Why I'm Okay With Not Understanding Everything

Last night I read an article about a policy change in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The purpose of this blog is not to talk about the specific policy change, but rather the manner that it was brought to the public's attention.

According to the article:

"The update came to what is known as Handbook #1, which is used as a guide for administering in the church, and is only available to LDS bishops and stake presidents."

So a screenshot of the handbook, that is intended only for bishops and stake presidents, was "leaked" to the internet, and in turn to the news media. 

The reason that the handbook is available to only bishops and stake presidents is because they are currently in a calling which makes such information necessary. It is not that this information is "secret" to the rest of the world, but rather that the rest of the world doesn't really need to know it. And if they did know it (as it is now public knowledge because of the screenshot) it would probably be taken out of context, and without any kind of understanding as to why the policy was made in the first place (and so it is.) The Spirit that should accompany this kind of policy was not transmitted through a hastily written news article, and quotes from an excommunicated member.

Reading a news article about a screenshot of a handbook that is meant to be seen by bishops and stake presidents is kind of like watching a YouTube video of a temple endowment session. Only those who have prepared and are worthy are able to obtain a recommend can enter an LDS temple. It is not that the ordinances that are performed inside are secret, but rather they are sacred, and when taken out of context and without the proper Spirit, lose their meaning. I'm sure there are plenty of places on the vast information net that is the World Wide Web that would let you see or read exactly what goes on in the temple. But it would not make much sense to those who were reading it.

God teaches us, and reveals His plan to us, in accordance with our understanding. He wants to teach us things that we can comprehend, line by line and precept by precept.

This is not only the way we learn in the gospel, but in everything in life. Several months ago I started studying Web Design. I have taken five classes now, and I understand a lot more than I did when I began. However, the more I understand, the more I realize that there is so much I don't understand. In fact, it can be completely overwhelming when I think about all of the information in Web Design that I still don't understand.

The fact that I don't know everything helps me be okay with the fact that I don't always understand everything. At least not for now. Just because I don't understand something right now doesn't mean that I won't understand it later. God teaches me as I am willing to be humble and learn. That is how revelation works.

If you don't understand, or agree with this new policy and you are a faithful member of the Church, don't worry. It may take you time to understand it, especially because it was released to the general membership of the Church in a way that was not intended by our leaders. But don't let one thing that you don't understand have you question everything else that you do understand. Faith means believing until you are able to understand. Stay faithful. 

Anahi's Birth Story

So, I guess it's about time that I sat down and wrote about Anahi's birth. I've been thinking about doing it a lot over the last three weeks, but every time I go to write it I would get discouraged. I think it has something to do with the fact that I had such a perfect birth, and such a miserable postpartum experience. I guess I've been struggling a lot with postpartum depression and when I am depressed it is really hard to write. But Anahi deserves to have her amazing birth story told, so here it goes.

On Thursday, August 6, I went into labor. Kind of. I had been having consistent contractions all day, but I didn't want to start timing them. That day I was exactly 37 weeks pregnant and could officially give birth at Baby + Co., the birth center I had chosen. I thought it was funny that my contractions had started that day and thought that maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Around 2:30pm I finally started timing my contractions. They were about 5-10 minutes apart. They weren't super painful, but my contractions in my first birth never really were either.

Diego got home around 4pm. I'd been having contractions 5-10 minutes apart for an hour and a half and I was now having intense pain on my right side. I got into the tub to try to slow down the contractions, but the pain continued. I called the birth center and they told me to come in because it sounded like I was in active labor.

During the hour drive to the birth center, a million thoughts ran through my head. I was worried that we wouldn't make it in time and the baby would be born on the side of the freeway. The pain on my right side was so intense, but I tried to stay calm and work through it. When we arrived at the birth center the midwife checked my cervix. I was dilated to 4cm. I got in the tub to try to ease the pain.

After about an hour, my contractions had slowed considerably, but the pain in my right side was horrific.

"I don't think this is true labor," one of the midwives told me. My heart sank. If this pain wasn't labor, what was it? I started to get scared that something was seriously wrong with me. This fear only intensified the pain. I got out of the tub and they hooked me up to a machine to monitor my contractions. They were more sporadic now and not painful at all. I stayed at 4cm the entire time.

The midwife had me take an antacid for indigestion and after 4 hours at the birth center, I went home feeling stupid and upset. I tried to wait as long as I could to go in. I didn't want to drag my husband and my two year old daughter all the way to the birth center for a false alarm. But it was a false alarm.

The next day the pain on my right side returned so strong that I was in tears. I finally called the senior missionaries in our ward to give me a ride to the ER. When I got to the ER they took one look at my pregnant belly and told me that I needed to go to Labor & Delivery.

"I'm not in labor, though," I told them firmly as they all gave me incredulous looks. I explained that I wasn't having contractions, just really bad pain on my right side that I was afraid might be something wrong with my gallbladder or appendix. The sent me to Labor & Delivery anyway, and in a wheelchair, even though I insisted that I could walk just fine.

I was in Labor & Delivery for about an hour. They checked my cervix again: still at a 4. They did blood tests to check if anything was wrong with my gallbladder or appendix. The tests all came back fine. The midwife at the hospital told me that it was just round ligament pain and the only way to cure it was to have the baby.

I went home again feeling silly that I had made a big deal out of "nothing." (Even though the excruciating pain on my right side didn't really feel like nothing to me.)

Three weeks passed. Three long, frustrating, emotionally-draining weeks. I continued to have contractions almost every day. The pain on my right side did eventually fade and completely disappear. Some days I would have consistent contractions for two to three hours. I kept thinking, "It's going to be today!" But it wasn't. I didn't want to drive an hour back to the birth center for nothing. I told my husband I wouldn't go back in until my water broke.

At 1am in the morning on August 27, my due date, my water broke. It was like I'd always heard, there was a "pop" and then a gush of water. I jumped out of bed, over Lucia, my two year old, who had decided to join us in bed about 2 hours earlier. I quickly put on a heavy duty pad so that I wouldn't leak all over the place. I woke my husband up and told him that my water had broken and we should start getting our stuff together to leave.

I was having contractions, but because I'd been having them almost every day for three weeks, I hardly even noticed them. But I knew that if my water was broken, and I was dilated to at least a four, the baby was sure to come sometime that day. I was surprisingly calm as I gathered up all of the last minute things on my list and stuffed them into my birth bag. Lucia was awake. I changed her diaper and put shoes on her and told her that her little sister was on her way.

I called the birth center and got their answering service, which is who answers after hours. They put me on hold as they tried to get the midwife on call on the line. They said they couldn't get her but they had left her a message to call me back ASAP. We finished packing up everything in the car and started our hour drive to the birth center.

About 10 minutes into our drive the midwife called. She calmly asked what was up. I explained that my water had broken and we were headed to the birth center.

"Well, hold on," she said, "how are your contractions?" I told her that I'd been having contractions for three weeks and I knew that I was already dilated to at least a 4cm and that we had to drive an hour to get to the birth center. I wasn't sure how fast the baby would come, but I didn't want to take the chance of having her on the side of the road.

"Well, our records show that last time you were only at 2cm," the midwife responded. I don't know what records she was reading, but they certainly weren't mine. She asked me how far apart my contractions were.

"I don't really know, I haven't been timing them," I said. Then I felt one. "Hang on," I said, "I'm having one now." The midwife seemed to think that if I sounded so calm and could talk through a contraction that I must not really be in active labor. I was getting frustrated and tried to explain that I talked all through transition in my first labor.

She told me that there was no one at the birth center, that it wasn't open until 8am.

"Do I have to go to a hospital then?" I asked incredulously. At this point I was on the verge of tears.

