Hope

I have been hesitant to write this post, but it has been rolling around in my head for some time and so I thought I would write it and then decide later if I would just leave it in my drafts or actually post it. 

I guess I decided to post it.  lol

It is about the word hope.  I decided some time ago that it is my favorite word in the English language.  I think that's because there have been many times in my life where I felt like things were so messed up and I didn't know how to move forward or fix them.  In those times the only thing that could pull me out of the mental funk I was in was simply...hope.  

Hope for the future.

Hope for something better.

Hope that a loving Father in Heaven could fix things that I couldn't.  

Hope that that same Father in Heaven has wisdom and knowledge that I can't see and that He is still in control even though I am not...ever (it seems).  

I also decided at some point that hope is what anchors me to Him.  It is the thing that pulls me back into reality when I feel desperate, and beyond repair, and all of the worthlessness in the world building up on me.  If I can find hope, I can find my footing again.  Maybe I shouldn't rely so much on hope.  Maybe I need to take into account faith, and charity, and all of the others worthwhile things out there. 

Maybe.  

I do find comfort in those things, but hope is my go to.  And I don't think that is so bad.

I have found that if I try (really try sometimes), I can find hope in any situation.  I suppose that is because I am His.  I am a child of the Most High God.  He loves me and I am His.  

Two years ago I got that word tattooed onto my body.

Wait...did you just go back and read that last line to see if you really read it correctly?  I bet you did.  I snuck it in there pretty casually.  Haha. 

But yeah.  A for real, permanent tattoo.  The kind that are made with needles and ink and will be on my body when I am ninety years old.  I fully expect it to look like some nasty black (or faded to green) birth defect on my skin by that time.  

My choice in the getting the tattoo was not all on my own.  I had a friend really push for me to go through with it.  I had initially wanted it and then decided against it.  For many reasons.  But she pushed until I finally gave in.  

-Do I blame her?  No.  Not at all.  Ultimately I make my own decisions.
-Have I regretted the decision since?  Maybe a few times, but mostly I'm okay with it.
-Do I think it is a sin to get tattoos? I am undecided.  Possibly.
-Will I ever get another one?  I have considered it many times.

They say tattoos are addictive.  I can see why, but I don't know that I fall into that category.  Sometimes I draw new ones out, and then I take a picture of it and put it away for a while.  It seems that anytime I stubble across it later, I never have the same feelings towards it.  I suppose that is a good way to decide.  

The tattoo is on my hip.  I decided on that spot because I wanted it to be hidden from the general population, but I didn't want it to be in such a "remote" place as to have to get too personal with the man inking me (if you know what I am saying).  I also wanted to be able to show people if they asked without, again, getting too personal. 

Side note: When letting someone place a permanent mark on your body like that, you tend to get chatty with them as you sit and try not to cry from the pain.  I started to ask him questions about crazy tattoos and crazy placement of tattoos.  He said he had done them everywhere.  I asked if he meant everywhere everywhere?  He said yes.  I didn't ask him to expound upon that.  I got the picture.  

For the last two years I have only told a handful of people about my tattoo.  I sort of like that it is this little secret of mine.  Although, I probably think I am more sly than I actually am.  I have had people ask me about it who I didn't tell.  Like my Mom.  Haha.  That is because sometimes it pops out from under the hem of my shirt when I move.  Oops.  So maybe this not new news to any of you.  Maybe you knew and just didn't say anything.  Which is fine.  But there you have it, friends.  My secret is officially out. 

I have a tattoo!

Just in case you were wondering:

Yes it did hurt.  

And no I did not draw this myself, but I did come up with the phrase.

And yes, you can see it next time we are together (if you ask).

The Truth About Being a Convert

Let me let you in on a little bit of what it's like to be a convert in this church.  The following are a few conversations I have had with people about my membership in the church.

#1
"Ya know, we used to sit around and talk about what could have possibly happened in your life to make you want to join your church.  Like...what could have happened to make you make such a decision?"

