Hooked (Personal Essay Draft 1)

Drops of water slid down the ends of my hair, making gentle impact on the fluffy tufts of my duvet. My skin was still hot from the shower, and the cold air of my northern bedroom stung my exposed fingers and cheeks. The wind popped the huge glass windows next to my bed, and I could hear my roommates watching television in the living room.  

“Mandy,” he said, his voice echoing through my phone, suddenly serious.

“Yes?” I said with a nervous laugh, wondering what he would say. He’d started calling me on the phone every night at midnight before we both went to bed. His voice was the last thing I heard before falling asleep, and I loved that.

“I like you.”

It was nice to hear him say it out loud.

“I like you too,” I said.

“No,” he paused. “I really like you.”

He didn’t say anything after that, so I told him I really liked him too. He was pleased, but his tone was still tight.

“It’s just...whenever I’ve really liked someone, I’ve always screwed it up. It never works out.”

I didn’t know how to respond to his confession. I wasn’t worried about what he’d said; he was good to me and we had chemistry, so I figured he was just afraid of commitment. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“This time will be different,” I said with confidence. “You won’t screw it up with me.”

We said goodnight and I cuddled myself into the wall, my phone tucked under the covers as my favorite text from him flashed across the screen:

“Que suenes con los angeles.” (Dream with the angels)

We dated in tumultuous, unofficial cycles for sixteen months. He became everything to me. But I wasn’t enough for him, and that slowly became apparent. I never got that text from him again.

“I just don’t know, Mandy,” he'd say exasperatedly in the car. He kept his eyes on the steering wheel each time we had this conversation, then he’d soften and turn to me as he tried to explain why he needed more time. 

“I can’t keep doing this!” I’d exclaim, annoyed that he needed “more time” when he’d already had a year and a half.

“Then don’t,” he’d say, his cold, blank eyes staring out the window shield.

I’d bristle and deflate at the same time, until he’d quietly say:

“You deserve better than me anyway.”

And there it was: the hook he loved to offer me. And oh, how I loved to attach myself to it. I would immediately feel bad for pressuring him to make a decision, so I’d apologize. He’d tell me how hard commitment was for him, and I’d tell him I could wait, I didn’t mind. We’d make up and I’d climb the stairs to my apartment with an ugly heaviness that manifested itself in ripped out hair and bloodshot eyes reflecting in the bathroom mirror at four a.m. 

I thought the pain meant it was real.  

So I kept getting back in his car; I kept ignoring his constantly buzzing phone; I kept ignoring the way his roommates looked at me with a mix of pity and sickening amusement; I kept ignoring the way he flirted with other girls; I kept ignoring the way my body shrunk into itself when I talked about him to my friends; I kept ignoring how much I missed talking to my mother; I kept ignoring how I hadn’t felt connected to God in months.

But the time came when I wasn’t allowed to ignore it anymore.

The dream came on a Wednesday afternoon after I’d gotten home from work. I don’t take naps, so the pull to lie down was strange, but sleep was immediate.

I realized I was throwing a party. My mother was there, though she lives in Illinois. I heard a knock at the door then he walked in.

Suddenly the party was at the pool where he and I liked to go. We were in the hot tub and I was grazing my fingers across his collarbone like I always did, but I noticed something was coming out of it.

Saliva pooled in my mouth and my cheeks rippled with revulsion as I realized there were hundreds of tiny bones ripping through his skin. They grew multiple inches long, resembling the crispy, jointed legs of a tarantula. And they were waving out of his neck at me.

I pulled away in the water but the bones continued to pulse back and forth underneath his chin. I pinched my eyelids to escape the grotesque scene, but I couldn’t wake up.

“Mandy, we need to talk,” he said, getting out of the water.

I couldn’t stop staring at the bones.

“I’ll go grab my stuff,” he said as he walked away.

My mother came to me then. Her green eyes were so vivid, so present that I was sure she was actually there in the dream with me.

“Why don’t you see him for what he is?” she asked. “All of us,” she said pointing to the rest of the people, “see him. But you don’t.”

Then he was back. He went to shake my mother’s hand but he couldn’t; their hands couldn’t connect.

“Don’t go with him,” she said.

But I did.

We were walking to his car when I realized there was another woman with us.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s with me,” he said as he kept walking.

I stopped. “I thought you wanted to talk?”

“I do, aren’t you coming?” he asked, turning around.

The woman looked back at me, sensed my confusion, and then said:

“I’ll always be with him.”

She was right.

I ran until I reached the parking lot. I saw my mother and her car so I jumped in the driver’s side and locked the door.