She said that we should call when we were about a half hour away and she would head over.

We got to the birth center at 2:45am. When the midwife checked my cervix I was dilated to 6cm. She then believed that I was actually in labor.

It was just me, my husband, Lucia, the midwife, and the nurse at the birth center. I was hoping Lucia would go back to sleep. We put on a movie for her and asked her to lay down, but she didn't fall asleep. She wanted to be with me. I was doing fine, walking around and breathing through contractions which were coming every 3 to 5 minutes. I had messaged a couple of friends that had said they would help with Lucia at the birth center, but I figured they were still asleep.

Around 5am the contractions were getting a little more intense and I decided to get in the tub. Lucia was still awake and quietly playing games on the tablet in the corner of the room. I was worried about her being there when things started getting really intense. In between contractions I was desperately trying to find someone to come and stay with her. I was calling everyone I could think of, but it was still early and most people were still asleep.

I love the tub!!

"I think I'll just stay in here forever."

I listened to a meditation recording that my doula from my first labor had made. It helped me to stay calm and focused through the contractions, which were now coming every 2-3 minutes. I was starting to feel a lot of pressure, but I didn't want to even think about pushing.

I explained to my midwife that pushing was the worst part about my first labor. I pushed for three hours with the nurses and eventually the OB yelling at me to push harder and counting and making me hold my breath. She assured me that this time would be different but I had to get over that mental block that kept me from pushing. We decided that she would check my dilation to see how I was doing around 6:30am.

At 6:30am I was dilated to 8cm. I still hadn't gotten a hold of anyone to take care of Lucia. At this point I figured she could just stay with us, since I was obviously in transition and she was doing just fine.

About an hour later I could feel more pressure with each contraction and I threw up twice. I kept thinking how horrible pushing was and wished I could just stay in the tub and continue having contractions, which I didn't think were so bad. There was another fear, though, besides pushing. It was harder to explain. It was a fear of having another baby. I'd been having a lot of depression in the last 3 weeks and questioning whether or not I was ready to have two children. I wondered if I could love this baby as much as I loved my first. I worried about how this new baby would change our family dynamic. All of these doubts and fears made me want to push even less. I knew that the moment the baby was born, my life would change forever.

Around 8am the first midwife left and two other midwifes came on. These two I had gotten to know a lot better during my prenatal visits and I was so happy to see them. Lucia had finally fallen asleep on the bed in the room.

By this time I knew I was completely dilated and felt like pushing, but I didn't want to. I kept being reassured by the midwifes that I needed to push my baby out, that I didn't need to be afraid. They were right, it was completely different from my first hospital birth. There was no yelling, no telling me to hold my breath and count to 10. But I was still afraid.

Lucia woke up around 9am. I was afraid I would be in labor forever and worried that everyone was getting tired of waiting for this baby to come. The midwifes were patient and kind. They kept reassuring me that I could do this. Around 9:30am, one of the midwifes suggested I try to go to the bathroom to see if that would move the baby's head down further. I finally got out of the tub and hobbled to the bathroom. I thought I would have the baby on the toilet, I kept having an incredible urge to push. While I was on the toilet the midwife checked my dilation one last time. I was at 10cm. I had probably been at 10cm for about an hour.

They suggested I try bearing down on a birthing stool out of the water. I made up my mind that I just needed to get over my fear and push. I squatted on the birth stool and with the next contraction I pushed as hard as I could. It hurt so bad that I started to scream. After 8 hours of laboring in almost complete silence, I was now screaming at the top of my lungs. It was so painful but so exhilarating, like riding a roller coaster. Terrifying, but amazing. Lucia didn't think it was so amazing. My screams scared her and I could hear her on the bed saying, "Mommy?? Mommy?" One of the receptionists from the center came and took her out of the room. I was grateful that she was not alone. My husband was in front of me, coaching me to keep pushing.

On the second push I continued to scream as loud as I could and was able to push my baby out completely. I'd only pushed for about 10 minutes, which was a huge improvement to the 3 hours I'd pushed before. With the help of the midwife I brought my daughter directly up to my chest. I was ecstatic that I had done it, but I noted that the midwifes seemed a bit worried. I noticed there was a lot more blood than normal. In fact, there was blood everywhere.

"Am I hemorrhaging?" I asked, now suddenly concerned. The midwife quickly told me I wasn't, but that I had had a hematoma form while pushing. Apparently, according to my husband, he watched the blood vessel break and fill up with blood to the size of a baseball on the first push. On the second push the blood vessel ruptured and the blood went all over the place (hence all the blood).

They let the blood finish pulsing through the cord while I sat on the birth stool and then Diego was able to cut the cord. They then had me lay on the bed with my baby. She was beautiful, she looked just like Lucia, with a full head of jet black hair. As soon as I was on the bed, Anahi started to breastfeed and I tried to focus on that while the midwife drained the hematoma and stitched me up. I had hardly torn my perineum at all, but the hematoma needed to be stitched.

Because of swelling, more bleeding, and almost passing out twice, I had to be transferred to the hospital, where I stayed for two more days. But that's a postpartum story, not a birth story, and this birth story is long enough.

Besides the hematoma, I had the perfect birth that I wanted. I felt empowered the entire time, especially during pushing, which had been my biggest fear. I was absolutely elated that I had pushed my baby out despite all the pain. I was told later by my midwife that most of that pain I experienced during pushing was probably due to the hematoma forming and rupturing anyway.

So that is my perfect birth story. Just the way I wanted it. At 9:50am, Anahi Micaela Cabrera was born, while I screamed as loud as I could and blood spewed all over the place. It was beautiful and incredible and so real. And I shouldn't have had any fear about my capacity to love her, because I have adored her every second since she came into this world.

With the two loves of my life after being transferred to the hospital.

Just a Mom

This is a rant. It's probably not the most eloquent or organized piece I've ever written, but I just needed to vent because I'm going crazy with all this pent up frustration.

Most of my childhood and adolescence, I wanted to have a career. I wasn't exactly sure what career I wanted to have, but I knew I wanted it to involve pantsuits and a briefcase. I knew I wanted to be a professional. I wanted to be important and I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted people to remember me as someone who helped change history in a good way.

A little over five years ago, things started to change. I found myself longing to be a wife and a mother, something I'd never really thought of as a priority before. Sure, I knew that was something I wanted to do, and it was important, but it would always be in addition to something more important. I would never be "just a mom."

When I got married I knew I wanted to have children right away. I didn't want to wait and "live my life" some more. I wanted to be a mom. It was an overwhelming feeling. Carrying my sweet daughter within me for 9 months was an incredible experience. I've been in love with her since I knew she existed.

I went back to work part time when Lucia was just 5 weeks old. I loved my job, but I missed my daughter every minute that I was away from her. Even though we were apart for just 5 hours a day, I always felt like it should be something temporary, until my husband and I got back on our feet.

A little over a year ago, I finally got the opportunity to become "just a mom." And holy cow, is it hard.

I don't want to complain about being a mom. I love it; I wouldn't change my job for anything in the world. What drives me nuts is when I hear people who think that being a stay-at-home mom is "easy" or that it's not real work. Maybe because before I may have been one of those people, and now I'm completely repentant and have gained such a deepened respect for all moms.

First of all, moms don't get time off. Ever. They never get to leave their job. If your baby wakes up at 1 in the morning, you don't get to inform that screaming bundle of joy that you are not "on call." Weekends? Same as any other day of the week. Same with holidays. And you don't get time and a half. Being a mom is a full-time job. Actually, it's more than full-time, because you definitely work more than 40 hours a week.