#2
I'm sitting at a baseball game with a friend/coworker and she asked if I go to church.  I said yes, "the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."  As I looked at her to see if she knew that that meant Mormon, (since a lot of people don't know our actual church name) I am pretty sure the entire earth went silent in that moment.  Not only did I know that she knew I meant Mormon but we both knew she immediately disapproved.  After asking if I was born and raise a member or had joined on my own, and I said yes, she asked the following question with as much disapproval as she could muster, "Why would you do that?"

#3
"You know that you joined a poly-theistic church, right?  And we both know what the Bible says about poly-theism. You will go to hell if you don't get saved."

#4
"I just don't understand how you can be soooooo wrong and just not see it!  How do you not see it?"

#5
I was at a wedding reception in 2003-ish.  I went down the receiving line and when I reached the father of the bride, he grabbed my hand, pulled me in close and said to me, "Alison I just want you to know that you have helped strengthen my testimony.  It is young people like you that join the church as youth that remind me of the simpleness of the gospel and how true it really is.  Thank you!"

#6
I'm sitting in Institute class yesterday.  Most of the class doesn't know me, or at least not well.  Our class covers a wide area along with a lot of new people.  We were talking about how to get answers to prayers.  I raised my hand and said, "Well, I'm a convert to the church and when I was praying to know if the church was true..."  I swear every single head in the class turned in my direction when I said the "C" word.  My new friend Aly then elbowed me (after I had finished talking) and said with a big smile, "That is so cool!  I didn't know you were a convert!"

#7
"I couldn't have done what you did and joined the church on my own...without my family.  I just don't think I have it in me.  The Lord knew you had the guts to do it.  You are so brave."

The first four numbers were all said by (or related to) someone who is not a member of "The Church" i.e. my church.  The last three were all from people who share my beliefs and religion.  What I realized (literally) just the other day, is that to members of the church I am a superstar for believing, and converting, and doing it without my family, and staying with it, and all of those things.  And to people who are not members of the church...I am an idiot.  Literally.  So deceived, and so dumb.

Disclaimer: This post is neither a oh woe is me post nor a look at me, I'm so wonderful post.  It's simply just an observation I have come across.

I sort of love telling new people (who are members) that I am a convert.  I love telling my story.  It's a pretty epic story after all.  And I definitely dread telling non-members that I didn't just grow up in this faith (and apparently don't know any better).  Because that is what a lot of them think about all of you born and raised folk out there.  Now I know I am stereotyping a lot of people by saying that, but that has been the general reaction from people about my situation.

Being a convert "is a blessing and a curse," as Monk would say (brownie points if you know that reference).  I am so far removed from a life that includes members of a family that share my beliefs that I wonder if it will be a struggle when I get married and have kids to do all the things that typical LDS families do.  Like have family home evening...in a family setting, not with a group of YSA.  Or have a family prayer.  Or reference to simple things like Conference at the dinner table without having to explain what "Conference" is.  Or knowing that I won't have to choose between spending time with my family or saying no to them because they choose to eat out or go to the mall on a Sunday.  Its weird to think about things like that.

But all around, I love that I fit into the category of "convert."  It gives me a sense of value and importance and uniqueness that I don't know that I would have felt otherwise.

A Promise

The other day I referenced to a story about the Sister Missionaries here.  It is a story about how they made me a promise and how it changed my entire life!  It's a cute little story and so I decided I would share.

Now, if I can only decide how much back story to give.  I tend to give too much.  Hmmm...

Well, let me start off here:

When I was 15-ish years old I started to investigate my church.  The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  A church which, at the time, I was not yet a member.

The Book of Mormon (the foundation of the Church) asks us to pray and ask God to know of it's (the BOM and Church) truthfulness and God will answer.

I did that.  Many, many, many, many times.  And I received no answer.

I was puzzled.  I thought, well if it were wrong I would get a no, right?  So not getting any answer just means I have to keep trying, yeah?

But time was moving on and I was still getting nothing.  Hmmm...

Frustration set in.  Dark thoughts of how I wasn't worthy or good enough crept in.  Thoughts of how this was all for nothing and I would never get an answer rolled around in my head.