Then I screamed. The loudest, throat-ripping, guttural upheaval escaped my mouth and reverberated around the car. When it was over, my mom looked at me with her knowing green eyes and smiled.

I woke shaking on the couch. 

I didn’t want to acknowledge this dream. God’s given people dreams of warning for a long time, and it was frightening to realize I’d become one of them. Like the man who had to uproot his family from everything they held dear to go on an uncharted and difficult journey across the world, it was time for me to let go of my life too. Like the man who turned away from God and was filled with the absolute torment such sin necessitates, I was now awfully aware of the situation I was in. 

But in the midst of the pain and the remorse and the fear of who I would be without him, I started to become untangled. It was slow-coming, and it required action. So I told him I was done. I stopped answering his texts. I ended my commitments that involved him. And I let myself be sad, because I was.

Each step sent me spinning, but it also slid the hook further and further out of my throat.

It's Been A Long Day

"It's been a long day," I thought as I arrived home from work to my parents house after a double shift at my job, where I consoled upset customers over the wrongdoings of the company I work for. Stress enveloped me, mental exhaustion plagued me like a cloud of mosquitos that wont let up. The only thing I had to look forward to, as I slid the dead bolt open with my ice cold key, was Yuki, her excited squeals as she heard the front door open caused me to let a smile loose from my pursed lips. Forgetting about the day, I picked her up and held her close, relishing in the constant companionship of man's best friend.

As I set her down I realized that the house was dark, most of the lights turned off by whoever had last left the house. I was alone, and thankful for it, as I would enjoy the prospect of time to myself to ponder and relax. I moved to the couch, ignoring the decorations that I had seen so many times before. My mothers careful placement of pictures, cabinets, chairs, vases and other decorations always gave me an unconscious feeling of calm and clarity. I felt at home, and slowly released the woes that I had planned on dumping out on my unsuspecting parents. As I turned on the TV, not really intending to watch it, I thought about how happy I was to have a home such as this one to come home to. How much I appreciated the fact that I had a family that loved me and would do anything to protect me.

While watching a show I wasn't paying attention to, and not really caring about a whatever show was on, I felt a sudden vibration in my pocket, alerting me to an incoming call. It was my sister Taryn, I hadn't talked to her in a solid week or two. I missed her and wanted to see her, it had been 8 months since I last saw her, and guilt for not calling her more welled up inside my chest. I pushed the "answer call" button and heard my sisters familiar high voice.

"Hey Ry!" she said.
"Hey Tar whats up?" I retorted.
"Oh nothin just called to see how you're doing. I haven't heard from you in a while," replied my sister.

As we spoke, we slipped slowly into our old jokes, talking to her always made it feel like we were younger again. Made me remember the days she drove me home from school, the times we would sit on each others bed and talk for hours. I had forgotten how much I loved my sister. As we talked, I realized I no longer cared about my day, about each screaming customer that seemed to make it their first concern to put me down personally, or about the driver that cut me off on the drive home. All I wanted to do was exactly what I was doing. It was bliss, or so I thought.

While I explained to my sister the woes of my day, I heard the distinct sound of the garage door opening as metal grated on metal, signaling the arrival of one or both of my parents. This did not stop the conversation I was having with my sister, yet after 10 minutes of conversation I still hadn't seen hide or tail of my mother or father. However, their absence was short-lived as heard the door leading to the garage open and close, signaling what the news of the night. My mother slowly rounded the corner, and I instantly recognized the look of confusion on her face.

"Hold on a minute," I told my sister, "Whats wrong Mom?"
"Grandma Norma is gone." She replied.
"Gone like we cant find her, or gone as in she died?" was my response.
"She's gone gone." came the dreaded reply.
"Tar, grandma Norma died...I'm gonna have to call you back."

I didn't know what to say to my mother at that point, the look of shock on her face combined with the felling of utter amazement in my mind made my senses slow, as I attempted and failed to comprehend the news I had just received. Grandma is gone.

My comprehension of what was going on was further interrupted by my mothers explanation that "Your father is very upset, he's been at Grandma's house all day trying to work things out with your uncle. When he comes in, just comfort him and don't ask any stupid questions, you know how he gets when you do that."

A few moments passed, as I resumed my attempts at fathoming what was going on, and then my father walked the same path into the house as my mother had just done. Without acknowledging either of us, he sat down at the kitchen table. I had no idea what to say, and no idea how to say nothing. I couldn't imagine the feelings he was experiencing, but that's the experience that follows death, confusion. After a few minutes, something clicked in my dad's head and he began to explain what had happened. He drew it out, suspending my emotions as delicately as a spider hangs its web from a flower, and when he reached the climax, the web came crashing down under the weight of a thousand rain drops.

