son's was to give us, his family, the will to try and live lives to merit a glorious resurrection so that we can dwell with our families and Christ and Thee in the celestial kingdom. Please help me, Father, to become worthy of thy Son's sacrifice.]

     The mother enjoyed and was comforted by the running soliloquy she conducted with her Maker, the Father of us all. It ran through the fabric of her life and was a sure fact in her life: that her Heavenly Parent lived, heard her prayers and answered them in a practical and dependable way that He was always there to comfort and bless.
     "I'm glad others can't read your thoughts or they would sure think me daft. Worse yet, they'd probably put me away," she concluded with a pleased and anything-but-repentant apology for this peccadillo. It pleased her to know that those things she considered private and that she kept carefully hidden and guarded from others--both her good side and her bad--could be paraded in all candor before a loving, knowledgeable, and understanding and forgiving Heavenly Parent and discuss freely with Him, all day and all night, no matter the hour. She felt free to ask for or explain or just "talk-out" to her satisfaction those things she thought and felt. Others may not understand, but He always did. Others may not approve, but He, if disapproving, loved her anyway and prompted her to alter her ways for her betterment. Others rarely understood her true intent, while He always knew. And so she talked and discussed many things, both vocally and in her heart, with Him. But she was too prone to not (except rarely) explain or discuss her deepest emotions with those she loved. "Another peccadillo," she thought.
     She shook, fluffed, and softly punched her pillow to her liking and peered over her sleeping husband's shoulder to see the luminous clock face. She sank back down into her pillow dispiritedly.
     "I've done it again," she muttered, thoroughly disgusted at herself. "Time to get up almost and still no sleep. I promised myself I wouldn't do this this time. It's all in your mind," she chastised herself. "This day is no different from the other 364. Why must you act this way every April the 8th?"
     She pushed her head determinedly deeper into her tortured pillow and muttered something about how she'd turn off her thoughts and at least grab a few minutes' sleep before time to begin her busy work-a-day morning: Getting the nine remaining-at-home children to their different schools--grammar, high, and college--and some, as with her husband, to work. And she must prepare for her art exhibit of her paintings, plus meals to prepare and the cleaning. Also, don't forget it's visiting teaching day and I must babysit the grandchildren for my Primary President daughter for her daddy-daughter banquet.

     [I wonder if Greg looks like our grown sons, Father? The twelfth one looks just like Greg did so I'm sure that at his age now, Greg would have looked like he does. It's almost as if you sent him in Greg's almost exact image so that I could watch them both grow up. I thank thee for our children, Father.]

     The bird whistled its identifying notes and now, this time, it seemed in a commanding tone. From the direction of its call she realized that it was now singing from the special spot that the parents had chosen as a waiting place to house their little son's frail body.  His death had been so sudden--contributed to by his birth brain-damaged condition that had made it impossible to withstand the pneumonia that assailed his little body. The mother and her daddy had chosen the spot--halfway between their two homes. It was a shady spot on a slight hill and the air was filled with the soughing of the tall pines that stood as sentinels, and the rustling of the many jack oak trees that grew so abundantly on the west Florida countryside. Others had joined him on this beautiful hillside in the years since: two beloved aunts and a newborn nephew. An empty vault lay beside Greg's small grave waiting for his grandfather or his mother, "whichever is first," with lots of empty spaces for all the rest who would come in the years to follow. This had become a favored spot to visit if a bit of privacy was needed, to rest on a hot summer day as the children ran down to the trail to grandpa's house to swim in the beautiful natural springs there, a place to commune and to reach important decisions, a place of great joy and hope, not one of mourning.
     With a pang the mother remembered what her daddy had said when she had returned from the hospital that day eighteen years ago today. It still rang within her soul each time the unbidden tears of loneliness overwhelmed her. The shock of coming home empty-armed . . .

     [For Greg was in my arms most of his life, Father. Is that why my arms hurt and ache? Not with a physical pain, but one of spiritual need?]

     The too-new-to-be-accepted fact that never again in this life would she be able to hold, caress, or care for this exceptional child was too much to accept. Her daddy was at her home, waiting. She rushed up to him and buried her grief-stricken face upon his shoulder and began to weep the tears that lay so near the surface, washing her burdened soul.
     "Now, are you crying because now your son can run?" he asked compassionately, though a little briskly. "Do you dare cry because never again must he suffer?"

     [Is that why you were able to allow your Son to suffer for us, Father? I think I can tell now, through Greg, a little of what you probably felt, for it is so very hard to see your children suffer. Even when one understands that suffering is sometimes needed for our soul growth, it is still hard to accept. But then, Father, I know the school of life is ofttimes difficult, but, properly studied, it will bring soul growth and great rewards. I know and accept thy plan of progression for us, Father. This knowledge is what enables me to find life a most joyous experience even in the midst of sorrows. I thank thee, Heavenly Father, for thy wondrous gospel plan of happiness.
    I thank thee, too, Father, to be able to understand and patiently wait for the future great resurrection day when we will all come forth from the grave. Ofttimes I wonder what, if I prove worthy, it will feel like when I again see my little Greg and, instead of holding him in my arms, he will stand and proudly put me within his arms and loudly say, "Mother!"
     Will the whippoorwill sing just as loudly there, Father?]