I started to ask people what they thought.  They gave me many different answers that ranged anywhere from "if you feel good about the Church you should just move forward to baptism" to "have more faith" to "just keep asking, it will come."  These are all good answers.  I don't dispute any of them.  I am sure they are the right answers for some people, but for me, I needed something concrete.  Something I could hold on to.  I didn't know it at the time, but needing this and eventually getting it would be one of the most powerful and most sustaining witnesses of my life (to date).

Honestly, I can think of no other time in my life where I have felt so sure and more right about anything as when I felt the Spirit confirm to me that the Church was indeed true and that I needed to move forward.

That moment...that instant...changed my life!  It changed my eternity.  It changed everything.

It has also been the moment that has held me in this church when I wanted to leave.  Gaaaaaaaasp!!! What??!! You are asking yourself why I would ever want to leave.  Well, that is a story for another time.  One that involves many factors.

But nevertheless, the moment when the Spirit testified to me of the validity of the gospel has grounded me on so many occasions.  I am so very grateful for that moment and that I can still remember it so clearly.  I hope that I always do.

But I am getting ahead of myself.  Stop jumping ahead!  I'll get there, I promise.  Haha.

So I am 15.  I am praying like mad, and trying to have faith.  Check.  As I said time was passing.  A lot of time, in fact.  It had been over a year since I had started reading the BOM and attending church.  What is wrong with me?

Then I started taking the discussions with the Sister Missionaries.  I told them of my predicament.  They told me a story about a person who wanted to know the same thing.  He decided to get down on his knees and pray and he refused to get up until he had an answer.  They suggested I do the same.  I thought...oookaaaaaay.  Here goes nothing!  (Probably not the most faithful thought.  haha)  So all three of us knelt on my living room floor and I offered a prayer.  It was a very sincere prayer.  I felt full of faith as I waited and listened for an answer.  I believed I would get one.  The minutes ticked by.  I was getting nothing, still!  I started to despair.  I wondered again if I just wasn't good enough to get an answer.  I wondered again if this was all for naught.  Then my knees started to get tired.  Then I heard one of the sisters shift positions.  Then I wondered if all would be lost if I ended the prayer with no answer.  Then I wondered how long I should really kneel there if I was getting nothing.  A few more minutes?  An hour?  Into the night?  Was my faith measured in the amount of time that I knelt there?

Finally I had had enough.  I felt like if I knelt there any longer I would lose my mind and the small amount of testimony I had.  I said Amen and looked up fearful of what I would need to tell them.  When I looked at them, they were both no longer kneeling but sitting on the floor because we had been in there so long.

Awkward.

I told them I still didn't have an answer.  I felt embarrassed and apologized.  They smiled at me the way Sisters always do, with love.  They understood.  They didn't judge me.  We talked for a few more minutes and they told me they had to go.  I sort of shrugged my shoulders and decided that maybe I never would get an answer.

I don't remember if it was that night or at a later discussion with them (nothing more than a few days later), that Sister Joyce asked me to do something and made me a promise if I followed through.  She told me about someone else who had been promised that if he read the whole book of Enos (it's only 2.5 pages long) everyday for a month he would receive an answer to his question.  (I don't remember what was his question.)  She told me that it had worked for him.  I remember thinking...well that is good for him, but remember how this worked out last time?  With all of us having sore knees?

Yeah.

But then she turned to me and looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Alison.  I promise that if you do this every single day for a month, you WILL have an answer."

I told her that I would do it.  I am not going to lie to you though, I didn't have the most faith when I said it.  They left and I pondered on what she had said.  And then I thought...ya know what?  I believe that the missionaries are servants of God.  And servants of God run a huge risk in making promises to people like that.  I mean it wasn't an obscure "someday you'll get answer"...but an "I promise you will know in the next 30 days."  And if she is willing to make me a promise that I will get an answer in the next 30 days if I do this small thing (when I had been asking for over a year), she better know what she is talking about!  And she better have some kind of awesome powerful God behind her that is willing to come through for her.  Because that promise could have totally wrecked me, ya know?  I mean, imagine if after 30 days I still had no answer!  I think that might have shattered my faith.  I mean, really!  I was starting to get desperate.