Being a mom is physically strenuous. Those toddlers sure can run, and it is hard to keep up with them! Sure, I'm not lifting 40 pound crates, but I'm lifting a 25 pound toddler and flying her around pretending she's a super hero. And apparently, they just keep getting bigger.

It's emotionally exhausting. She's crying again, and I have no idea why. I know she is trying to communicate something to me, but my toddler translator has ceased to function after a night of restless sleep from pregnancy and waking up two or three times hearing the little voice in the other room call out, "Mommy!"

It takes careful planning and thought. These little people have a lot of needs, and you have to meet them all. On top of that, you want them to learn, you need to make sure that you are helping their cognitive development, and their language development, and their social development, etc.

There are people that go to school and study this kind of stuff. They become professional care givers, or social workers or school administrators. They have a degree, and a title, and a paycheck. Most women who are "just moms" don't have any of that. But they do and know a lot of the same things.

I'm sick of those women who are "just moms" being so belittled, even in joking. It's hurtful. It's ignorant. I'd love to see any hotshot executive try to do what "just a mom" does, even for a day. Just because it is a different set of skills and knowledge doesn't make it any less valuable.

A great mom can make all the difference in the world. I had an amazing mom, who raised 7 amazing children. Even if a mom does nothing but raise one daughter who becomes just another mom, it makes a huge difference. Each life is precious; each positive, kind, helpful individual becomes a stronger thread in the fabric of society.

So why do they need more? I am not at all against moms getting more education or working from home or outside the home, or doing whatever they want to do to feel fulfilled. But if I already feel fulfilled dedicating all my time, talents, and energy to my offspring, then that should be enough. I shouldn't have to be "just a mom" who lacks something in her life. My life is complete. The time I have been given I chose to use to serve them, those little people who are my world. If I have other accomplishments in my life, they will pale in comparison to those little ones who will grow up and live fulfilled lives. Even if that fulfillment comes from just being a mom.

No Blog Post Could Do Him Justice

I just wish everyone could have had the privilege of knowing Alberto Cabrera. You seriously would have loved him. Everyone did.

The first time I met my (then) future father-in-law, I had only been home from my mission for two weeks. I went to Peru to "court" my future husband. As soon as I met Alberto, I could feel his amazing warmth and love. I knew I needed to be a part of his family when he sat with me about a week later and told me that he and his wife had been raising his son from very small to be a great husband. He told me he felt like I would be a good wife for that son. 

He taught both of his sons well. He never let a moment go by without teaching them something.

Alberto contracted polio when he was only a year old. He never walked. He spent nearly his entire life in a wheelchair. But he never let that limit him in any way. He wasn't resentful about it. He was one of the most cheerful people I've ever had the pleasure to meet. When Lucia was so close to walking while we were there he would always say, "She's going to beat me at walking!"

He never called me his daughter-in-law. He always called me his daughter. He told me he had always wanted a daughter and now he had one.

I knew I loved this man when he took my side on any argument Diego and I ever had.

At our wedding reception in Peru while Diego danced with his mom, I grabbed Alberto by the hands and we glided across the dance floor.

You could not have seen a happier grandpa when Lucia and I went to Peru in April. He put her on his lap and wheeled his chair up and down the street telling everyone, "This is my granddaughter!" "My granddaughter is here visiting me!" 

He asked me to pick out some movies for Lucia that he could buy. He bought her Frozen. We sat down to watch it, Lucia, Alberto, Sonia, and I. But Sonia and Lucia both fell asleep about half way through the first song and Alberto and I stayed up watching it together.

When Elsa is little and her father is trying to hide her powers, Alberto said, "That is just like people who are really smart! So many times they hide it instead of letting their abilities grow."

He was always analyzing everything and finding deeper meaning. But he had such a light heart and happy spirit. He laughed heartily throughout the movie.

He loved music. He was always singing. Whenever we'd talk to him on Skype he would start a huayno beat to make Lucia laugh. Dung dugga dung dugga dung. I can hear his voice and see Lucia's smile.

One night while I was in Peru the last time I got really depressed. I felt so guilty that Diego's life had changed so dramatically. I felt awful that he was far away from his friends and family and that it was my fault. The next day when I talked to Alberto about it he kindly said, "Diego knew what he was doing when he married you. When he chose to love you, he knew he would be giving up a lot." He knew exactly what to say to sooth my sorrowing heart.

He was friends with everyone he met. He told me that he loved the song "Un Millon de Amigos" (A Million Friends) by Roberto Carlos because that was his goal in life, too. He was a friend to everyone he met, and even those he hadn't met. Every time we spoke on Skype he would ask me how my mom and dad were doing. He always wanted to know what was going on in their lives and how they were.

He will be sorely missed, but the greatest consolation is knowing that he is home with his Father in Heaven. He was one of the most faithful men I have ever met. His testimony of His Savior Jesus Christ was incredible. He served faithfully to the end.

Life will not be the same without him. But he was an amazing comforter. I know if he were here he'd be saying, "Hannah, don't cry. Don't cry hija, everything will be okay." And I know it will be. I know that families can be eternal and that we will be with Alberto again sooner than we know it.

Te amo mi querido suegro. Gracias por tratarme siempre como tu hija. Gracias por enseñarme, por amarme y por siempre aceptarme tal y como soy.

Surviving the Distance

This Tuesday, September 16, marks exactly 6 months since Diego and I have been apart. Diego said something the other day about how fast the time has gone.

Well, I'm glad it went by fast for him because it has been the longest six months of my life. 

It's not like Diego and I are strangers to long periods of distance. You could say that that is a big part of our relationship. 

Our first shot at long distance was 8 months. I was still on my mission; Diego was at home. We didn't talk on the phone, we only wrote to each other once a week. We weren't officially in any kind of relationship, just good friends. Still, through our distance, we learned to care for each other. Time flew by then.

After two short weeks in Peru, we were apart again. This time for 9 months. A lot happened in that nine months. We broke up and got back together several times. Our relationship went through a refiner's fire. But in the end, we decided our love could be an eternal one, and got engaged. 9 months after my first trip to Peru, I returned, this time with a ring on my finger. We were together for a well deserved 2 months. It was heavenly. We went on actual dates, we talked late into the night, we were able to hold each other close.

Then separation. Again. This time it was only 3 months. Three stressful months--planning a wedding, trying to graduate from college, starting a new job, and begging immigration services to hurry up our paperwork so I could have a groom on my wedding day. Those months went by pretty fast.

May 25, 2012 finally came around. We were sealed for time and all eternity. Everything was just as it should be. 

Except not. Contrary to popular belief, Diego didn't just "become a citizen" when he married me. He didn't even become a resident for nearly a year after our wedding. Months passed. We were together, that was the good part. The bad part was that Diego wasn't allowed to work. Or go to school. Or to do anything really. 

A year passed. We had a beautiful baby girl. We were together every day. Sometimes I think we forgot about the distance. We started to take for granted the simple blessing of just physically being together.

Months and months passed. Things started to get more difficult. Diego started looking into joining the Army, something I would never have even imagined. I knew it would mean more separation. After counseling and praying together, we decided it was the right decision. I thought the separation wouldn't hurt so bad, since we had done it so many times before.

After 22 months of being together every day, we parted ways again. This time things were very different, though. I wasn't working or going to school. I had Lucia to keep me company, but sometimes that made me even more lonely. I've gained a whole new respect for single moms. Diego has thrived in the Army. He's become a fully qualifies Combat Medic. I am very proud of him.

I have tried to keep myself busy. It's hard being a stay at home mom, because technically you are always busy, but you sometimes feel like you get absolutely nothing done. It has made time seem sluggish. 