Grandma was dead, and it was self-inflicted.

Everything up to that moment had been understandable, Grandma always had poor health. The car crash that left one leg an inch and a half shorter than the other had caused her serious pain for the last forty or so years, and left her with a serious limp. It made sense that she would have passed possibly due to some malady related to that accident. No, that wasn't the cause. I couldn't think, speak or move. I listened as my dad drew the picture for me, but refused to believe him, couldn't believe him, and the only thing I could say was "You better call Taryn and tell her too, she will be wondering what's going on."

That was it, I couldn't stand to sit there and hear the words of that conversation hanging from the rafters in my brain. I had to be alone, so I went to my room and picked up the only thing I believed could bandage my open wound, a book. This book that had helped me in so many other occasions, and I knew right where to go, Alma Chapter 40 in the Book of Mormon. This chapter that I had used so many times to help others understand what happens after death, now brought me an inkling of hope, knowing I would see my grandmother again. Although I had this knowledge, it did little to quell the sadness that coursed through my heart. I still was overwhelmed with then news I had received, and laid down to reflect on what had happened.

"It's been a long day," I thought, as my soft wet pillow cradled me to sleep that night.

A Temporal Death

Her home was nestled in a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by tall green leafed cottonwood trees that made the neighborhood cool with the shade it cast in the hot July sun. As I entered her living room I was welcomed by the familiar sounds of a small “yap, yap” as her pocket sized pooch alerted excitedly of an intruder. I bent down and outstretched my hand which was met with a cold wet nose and small puffs of air as the canine sniffed my fingers, wagging its tail in approval. Her fur was well groomed and soft to the touch as I ran my fingers aggressively along her sides, scratching back and forth as I went.

Her home was well decorated with a touch of classy grace that made it obvious the owner was an elderly person. White furniture with beautiful trim and elegant pillows sat in esthetically pleasing arrangements. Prints of Monet, Kandinsky and Van Gogh hung from the walls adorned with striking trim that brought the paintings to life. I greatly enjoyed the view I had every time I entered her home but as much as I wanted to, I never took the time to sit and enjoy the beauty it provided.

As I entered the room at the far end of the home and saw the mountain of cloud like blankets and pillows pitched snuggly around the sleeping woman on the bed and I noticed a calm like feeling I had never before experienced. Betty was a sickly arthritic woman whose skeleton like body was quickly passing through the final stages of life. As I neared her bed side and looked at her emaciated face and realized that calm I felt was the spirit in great abundance preparing to carry her soul to her eternal home.

Although I was not instructed to do so, I knew that Betty loved taking warm bubble baths. The heat allowed for a temporary relief from the pain of her swollen joints and shriveling body. Although Betty could not speak I knew she enjoyed her baths because of the joyful look in her eyes as the warm water washed over her saggy skin. She never spoke the words “thank you” but she didn’t need to because the cheery look on her face as she soaked in the tub said it all.

That morning I contemplated not giving her a bath, knowing that moving her too much might cause more distress to her weakened state and quicken the process of death, but then I felt her calm spirit whisper to me, reminding me of the joy she felt as she soaked in the tub. I quickly undressed her and as was customary, picked her up in my arms and carried her from the bed to the bath.

As I placed her in the warm water, I saw a glimmer of light come over her face as she gained a slight reprieve of pain. She looked up at me as I washed her body; she stretched her long aged fingers, reaching for my hand. As she held it she looked up at me and in an almost inaudible voice whispered “thank you”.

Betty was a perfectionist and loved getting dressed up. Her daughters told me on numerous occasions that she would never leave the house unless every hair on her head was perfect.  I knew that this would be the last time she would get dressed in this mortal life so I took care in changing her into an outfit I knew she would enjoy wearing in public and even assisted as he daughters put rollers in her hair and applied a little makeup. She was incoherent through most of the process, being exhausted spending the little energy she had being moved around.

That day, the entire time I was with her I felt a closeness to the spirit that was overpowering. As I picked her up and laid her in her  bed I knew that this day would be the end of her mortal sojourn. I looked at her one last time and saw the form of a woman who had devoted her life to the service of others. Her body was left old and decrepit, but her soul was strong as it gained closeness with her eternal companion that had been missing for forty years.

This experience was the first time I gave service to someone in their dying days. I became very close to Betty and grieved for a moment of her passing but was comforted with the knowledge that I would see her again. I knew that there is a merciful plan prepared by the great creator who provided an infinite atonement in by which the death we experience on this earth merely a temporal death of which all will be delivered to live again.