So I plunged in.  I read the whole thing.  Everyday.  It didn't take more than about 5 days before I had the experience I described above.  A sure, strong, steady testimony.  I don't know what it is about those missionaries, but MAN, they are awesome!!!

And ya know what?  They are servants of God.  And He does back them up.  I have no doubt that she felt prompted by the Spirit to challenge me to do that.  Not one doubt!  I couldn't wait to see them again to tell them of my experience.

And the rest is history, friends!!





Oh and just so you know...Enos is still one of my favorite books in the BOM and I challenge you to put it to the test.  I make no promises to you like the missionaries did, but I will say that it can't hurt.  ;)

Seven!

Once upon a time I graduated from Institute.  At Purdue I took all of the religion classes that were required to graduate.  It was great!  There was a ceremony and I got my name put up on a plaque that (I hope) still hangs in the Tute.  

I suppose that doesn't mean I couldn't ever go to an Institute class again.  And I think I did go after that, but I don't really remember.  When I left Lafayette, and moved to Texas, I stopped going to any form of Institute classes.  I thought about going last semester and last summer, but I just never made it.  

Then institute class started again yesterday and I decided I should go.  I did and it was great.  There is a couple that teaches it and we are studying the Book of Mormon this year.   

What I didn't know going in was that the Prophet has asked that the institute classes record how often the YSA are reading out of the BOM everyday.  There was a sheet of paper that went around with the roll that had you put your name down and a number in the next column.  That number represented how many times you had read out of the BOM in the last 7 days.  I guess they do this every semester so it doesn't matter what we are studying because we have been told to read the BOM always.  But anyways this number gets recorded and then every month the numbers are sent to Salt Lake.  As the paper was passed from person to person and people recorded their numbers, I secretly wondered if I could just write down a higher number since I didn't know about all of this. 

Yeah? Yeah?

No.

Eventually, as the paper got to me, I decided against writing down an elevated number.  I mean, isn't that sort of like lying to the Prophet himself?  I don't know, but not good either way.  I scribbled down my number with a vow to be able to honestly write a "7" next week.  

They also challenged us to have a least one ernest prayer everyday along with reading a Conference talk everyday.  Brother Benegas promised us that if we read a Conference talk everyday (until the new Conference Ensign came out and then started on that one) it would "change our lives!"  

This is sort of weird but I love when people promise me things like that.  I suppose it is because I tend to believe them and then I usually challenge myself to do it just to see if it really will "change my life," and (speaking in religious terms) it has never failed me.  

I actually have a favorite story where the sister missionaries made me a HUGE promise and it did more than change my life!  But that is a story for another time.  :)

Anyways...Institute equals awesomeness!  And I am excited to go next week.  

Here's to the number 7!!

Totes

You are totes never going to believe this story!  It is a long one, but so worth it in the end!

Yeah.  I said totes.

Do I sound like a 16 year old girl yet?  I actually hate the word "totes" used in this fashion.  Although I laugh every time Amy says it to me. She swears she only says it for my benefit.  And in that case I don't mind.

But since we are on the topic of 16 years olds, let me tell you a story about a girl I know.  She is sixteen  (of course).  She has blonde hair and lots of friends. She gushes over cute boys at school and what the weekend plans hold.  She is outwardly confident but carries herself in a way as to not spark too much attention in her own direction for fear it might cause unnecessary embarrassment.  On the inside she is much more shy.  Too shy most of the time.  She feels awkward and insecure in situations that are new or uncontrolled.

She is me. Circa 1999.

In 1999 I spent a lot of time with my good friend Amy.  In fact I spent much of my days, evenings and weekends throughout high school with her.  We were tight.  Still are.  Amy was and still is reader.  She would finish books at lightning speed.  I was usually around somewhere trying desperately to coerce her into putting her book down and pay attention to me.  Sometimes it worked. Sometimes not.  I, on the other hand, was not a reader.  Still not, although I try to force it sometimes.  Anyways, back in 1999 she had finished a book (The Search for Wallace Whipple) and told me I had to read it because it was so funny.  I took the book, looking at it's orange cover and its 300 some odd pages and wondered if I would ever finish such a long book.  I took it home and began to read it.  I moved ever so slow, because that was my pace.  Slow.