Time is a funny thing. Though it feels like an eternity since I've woken up with my husband by my side, it also seems like Lucia is growing up way too fast. She has completely transformed from a 10 month old baby to a bubbly busy toddler.

So 6 months later, and finally, this Thursday, we will all be together again. I don't know for how long this time. It could be a year. It could be more. Or less. Since Diego is active duty, I know we will be apart again.

Sometimes I cry about it. Sometimes I just accept it as part of our life together. I hope the separation will continue to help me appreciate the moments that we are together. 

Black with White Stripes or White with Black Stripes?

Blogging about my depression has seemed to help in the past, so I thought I'd give it a go again.

About a week ago my depression started getting pretty bad again. Many things have probably contributed: being sick, being sick again on top of being sick, being stressed about moving, being stressed about everything, and just life's wear and tear in general.

Talking more openly about my specific battle with depression has made me more aware of it. It's almost like an outer body experience. I can hear myself saying negative and almost always irrational things, and at the same time there is a part of me, floating around somewhere going, "That's depression! Just tell it to piss off!" A lot of times that will work, but this week I've just let myself sink deeper and deeper into negativity.

Tonight while I talked to Diego I said something to the effect of, "I guess I've just been kidding myself for the last several months thinking I could be happy. This is who I really am."

Almost immediately I questioned what I had said (or actually, typed, since Diego and I were chatting online). It sounded very definite and final. Am I really just a severely depressed person who is occasionally happy? Or am I a generally happy person who struggles with depression?

I thought of one of my favorite kid movies, Madagascar, and Marty the Zebra's soul searching question, "I'm ten years old. My life is half over and I don't even know if I'm black with white stripes or white with black stripes!"

It's a little paradoxical, because when I am in that mode of depression where no rational person or thought can penetrate my bubble of negativity, I AM a depressed person that can sometimes fight off my depression, and fool everyone into thinking that I am happy. But when I am happy and that fog of depression is not clouding my intellect, I know that I struggle with depression, but it does not define me.

The truth is, depression will probably never completely leave me in this mortal life. I will always grapple with that question, "Am I black with white stripes or white with black stripes?" Maybe there is no answer. Maybe I am both.

Maybe the key is to stop trying to define myself in black and white and see myself rather in the array of colors that I am.

I am a music loving, Spanish speaking, cookie eating girl (woman, I guess I have to be a woman now that I'm technically in my "late" 20s). I am a wife to the most attractive Peruvian man on the planet. I am the mother of the most adorable little girl. I am opinionated and I can be loud. I am a clown--I love to make other people laugh. I'm an aspiring author who has no idea when my first book will be done. I arrange concerts and musical numbers and choreograph dances...in my head. Someday they will become a reality. I dream of starting my own school in Peru to teach English while using theater and music. I am a daughter of God, who loves me, and I love Him!

That's me. Those are my colors. Forget black and white.

Belonging to a Ward Family (Para Mi Barrio Latino)

It's late and I really should be sleeping, but like always, I won't be able to sleep until I get this post out of my head and onto my blog.

When Diego and I first got married, we dined at Chinese restaurant owned by a Peruvian family. I purposely took Diego there because I knew the owner was Peruvian and thought it might be nice for Diego to talk to someone from home. The owner of the restaurant was very friendly, and on finding out that we were LDS, he asked us if we went to a Spanish ward. He told us we were in his ward boundaries and that we should go on Sunday and see how we liked it.

The following Sunday, Diego and I went to the Spanish ward. When the ward clerk asked if we were visiting or staying, before Diego could say anything I said, "We're staying." And we've been going ever since.

The ward has become my family. I love each and every one of the members as if they were my crazy aunt or uncle so-and-so.

One family in particular, the Lizjuan family, has been extraordinarily kind to me. Brother Luis Lizjuan sat in my Sunday School classes when I taught the youth. He always had amazing comments about his mission. He always asked how I was doing, and told me what I good teacher I was.

When I was pregnant, the only thing I craved was brownies from Zupas. I posted an off-handed remark about it one day on Facebook and not ten minutes later Sister Esperanza Lizjuan was sending her daughter Deyra DOWNTOWN to the office where I worked with three different brownies from Zupas. Who does that? It made my entire week, nay, my entire pregnancy!

The week after I gave birth, Sister Lizjuan, along with many other wonderful Relief Society sisters were at my house with meals and hugs and "Ooooh que linda! Se parece igualita a su papá!!"

Last week, Brother Lizjuan had an accident at work. A bad accident. He has a collapsed lung and a swollen brain. He's in a induced coma while they monitor the swelling in his brain. They've already removed a piece of his skull to allow relief there.

On Friday, Lucia and I, along with another one of my favorite families, the Warburtons (Jon and Luz) went to visit Sister Lizjuan in the hospital. She hasn't left her husband's side. Jon and Luz watched Lucia in the waiting room so I could go and visit Brother Lizjuan in the intensive care unit.

While Sister Lizjuan, the nurse, and I talked about his condition all of the sudden I started feeling very lightheaded and ended up on the floor after nearly passing out. I went to the doctor that night and they found that I have an infection.

Yesterday, though, I was feeling better again, so I put off picking up the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed. I figured it couldn't hurt to wait until Monday to pick them up.

Today I church I nearly passed out again. And there was my ward, being amazing as usual. I felt embarrassed for calling so much attention to myself; I started to cry. A few of the brothers helped me to another room where they gave me a blessing. Sister Noemi Delgado took care of Lucia while they did and then she drove me home.

Tonight my bishop called just to make sure I was doing okay.

I know this is a long maybe not so connected entry, but I just wanted to say to any of the amazing ward members that read my blog: THANK YOU! I cannot express how painful it will be to leave you all next month. I'm already dreading it. I will miss my sweet Latino family that has accepted this Spanish speaking gringa as one of their own.

I'm grateful that the Church allows us to create these friendships with otherwise complete strangers.

If you haven't said your prayers tonight, and even if you have, please remember Brother Luis Lizjuan. He is an amazing father and husband and friend and neighbor.

Mobilization and the Creation of Transnational Identity in Salvadoran Migrants

Originally written: February 21, 2008

Mobilization and the movement of people are an integral part of life in the twenty-first century. With the effects of globalization, especially the improvement of technology and transportation, movement is become more and more possible. However, there are several different implications of mobilization and migration. In the case of El Salvador, as well as many other Central American countries, migration to places like the United States, Canada, and other more stable countries has been prompted by warfare, violence, corruption, and economic devastation. Mobilization creates a phenomenon called transnationalism, where a person is caught between two different cultures and nations. Baker-Cristales defines transnationalism as "a way of construing the world that selectively incorporates practices and beliefs from both El Salvador and the United States in a fluid set of social practices." All Salvadoran migrants have felt the impact of having a transnational identity to different degrees.

The history of El Salvador plays an important part in understanding the complex characteristics of transnational identity. Like the majority of Latin American countries, El Salvador was colonized by the Spanish. The initial conflicts began as ethnic skirmishes between the indigenous people and the European settlers. This created a distinct ethnic division in the county. After a bloody massacre in 1932, the indigenous identity was greatly downplayed. El Salvador became a much more homogeneous population ethnically. From that point on, rather than focusing on ethnic division, economic class distinctions were made more obvious. Communism emerged as a popular school of though, with a concern for the rights of the proletariat. In this political and social climate, civil war emerged in the late 1970s and lasted through the early 1990s. The war stemmed from years of class conflict. Approximately 75,000 people died in the Salvadoran civil war. It completely devastated families, communities, and the economy. It also prompted a huge wave of migration, with many people trying to escape the violence of war.