Elephant in the Front Yard

Oh, it smelled good. Tyler opened the grill hatch, the smoke wisping around his heavily-tattooed arm. Pork, beef, chicken, shrimp--a regular petting zoo getting cooked right in front of me. As a missionary I had gained a strong appetite, something I had lacked for much of my adolescence. Just 2 months earlier in fact, aided by a prescribed regular dosage of corticosteroids, I could down more food than my formerly 300-pound missionary companion. Considering my 150 pound frame, this was an accomplishment. 

Watching that searing cooked meat that day? I knew I wouldn't have any. I wasn't hungry. I hadn't been hungry. I began to wonder if I'd ever be hungry again.

Our mission president arrives with his wife, both dressed in black. They hug, shake hands, comment on the cooking food. They smile and show genuine enthusiasm for being able to see me and my two companions, Elder Clark and Elder Blair, and to finally meet the family (the Moores) that had kept us sane the last five days. Our mission president's wife, perhaps a little less likely to stay composed in situations like this than her husband, shows signs of losing said composure at the sight of Elder Clark. I look away, afraid to fall down that hole with her. 

Conversation remains light. Jokes are made, laughs are had, everyone doing their best to avoid the house-sized elephant in the room (or the front yard, in this case). And why wouldn't they avoid it? Elder Clark needed every opportunity to get things off his mind, and this BBQ was the perfect chance to do that. It's funny, then, that he was the first to address it.

"How was it?" he asked.

"It was really great." my mission president said, volunteering to take on the difficult task of describing the funeral. "The gym held 600 people and it was packed full. Just a wonderful celebration of his life."

You don't hear many funerals described as "great" but I was beyond relieved to hear that this one was. 

"Good, good." Elder Clark said. "Who's ready to eat?"

I'm reminded again of my lack of appetite. Was I taking things too hard? Elder Clark was grabbing a plate, piling it with meats. Why couldn't I stomach the thought of doing the same?

Our mission president takes Elder Clark into the house for an interview, plate full of food. I could only imagine what they would talk about. Things had improved since last Tuesday, but only as time tried to push the event further and further from our memories. But the uncertainty surrounding us was far too great for us to move on, and the memory of the event was mercilessly vivid in Elder Clark's mind. I could hear him at night. I could hear him waking up, gasping for air. I sit still, paralyzed by my perceived inability to comfort him.

"Elder Parker, wanna go for a walk?" my mission president said, emerging from the house with Elder Clark. Neither one had touched their food, it appeared. Elder Clark seemed well, content, maybe even happy. 

My mission president and I walk around the farm, along the recently harvested wheat. He asks me how I'm doing, how the counseling's been going. I tell him I've been better but I'm happy Elder Clark's been doing so well. He agrees. 

"How do I help him?" I ask. "I'm never sure what to say or whether or not we should even talk about it. I just don't feel helpful at all."

"I don't think he would agree with that."

A feeling of relief washes over me. I don't realize it right away, but this is exactly what I need to hear.

"I know you're dealing with a lot too," my mission president continued, "so I'll tell you exactly what I told him." 

I prided myself on not showing how stressed I was. I hoped no one would notice, but he knew it right away. 

"When the Savior says he'll take upon him all infirmities, he means ALL infirmities."

In all the time I had spent worrying about what was to come next, what would happen with Elder Clark, what would happen to missionary work in the area, I hadn't taken thought for how to actually heal myself. I reasoned that it wouldn't happen until months from now, when the whole ordeal was hopefully behind us. I was content to let time take care of it.

We walked back to the BBQ.  Elder Blair, oblivious as ever, was explaining to Tyler the proper way to grill a chicken breast. The mission president's wife talks with the mother of the Moore family about the two kids they have back home. Elder Clark was joking with the father of the Moore family about something crazy he did in high school. 

I take a bite out of a tender piece of grilled chicken. My body welcomes it.

No more elephants in the front yard. 

Goodbye for Now

Fifteen months and thirty days ago, I lived through a day in the town of Rock Springs Wyoming, first where the weather broke a sweltering 80 degrees, then changed to rainy, then came a rainbow peeking out of the mountains. I remember the weather, the moments, the details and the feelings of September 4, 2013. I woke up early, ready for the day, because this was no ordinary day; it was a day I was going to have an unforgettable blast of a time. I took little care in getting ready, as I anticipated the day ahead. Then, I realized I wanted to look spectacular and became skeptical with what I was wearing. I decided to request approval for my wardrobe choice. As I stepped out of my room that morning, and I went right over across the hall to one of my older brother’s room. My brother Eric was kind enough to say, “Yes” to my flung on outfit. I felt, as I went in and out of our rooms, that I was playing the reality TV show, “Say Yes to The Dress” except I really needed the perfect outfit. I bugged Eric more than he ever wanted to be bothered, but we both came to conclusion to say, “Yes” to the outfit. My mom reminded me to have my room clean before I left. I shared the room with my younger sister Laura; we have a triple bunk bed with two mirrors right by each other including two closets filled with each other’s clothes. We are best friends and our bond grew stronger and stronger after this major event of this day.