To my surprise I was falling in love with this book with every page.  It was about a 16 year old boy who wrote down the day's events in his journal.  He was awkward and funny.  He was kind to others and sometimes shy.  He was everything I was, only more of it.  So I could relate.  He was more awkward.  More shy.  More funny.  More kind.  But nevertheless we were the same in a lot of ways.  One day I finally finished the book and Amy and I laughed and laughed as we talked about it.  We related to his fears and his awkwardness.  It was great.

Fast forward about 13 years. Circa 2012.

I had a new home teacher from my ward.  His name is Chris.  He would come over and we would chat and laugh and tell stories.  He would teach me a short lesson and he would go on his way.  This went on for months.  We would say hi to one another when we saw each other and then he would come back for a visit the next month.  He told me the last time he came over that he was moving out of the ward and would no longer be my home teacher.  I was a little sad, but I wished him well on his new adventures.  Before he left he asked me what my plans were for the rest of the evening.  I told him I would probably write.  I was writing a book back then.  A book about Maine.  He told me that that was cool, and that his dad was a published author and his sister worked for a publisher.  See here for my previous post about our conversation.

It was cool knowing someone who knew someone who had published a real live book that people, I am sure, read.  I never did asked him what book his dad wrote.  It never even occurred to me.  He left that night and that was that.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago. Circa July 2013.

I decided I needed to spend more time reading.  I figure it's probably good for my brain and it entertains me just as much as any movie (as long as it's interesting).  So I set up an account on goodreads.com and I started rating all of the books that I have read recently, and in the past.  Then I began filling my queue for books that I wanted to read in the future.  I looked through other people's lists of what they had read and wanted to read.  As I was reading some book title, I remembered the book (The Search for Wallace Whipple) that I had read so long ago.  I looked it up, not knowing if it would even be in their system.  Sure enough it was.  I clicked on it, rated it, and read its short synopsis once again.  Just as I was about to leave I glanced past the author's name and something caught my eye.

Do you know where I am going with this already?? (I bet you do!)

I recognized the author's name.  Well, not his whole name, but his last name.  The same last name as Chris, my old home teacher.  As my head tilted sideways in wonder and confusion, I went to facebook and looked him up in my friends.  His last name is the same!  The wheels in my head were turning.  My conversation with him started to come back.  I looked at his "about" section (on facebook) to see if he had tagged his family members.  Sure enough his father's name is the same name as the author of my favorite book in high!!

After I gasped, I think I said something like, "SHUT UP!!"

I immediately messaged Amy about my findings.  She asked me if I was going to message him and ask him, or tell him that I loved that book?  My original thought was no.  I mean how awkward is it to get a message from a friend you haven't talked to in a while and they tell you that they think your dad is cool?  Awkward.  But after some thinking I messaged him anyways.  I mean, I know how to have tact...sometimes.

I messaged him, knowing he doesn't use facebook often.  I told him the (above) story (only in shorter form...which I am sure you all are wishing I had paid the same courtesy to you...haha).  I didn't expect a message back for weeks.  Months even.  If any.

Ten minutes goes by and my phone notifies me I have a message back from him.  He said something to the effect that he was glad to get my message and he will tell his dad that I loved his book because it will mean a lot to him.

Whaaaaaaaaaatttt?? Awesome!!!

Awesome is all I can say to that, right?  I replied saying something boring...I am sure.  Our conversation was over at that point.  Or so I thought.

A few days went by and I got a new message from Chris.  It said, "My dad was thrilled that you enjoyed the book. He just wrote another one and wants to give you a copy. What's your address?"

Shut. The. Front. Door!!  Is this a joke??

More awesomeness!!  Like can my life get any better??

Two weeks later I received a new crisp book in my mailbox.  I may or may not have hugged that yellow envelop immediately after I ripped it out of the mailbox and then shredded it open.