Even after the peace treaty was signed in 1992, migration continued to be high. Many sought asylum in the United States. "Estimates of the number of Salvadorans in the United States today range from over 1 million to as many as 2 million out of a total population of 6.3 million" (Baker-Cristales). Because of the steady flow of migration, the economy of El Salvador is run almost entirely by remittances (money sent back to their home country) from relatives in the United Sates and other countries where a better living is offered. Most of the people who migrate from El Salvador are middle class, as the opportunities for travel and migration are much more limited to the poor.

The two biggest results of the civil war and increased migration are the creation of a transnational identity and a remittance economy. In order to better understand the transnational identity of Salvadoran migrants, many different interviews and surveys have been conducted within Salvadoran communities all over the United States. In the article, "The Interrupted Circle: Truncated Transnationalism and the Salvadoran Experience," the study focuses specifically on Salvadoran migrants in New Jersey, and their families they left behind in El Salvador. In the article, the authors discuss the many issues that migrants face in the transnational lifestyle. They also claim that the Salvadoran migrants are experiencing a "truncated transnationalism" because of the difficulty in gaining legal documentation in the United States. They say that the Salvadorans live an "interrupted circle," which is missing elements of the regular migration circle: separation, experience, and return. Because of the unstable economy back home, return is almost always impossible. This created many emotional issues with Salvadoran migrants. They long for home, but they are supporting their families by staying in the United States. Because of the difficult process of gaining citizenship in the United States, they must sometimes cut off all ties from their home country. However, often the only reason they are in the United States in the first place is to better their economic situation and then return to their home country. It is a paradoxical situation. Ines M. Miyares describes it like this, "They must create place ties in the US to convince state authorities that it is life-threatening to physically return to El Salvador in order to be granted the legal right to visit 'home.'"

Another result of the civil war and large influx of migration is the creation of a remittance economy. According to Baker-Cristales, "The Salvadoran economy and countless Salvadoran families have developed a dependence upon migrant remittances, the single largest source of income in the country." The economy of El Salvador has been described as stagnant. They are so dependent on foreign remittances and migrant help; they are unable to develop their own functioning economy. The only viable choice in order to help your family for many Salvadorans is to migrate and make a living abroad. Although conditions may seem worse when compared to middle class Americans, Salvadoran migrants are able to make a significantly higher salary in the United States working for very base pay than they could if they stayed in their home country.

El Salvador's bloody and violent history, hand in hang with political corruption and social class distinction, has created a transnational population abroad and a remittance economy at home. Because of this, Salvadoran face many different problems. They are torn between two countries. Many of the migrants are unable to return home and are permanently separated from their families and loved ones. There are children growing up in El Salvador who only know their parents through the remittances they send home and an occasional letter or phone call. The only way to fix the problem is to begin building  a new infrastructure in El Salvador and slowly wean it from its dependency on foreign remittances. If people continue to leave the country to live and work abroad, there will be no improvement in the problems at home.


Salvadoran Transformations: Class Consciousness and Ethnic Identity in a Transnational Milieu (Beth Baker-Cristales)

The Interrupted Circle: Truncated Transnationalism and the Salvadoran Experience (Ines M. Miyares)

With Suicide There is No Room for Judgement, Only Compassion

Since the death of Robin Williams two days ago, the entire nation, if not much of the world has had suicide and depression weighing heavily on their mind. Such a prominent, public figure who contributed so much good to the world, has certainly left his loved ones and his fans completely shell-shocked.

I have also been thinking a lot about these topics. I've been reading all the articles and blogs. Everyone seems to have their opinion about it. Everyone seems effected by depression and suicide in some way. I decided I wouldn't write about it, thinking everything important on the subject has already been written. But it's almost 3am and I'm lying in bed and I don't think I'll be able to sleep until I get this written down.

I'm sure nearly everyone has been effected by suicide in some way. For me it really started when my little sister's friend took her life at the young age of 13. I was 17, a high school senior. My sister took it hard, and started her on a long hard path down her own depression, culminating in her own suicide attempt a couple of years later.

I was 19 then. We shared a room downstairs in our parents' basement. I'd had a hard night, fighting with my boyfriend and feeling emotionally exhausted. When I got home, my sister was already asleep in her bed. She'd already taken the entire bottle of pills that she hoped would permanently take her pain away. I didn't even notice. I threw myself in the bed right next to hers and fell asleep.

The next morning I found that my sister was in intensive care in the hospital. To her dismay, she'd woken up early. She went to get my mom to tell her what she'd done. She recovered...physically. Depression is still something she deals with everyday.

At first, I was angry with her. I didn't even want to go visit her in the hospital. I couldn't believe she would try to leave without even saying goodbye. She hadn't even left a note.

Years later, I hit my own rock bottom with depression. I'd struggled with it nearly all my life and I decided I couldn't keep going. I thought about ending my life almost constantly. I'd be driving and have urges to just ram my car into a barrier or run it off the road. I remember walking across a bridge at school and thinking how easy it would be just to toss myself over the side.

I decided then that I needed more help than I was getting. I started seeing a psychologist and started taking medicine for depression. Things got better, but there were always ups and downs.

After I was married, we got pregnant right away. That may have saved my life a time or two. There would be times I'd be so down, but I'd always think, "I won't do anything to hurt this baby." I knew that if I hurt myself, I could potentially hurt her, and it wasn't her fault that I was a stupid awful person. There were nights, though, when I'd think to myself that as soon as she was born I would kill myself.

Once she was born, I discovered that she needed me, a lot. Every day since then, my reason to live has grown and grown. It has become much stronger than my reason to die.

Now, having described my experience with suicide, I want to say that every person has their unique experience. The circumstances surrounding those experiences are distinct and different for each person.

From a religious point of view, I know that only God has a right to pronounce judgement on His children. When a suicide is committed it is not a "Come grab your stone and cast it" kind of event. Even the person most intimate with the deceased could not know all the reasons and feelings behind that decision. There is no room for judgement. There is no room for speculation.

It is not condoning suicide to try to comfort those who remain to mourn. Those who are left to pick up the broken pieces of their lives deserve more than just, "Well, isn't that sad." They deserve compassion, and a listening ear. They need love. They will spend the rest of their lives trying to make sense of what happened. They don't need everyone around them telling them why their loved one did what they did and what the consequences for them are.

God loves His children. He knows each of us better than we know ourselves. He has the final word, and no one else. No person on this earth right now has the right to say where a deceased person is going to end up after this life, no matter how they parted. Leave the judgements aside, and help heal rather than hurt more. Celebrate life, cherish it.

For more information about suicide and the gospel, visit: Suicide: Some Things We Know, and Some We Do Not

Close the Computer

I've learned a lot of things from my 14 month old daughter in her short lifetime. Above all she has taught me to live in the moment, using very forceful expression.

I do not own a smart phone, so most of my internet browsing happens on my small Chromebook that I can carry from room to room easily. During the day I'll open my tabs: first Facebook, then my email, and then sequentially all other websites that I deem necessary to do my internet "chores" for that day. Sometimes they are bank accounts or places I need to pay bills to. Some I leave open as a reminder of things I need to call on or look into further. A lot of times I'll open Spotify or Pandora so my daughter and I aren't in complete silence during the day.

Slowly my tabs begin to multiply. As I casually peruse Facebook, I'm led to news articles and trivia and quizzes about what type of carbonated beverage I am.

Don't get me wrong; I adore my daughter and we play and eat and do all the things most moms and their babies do. But my computer seems to always be around just in case I have a new notification or message.

Lately, Lucia has been catching on to that fact that my mommy brain is constantly multitasking. So in order to have all of my attention, she has got into the habit of closing my computer. I'll be sitting on the bed while she plays on the floor. She'll climb up and close the computer. We'll be watching a show and I'll also be periodically checking things online. She'll close the computer. Sometimes she even reinforces her action by sweetly saying "Bye bye" as she closes it.

Okay, Lucia. I get your point.

When I am with her, I should be with her one hundred percent. It isn't bad to be on the internet now and again throughout the day, and sometimes I really do have "errands" that I can do faster online. But the moment has come to stop wasting my time reading about what pop stars from the 90s are doing nowadays, or every mommy blogger's opinion about what laundry detergent is safest.

Regarding the internet, Randall L. Ridd said, "With it you can accomplish great things in a short period of time, or you can get caught up in endless loops of triviality that waste your time and degrade your potential. With the click of a button, you can access whatever your heart desires. That’s the key—what does your heart desire? What do you gravitate toward? Where will your desires lead?"

My desire is to be close to my daughter. To be the best mom, best wife, and best person I can be. So from now on instead of being tempted to look at just one more interesting video from my Facebook newsfeed, I will close the computer. There is always an hour or so at the end of the night when my little one is sweetly sleeping that I can spend a little more time writing silly blogs like this one.

The Day I Almost Quit 100 Happy Days

It was June 5, day 65 of my 100 Happy Days challenge. Over half-way through, I felt pretty upset about quitting.

"But that's what you are, a quitter."

That was my depression. She has a nasty voice that sounds like mine when I'm at my meanest.

"Why did you think you could be happy for 100 days straight? Are you kidding? You're never happy."

My rational voice tried to protest by saying that I'd already proved to myself that I could do it for 64 days. But when I'm depressed, my rational voice is just a really soft mutter.

I don't even remember why I was depressed that day. Sometimes (actually, most of the time) there isn't even a valid reason. Something small might tip me off and then I'm down a dark hole faster than Alice in Wonderland.

The whole reason I had started the 100 Happy Days challenge in the first place was to help with my depression. Especially since my husband left to train with the Army for 6 months, being happy seemed like an impossible task. But structure and goals seemed to help quite a bit, so this challenge was perfect.

I'd seen some of my friends posting their challenge pictures on Facebook and wanted to give it a go. There had definitely been some sad moments in the first 64 days, but I was always able to find something to be happy about during that time, even if it was something as simple as a bowl of ice cream after finally putting my baby to bed.

Not Day 65 though. For some reason I couldn't get out of my hole long enough to find something positive about my most-likely uneventful day. I'd probably just stayed home all day, in my pajamas. Maybe I'd made goals and plans for the day and not done any of them. Maybe I just felt like a waste of space, and it was all I could do to feed my baby and keep her happy between waking up, nap time, and bedtime.

"You did nothing today, you loser. What do you have to be happy about?"

Snarky ugly depression voice. I really hate her, and she sure is loud.

Then I heard a very soft voice say, "Well, there is always tomorrow."

And suddenly, that was my happy thought for the day. Days could get really bad, but the sun always comes up the next day with new opportunities and new surprises.

Maybe I hadn't been productive or positive that day, but it didn't mean I had to stay down in the dumps forever. Tomorrow comes and we get another chance. If that doesn't make everyone happy, I don't know what will.

Today I posted my last "100 Happy Days" picture to my wall on Facebook. I'm so glad I didn't give up, and didn't pay attention to that awful mean voice in my head that kept telling me I'm a quitter. I have learned so much in the last 100 days, but most importantly that happy does not depend on your circumstances, but rather on your choices.

There have been sad days during my 100 Happy Days, but I've been able to find at least one happy thing each day, despite what may have happened. Most days I could have posted a ton of pictures of what made me happy that day.

To make sure I got my challenge done, I would start each day thinking, "I wonder what I'll post today." Then throughout the day I'd make sure to take a picture, or find a picture online to represent what happiness I'd found in the day.

So, to my obnoxious depression voice--IN YOUR FACE! I WON!

She may always be around, trying to bring me down, but now that I've been happy for 100 days, I will continue to look for the happy every single day for the rest of my life. Because once you've developed that habit, it's hard to break.

Promises, Covenants, and Ordinances

In 2009, I was madly in love. I was 21 years old and dating the guy that I'd had a crush on since I was 15. It was a dream come true, and I thought it would last forever.

I was also preparing to serve a mission. I'd wanted to serve as long as I could remember and my boyfriend had promised to wait for me. He'd already served two years, and I'd written to him the entire time. Though we'd talked about getting married quite a bit, I'd prayed a lot about my decision to wait and serve a mission, and that felt right.

I remember hanging out with a mutual friend of ours one night before I left. He'd been a close friend of ours for years, and had always been willing to give advice to me and my boyfriend since the beginning of our romantic relationship three years before.

During our conversation, my friend said, "Do you really think he'll wait for you? What happens if you come home and he's not around anymore?"

The thought had crossed my mind briefly before, but I was convinced that after the three years in which we'd gone through so much together, we were sure to be able to make it through 18 more months. I assured my friend of this, to which he responded,

"But 18 months is a long time and people change."

Well, we did change. At least he did. I wasn't 3 months into my mission before my boyfriend had gotten another girlfriend.

I've been reflecting a lot on that conversation I had with my friend all those years ago since I read a blog by Matt Walsh called, "My wife is not the same woman that I married," where he addresses divorce, marriage, and people changing.

On my mission to Honduras the biggest obstacle that most adults faced when wanting to get baptized was the fact that they were living in fornication or adultery. They weren't married to the person they were living with. They would introduce each other as, "This is my husband," or "This is my wife," but the actual marriage had never been performed. They just hooked up one day and then decided to live together. They were lacking a very significant promise.

A lot of them would ask me what the big deal was. They were just like a married couple. Many of them had children. Some told me that marriage just ruined things, and that living together was the best.

They failed to recognize the significance of promises, covenants, and ordinances.

Yesterday I was able to teach a class to the Young Women about ordinances and covenants.

An ordinance is a sacred, formal act performed by the authority of the priesthood. It initiates a solemn covenant.

On May 25, 2012, around 11am, my sweetheart and I covenanted with the Lord and with each other that we would love and take care of each other and spend the rest of eternity together. The ordinance was performed by a sealer in the temple who has the priesthood authority.

The hollow promise my boyfriend made to wait for me years earlier pales in comparison to this covenant and ordinance. Because now, though we may change (and we most assuredly will, because all people do!) we have that specific, sacred covenant to anchor us when times get tough. We made a promise that trumps all change. It was done in the right way, in the right place, and with the right authority. That is what all those couples in Honduras were lacking. There was no formal commitment; either one could leave at anytime.

Making covenants and receiving ordinances doesn't mean we're set and everything is taken care of; now life is going to be a piece of cake. In yesterday's class, one of the girls pointed that out. People do break solemn covenants all the time. It doesn't mean they are unbreakable. It doesn't mean that people lose faith, and fail to draw on the strength that is offered by those ordinances.

Everyone has their agency. But those specific ordinances are there to give us strength and power to resist temptation and cling dearly to our covenants. Those precise moments in time serve as potent reminders when all the forces in the universe seem to want to rip you apart.

God's plan of happiness for His children is molded around ordinances. I'm grateful for the specific, power-invested ordinances and covenants that are so much more than mere circumstantial promises.

What I Learned from Going to Walmart at Midnight

I think we all had the same general idea. Go to the store late at night, miss the crowds. Quick in, quick out.

I don't think anyone was really anticipating the 20 minute lines and whole families with their carts overflowing. Well, at least I wasn't.