At first the book looked too crisp and perfect to have ever been opened.  My heart sank at the thought that he might not have signed it.  I opened to the first page.  Nothing.  The second...nothing.  Third, nothing.  My heart was getting more and more sad.  Then...page four.

A message and a signature.

It says: For all who understand that back roads are the best way home. "August 2013  Alison, From Wally Whipple to Loyal Wing, it's been good to share the same road. Best wishes to you, my friend, Don Smurthwaite"

(Side note: Loyal Wing is a character in this book)

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (angels are singing in the background and my heart is happy once more)!!!

After I read it I may or may not have hugged the book again.  I messaged Chris and thanked him for being awesome.  And then I messaged his dad and thanked him for the book (and added him as a friend on FB.  I have no shame).

And that my friends is how life can be awesome! :))

Goodwill

The other day I was hanging out with some friends and somehow the topic of shopping at Goodwill came up.  One of the guys chimed in and said that he will never shop a Goodwill.  Then he recanted a story about how his mom would take him and his siblings to Goodwill when he was a kid and he would refuse to go in.  He would hide in the car and cover his head with a blanket to keep from anyone seeing him there.

I thought this was somewhat amusing.  I mean, I guess I can understand it being embarrassing, but I shop there.  Not regularly.  In fact it had been several years since I had been there (when we were talking about it), but I'll admit that I go there.

And so I did, the next day.  I was passing by one and I thought, "why not?" And let me just tell you.  That place is amazing!

I mean, where else can you find these vintage grandma glasses from the 80s?

And where else can you find this...pink...shimmery...lacy phone?

And don't even get me started on this sofa!  I mean, is this not the BEST sofa you have ever laid your eyeballs on??  I dare you to find a better looking sofa.  I DARE you!

Good ol' Goodwill.  

Theater

I go to the movies a lot.  I like movies and there is one like 3 minutes from my house.  They also serve food there.  Like, real food.  With waiters and everything.  And the food is good.  So I go. I usually go alone, though.  This is due to the fact that I get bored and a lot of times I don't have anyone to go with me.

I remember the first time I went to a movie alone.  I felt so awkward.  Like everyone was staring at me.  They probably weren't but I remember feeling liberated and also like I never wanted to do it again.  I suppose it takes courage to go to the theater alone.  Maybe.  I don't feel courageous or anything.

But listen.  I can't go there anymore.

Today when I went the girl at the window for tickets recognized me.  She asked me if I had just been there recently.  I said I had.  I am starting to get recognized by the staff!!  This is a bad sign.  Really bad, people.  I can't be that sad girl that comes to the theater alone all the time and her only friends are the people who take her money at the ticket window.  I can't!!! I WON'T!

It was almost as bad as the time the girl charged me for two tickets and when I asked her why it would cost $16 for a ticket she looked at me confused and told me that is how much 2 tickets cost.  I then repeated that I only wanted one ticket.  Then she asked why I only wanted one.

"I'm sorry just swipe my stupid card for $8 dollars and stop asking me questions!!!"  I didn't say that.  But I wanted to.  She gave me her best sad eyes as she swiped.  It's okay, nobody likes her either.  I'm sure of it.  haha

But then, after being recognized today I passed another staff member (later on) who smiles at me.  He seemed a little like he was flirting with me with the way he looked at me.  I felt better about my situation and I had mostly let the who "being recognized" thing go.  And then it happened, people.  The worst possible thing!  I went to the bathroom and as I was washing my hands I discovered why he had been looking at me.  It wasn't because he was flirting or thought I was cute or something.  I looked up to the mirror and I almost gasped.

I literally looked like a homeless person!!!  Yeah.  Like live in a box on the street sort of look.  My hair had partially come out of the hair tie.  The humidity had caused some fly away strands to curly in a not-at-all cute way around my temples.  The wind had blown hair in all the wrong places.  It was just bad.  So bad!  Oh my gosh.  Luckily the movie was over then.  I practically ran out of the theater vowing to never return.

Ever.

I may have to move.