I went to grab some shirts for the Fourth of July. I wasn't really surprised that the pickings were slim, it being July 3rd. So after about a half hour of searching and finely combing through the clothes, I found what I needed and headed to check out.

I wasn't in a hurry. I had put my baby to sleep hours before and was actually kind of enjoying being able to shop without her running around tugging clothes off of their hangers and onto the floor, or crying about not being held enough or just crying for no reason in particular.

My first choice was to go to self check-out, but they were all closed. So I headed to one of the four lanes that were open. I was about fourth in line. The person who was being helped had a cart full of things and seemed to be price matching all of them.

All around me I could hear people complaining. Complaining about the lines. The wait. The incompetence of the staff. Complaining about the other shoppers. About Walmart. About their human resources policies.

The atmosphere was intense. Not at all what I had expected.

Usually when I run to the store late at night I feel like I'm invisible. Tonight that was hardly an option. The girl behind me commented on all the sketchy weirdos who come to Walmart late at night. I just nodded, hoping that I didn't look too much like a sketchy weirdo.

Finally after about 5 minutes, they opened up another lane. I moved toward it, behind three other customers. The first people in line, again, had quite a bit of groceries. The poor clerk looked completely overwhelmed. The boys in front of me, who had just a bag of candy, were clearly agitated. When the clerk couldn't figure out how to scan something, they scoffed and said loudly, "Can't you just get a manager?" They loudly tapped their feet and clicked their tongues, as if it wasn't already obvious that they were upset.

There were two girls in front of me as well. Both the girls and the boys ended up deserting the line while unabashedly exclaiming the clerk's incompetence. That left me next in line, while the clerk still struggled to finish ringing up the first customer. I saw her desperation and could feel her stress. I just wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be alright.

I could hear some people behind me shouting obscenities, because obviously waiting in a line at Walmart for 10 or 15 minutes was the worst thing that had ever happened to them.

Then I heard the girl right behind me say, "That's a cute dress."

She was talking to me. I turned around and smiled and thanked her. We then proceeded to have a nice conversation about her trip to New York tomorrow and also about my adorable one-year-old daughter. (Pictures were shown, as I didn't have any other proof to attest to the cuteness of my baby.)

Finally it was my turn to check out. I looked at that sweet woman behind the counter and said, "Hi Heidi" (name tags are the best!). She looked as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She still seemed nervous, but much more relaxed. She smiled and said she wished the customers had name tags, too.

I introduced myself and asked her how long she'd been working. She told me just since 10pm, but she'd only been a clerk for 3 weeks, and up until that night she'd always had someone shadowing her. I told her she was doing a great job, and not to worry about it. She rang my shirts up without a hitch and after wishing her a happy Fourth of July and a good night, I was out the door.

As I drove home, I mulled over in my head everything that had just happened.

I've decided that when found unanticipated potentially stressful or unpleasant situations, there are two types of people: those who make it better, and those who make it worse.

We were all at Walmart. We all had a common goal of buying something (or lots of somethings) and then leaving.

There were long lines. Well, longer than you would expect at 11:40 at night. Although, not too much longer than a normal Saturday afternoon.

They were short on staff, probably because they weren't anticipating a huge rush at midnight, even with it being the Fourth of July tomorrow.

There were those who complained. Oh my goodness. Seriously? Complaining about the people who shop at Walmart...while shopping at Walmart? That means you are complaining about yourself! I don't care if this is your very first time in a Walmart (although I'm betting it wasn't). If you don't want to shop at Walmart, then don't.

And then there were those like the cute girl behind me, who decided to make the best of the situation. I'm not even going to say "bad" situation, because the only reason it was bad was because people were making it so. If everyone had been as nice and kind as the girl behind me, and just made the most of the situation by talking to her neighbor in line, the whole atmosphere would have been different.

I also learned that you can change how other people react to situations. When the foul mouthed teenage boys behind me heard how I was speaking to the clerk, they seemed to soften a bit. Not a ton, but enough that they kindly chimed in the conversation. They still seemed upset, and I don't know how they acted when they finally were rung up, but I'm hoping they didn't yell at the clerk.

Just...make the most of every situation. It doesn't HAVE to be a bad situation. 15 minutes out of your night to wait in line is NOT going to kill you. Take a chill pill. Be nice.

And if you are going to shop at Walmart, stop complaining about those who shop at Walmart. Especially right in front of them. Come on, let's talk about tactless?

End rant.

[P.S. This is not by any means a political statement for or against Walmart, just an observation about human behavior.]

Trying to Make Sense of Ordain Women: A Personal Journey

Yesterday I read about the founder of Ordain Women being called to disciplinary action within the Church.  (See article here.)

From the beginning, I have felt somewhat uncomfortable with the whole movement, and wrote various posts about it that received a lot more attention than I thought they would. Through that discourse, I was able to hear from some of these sisters and feel of their sincere interest in doing that which is correct before God.

I still never felt like the movement was a good one, though, and struggled to understand how so many other well-educated, spiritually strong, covenant-making LDS women would follow such a movement, especially after repeated response both through formal Church correspondence and through the messages of prophets and apostles  and other leaders in General Conference.

Last night, I decided to do the only thing I know how to do when I am confused or conflicted about something. I went to my Father in prayer and then went to my scriptures in search of answers.

This journey I have embarked on is primarily for my own sake. I consider myself fairly educated, especially when it comes to the Church, but I will readily admit that I am very far (and that's an understatement!) from knowing everything. So, I want to educate myself more about the priesthood.

I knew that to start with, I would have to set some ground rules--things that I know for certain.

These are things I know, and consider truth:

1. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord's restored church on the earth today.
2. It is led by Christ himself, through revelation to His chosen prophet. (Amos 3:7)
3. The Spirit confirms truth to each of us individually, but will never go against what the prophet has said. (Moroni 10:5)
4. The prophet will never lead us astray. God would remove him from his place if he even tried. (See Wilford Woodruff's address on Official Declaration 1)
5. Because Christ was the only perfect man to walk the earth, God uses imperfect men to help Him run things. They are human beings, and subject to possible error. (1 Nephi 19:6)

With those truths in mind, I set out to study more about the priesthood and try to come to grips with the things that are happening. Unfortunately, I could only keep myself awake until about 1:30 am, at which point I decided that if I didn't want to be a complete zombie the next day, I should go to bed. And in all that time of studying, I never actually got to the priesthood part.

My study took a different turn. I think it was definitely something I needed to learn before I start on my journey of discovery about women and the priesthood.

First I read in the Doctrine and Covenants, section 50. It is a section that I read often as a missionary, but had hardly touched on since I've been back.

In verse 2 it says, "There are many spirits which are false spirits, which have gone forth in the earth, deceiving the earth."

In verse 15, it states, "And then ye received spirits which ye could not understand..."

The phrase that really caught my eye was the part about not understanding. That is exactly how I have been feeling. As I continued to read the section, I found more instruction.

"Wherefore, it shall come to pass, that if you behold a spirit manifested that you cannot understand, and you receive not that spirit, ye shall ask of the Father in the name of Jesus; and if he give not unto you that spirit, then you may know that it is not of God.

And it shall be given unto you, power over that spirit; and you shall proclaim against that spirit with a loud voice that it is not of God--

Not with railing accusation, that ye be not overcome, neither with boasting nor rejoicing lest you be seized therewith." (vs. 31-33)

That is why I am blogging about it. Again, I am in no way any kind of expert on women and the priesthood. And I don't claim to have all the answers, or even most of them. But this is a spirit that I cannot understand, this movement, and I would like to figure out why. And despite fear of what others may say, I am trying to speak with a "loud voice."

As I continued my study, I found myself in the New Testament, in 2 Timothy chapter 2. In this chapter, Paul is writing to Timothy about some of the Saints who had gone against the doctrine of the Church and were leading others astray (2 Timothy 2:17-18)

Verse 14 says, "Of these things put them in remembrance, charging them before the Lord that they strive not about words to no profit, but to the subverting of the hearers."

In the manual The Life and Teachings of of Jesus and His Apostles, it further clarifies this verse,

"Contention and division are of the devil. Agreement and unity are of God. Since true religion comes by revelation, man's sole purpose in trying to understand and interpret gospel principles should be to find out what the Lord means in any given revelation. This knowledge can be gained only by the power of the Spirit. Hence, there is no occasion to debate, to argue, to contend, to champion one cause as against another."

I am just embarking on my own personal journey in learning more about the priesthood and my role with it as a woman. I have always considered myself a champion of women's equality and rights. But I also know that God is a god of order. He established His church so "that we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ" (Ephesians 4:14-15).

I seek to do what is right before Him, as I know my fellow sisters in the Church do. I hope that in some way my personal journey may help someone out there who is also seeking to learn more.

I'll keep posting as I keep learning, as always.

"Lord, show thyself unto me"

The other night I was reading my scriptures, and I had an "aha" moment. Sometimes there are verses that jump from the pages, and this was one of them.

I was reading about the Brother of Jared and a conversation he was having with the Lord. This prophet asked Christ to touch some stones that he had brought down from the mountain so that they wouldn't have to be in darkness while crossing the sea. When Christ touched the stones, the brother of Jared saw His finger.

Christ then explained to the brother of Jared that it was because of his faith that he was able to see His finger. He then asked the brother of Jared if he had seen more than His finger, to which the brother of Jared replied,

"Nay; Lord, show thyself unto me."

It was that verse that jumped from the page.

I think it is because as I read it, I could hear my own voice saying those words.

Some days are tough. Especially lately. And at the end of the day, when the baby is sleeping and I'm alone in my room, I want to say,

"Lord, show thyself unto me."

It's more of a humble plea. Show thyself unto me. Let me know that you are there.

I don't expect Him to appear in my room by any means. I just want to know He's there, that He is listening. And He is. In one way or another, He always shows himself.

It can be an unexpected message from a friend, or a sweet hug from my baby. Or like tonight, as I'm writing this post, it can be a strong burning feeling that makes me shed tears. I know that He is there, and that He loves me.

Why Social Media is Actually NOT the Devil

So, I've been seeing a lot of articles and videos and memes about how technology is overtaking our lives and making us out of touch with reality. Just for the record, I completely agree that looking down at your phone or your computer or your ipad every two seconds, rather than talking to people who are physically right next to you, is not a good thing. Facebook and Twitter and Instagram can definitely distract from meaningful human interaction.

But I would also like to point out that those very same channels of social media can also be the means of creating meaningful human interaction.

Example: When my husband left for the Army's basic training, I started following a Facebook page for his specific battery. Through that page I was able to see pictures of things that they were doing and also comments from other wives and moms of the other soldiers. I think it kept a lot of us more sane being able to feel like we weren't so alone in our own journey through basic training.

One of the other wives from the battery reached out and added me on Facebook. We chatted a bit and found that we had quite a bit in common, and that our husbands were going to the same post after basic training. This last week we both went to see our husbands graduate. We both got there a day early and were able to spend some time together before Family Day and graduation. That night that we both said goodbye to our husbands again, we really needed some company. This new found friend came over to my hotel and we talked for nearly an hour, trying to keep each other's minds off our husbands' absence.

That friendship started on Facebook, but fostered a wonderful "real" human interaction, one I was definitely in need of.

I understand that all good things need moderation. But I would like to suggest that while social media can surely distract from human interaction, it can also create it, and even greatly enhance it. It really just depends on how you use it.

Make sure that social media is a means to an end--that end being meaningful human interaction. Let it lead to get togethers and playdates with other stay-at-home moms. Or reconnecting with an old friend from elementary school and finding that you have way more in common than you might have thought. Or creating family groups where you can stay aware of things that are happening with loved ones.

Don't let social media replace human interaction; let it create and enhance it!

What is Consent and Why I Wish I'd Known Before

Last month was Sexual Assault Awareness Month and I was so blessed to listen and participate in a presentation given by two college age young women in our church congregation to a group of high school and middle school girls.

After listening to statistic after statistic and story after story, I felt like I could talk forever about the importance of taking charge of your own life and never letting anyone take your power away from you. A thousand ideas whirred around in my mind in cluttered commotion. I haven't managed to find the time to get them all organized, but you'll probably be seeing a lot more blog posts on the general topic.

This is the first I wanted to address, because it is something I didn't know, and now I want to share it with everyone else.

What is consent?

From Google:

"Consent is an agreement between people BEFORE they engage in any kind of sexual activity. Both people have to say “YES!” clearly and freely. Sexual activity without consent is sexual assault or rape. Consent must be willing."

From ConsentEd:

"A voluntary, enthusiastic “yes-I-really-want-to-and-thank-you-for-asking” type of consent – not a consent that’s implied on the basis of silence, previous sexual history, or what the person is wearing."

"If you are ever unsure if the person you are with is consenting, just stop and ask."

From Break the Cycle and the National Dating Abuse Helpline:

"You may have heard the idea that “no means no,” but this doesn’t really provide a complete picture of what consent is because it puts the responsibility on one person to resist or accept. It also makes consent about what a partner doesn’t want, instead of being able to openly express what they do want."

"Some people are worried that talking about consent will be awkward or that it will ruin the mood, which is far from true. If anything, the mood is much more positive when both partners are happy and can freely communicate what they want. "

Why I Wish I’d Known Before

So now that you have the basic idea, I'd like to explain why I wish I'd known this before.

I want to say that I am not a rape victim. However, without diminishing the seriousness of rape, I would like to suggest that consent doesn't always have to be about sexual intercourse. It can start with something so much simpler, like hand holding.

As a teenager, I can't tell you how many times I went on dates and ended up holding hands with boys I didn't really like. Or maybe I liked them a little, but wasn’t really sure I wanted to hold their hands. I can remember sitting at a play on a date and out of nowhere my hand was suddenly sweating like crazy in the pasty sweaty hand of the boy next to me. Sure, we were on a date. But I really didn't want to be holding his hand. At the time though, I didn't realize that I could say no. I didn't want to "hurt his feelings."

I wish I had known that I could have taken my hand back and said, "Mm...I don't really want to hold hands right now." Or that I could have just taken my hand back with no explanation at all.

Things escalate quickly, and hand holding can get to body fondling faster than some teens may realize. It is so important that in every stage of dating we have a right to give or reserve our consent.

When I first heard about our right to consent at this workshop, it felt so foreign to me. (A sad result of cultural conditioning.) But as I mulled the idea of always being able to say yes or no, it made complete sense. Lack of communication ruins relationships, so why not start off right from the get-go by always communicating consent? It’s not a question of “being mean,” it’s a question of feeling safe and comfortable with those you associate with.

Women (and men!) should never be pressured into doing anything they don’t want to do (be it kissing, hand holding, sexual intercourse) just because they don’t want to offend someone else. Communication is key; so make sure to speak up!

If you want it, GREAT! There are beautiful, wonderful relationships out there, with mutual consent. I’m in one of those, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. But I know how ugly it feels to not want something and to feel like you don’t have an option.

You should always have an option, and that’s consent.

If you aren’t given the option, and are able, get out of the situation as quickly as you can! Don’t wait until it comes down to sex. If you don’t want to hold hands, don’t. If you don’t want to be kissed, say no. Make sure you have the power from the beginning.