I left our room in a stir of fashion with shirts and clothing strewn about the desk, floor and triple bunk. The multiple pants I took on and off while figuring out the right outfits were plopped all over our floor which was full of makeup stains from getting ready in the mornings. The shoes I tried on were spilling out of both closets. My room was left a mess especially after I finally picked the perfect outfit that would work for this significant day. I was ready to leave but my room was a complete disaster. It looked like a tornado had gone through the whole thing. Laura asked as I was talking with my mom if I would like to use her perfume. I was signaled to go back in my tornado of my room. She quietly whispered in her sweet voice to me, “Julia I can clean it, you need to take off for your day.”

 The old beater car was started. The hood is buckled down with bungee cords, so it will not smack the windshield. The windows work, but the car had no air conditioning. I put on so many miles from my town, Green River to the neighboring town, Rock Springs, with this old beater of a car. I felt like I could drive there with my eyes closed. I collected so many memories in this car that I will not be able to ever forget. The drive from my house to the place I was headed took about 25 minutes, but that day the drive seemed so long.

Turning the corner to my left I saw the home and place I had been getting ready for. I feel like I had been pulling myself across the iron rod trudging through the mist of darkness as it is referenced in the Book of Mormon 2 Nephi chapter 8. I finally reach the tree of life, or the house, as I parked I was taking the last steps towards the front door. I was surprised with a face, a recognizable face, poking in between the crack of the door. This face was no ordinary face, but a face that I had made those miles back and forth for, and the memories I made in that old beater of a car. He has deep blue eyes and sharp cut hair cut. He is ready. Jozef Hunter became one of my best friends I had ever had. He and I spent almost every day that we could together even if we had absolutely nothing to do. We had one of the tightest bonds.

This was the day, the day we both new was coming. We both never really thought that the time would come, and it would be the time to say three words, “Goodbye for Now.” The sky was full of sunshine and it was happy but as the day went on it became cooler and it started to rain. We had spent almost the whole day together until we had to say those three words to each other. As we stepped outside it started to rain. We had one last dance in the rain. His house was in a cul-de-sac where there was a dead end. We had the whole street to ourselves to have one last dance. We danced until the time came that we had to tell each other those three simple words. Saying those words was the hardest thing to say at that time. I felt like I had to ring those words out, I did not want those words to happen; I did not want to say goodbye.

I slowly drove away in tears, the old beater car’s windshield fogged up as I drove home.  The 25 minute drive had seemed like forever. As I pulled up to my house, my mom, the one who pulled me together, wrapped me up and we just sat and cried and sat and cried. I felt like it was the hardest thing I had to do. He was my best friend and I came to know that I love him.

“Goodbye for now.” is the hardest thing I have ever had to say to someone. I have nine months and thirty days left tell I get to say two words to him, “Welcome home.”

Giving Hands

 Baby bottom soft and slightly wrinkly, they are the most beautiful things I have ever seen.  The tendons in her hands line up next to each other like freshly-planted crops with blue veins watering between them, just waiting to gift mother nature's bounty. 
                                               
 These are giving hands, yielding hands.  My mother's hands. Always outstretched in some sort of service, each wrinkle and liver spot tells a story and stores a piece of herself that she gave to someone else. I love the perfection of her and her hands, but I love their "imperfection" even more. 

Thirty-three years ago she was given a small gold wedding ring with a quarter carat diamond in the center.  She wore it humbly and proudly but one day it didn't fit.  My dad lubed her finger up with butter and tried to pull it of but that dutiful ring didn't budge.  It hadn't budged in twenty one years. It had a front row view of years of service and sacrifice.   So he wound floss around her finger tightly.  Her finger turned red, then blue, then purple the veins pulsing angrily for relief.  I panicked at the thought of her losing one of her precious fingers.  Take any fingers but my mothers!  After an eternity, the ringer slipped hesitantly off her finger and her finger was bare.   A new ring replaced the old one, my dad surprised her.  Maybe not so humble and dutiful, the new ring sparkled and shined.  It is platinum and has 3 diamonds instead of one.  It's one of those past, present and future rings.  Which, I guess is only fitting as they have a dutiful past, a sparkling present, and a timeless future.  She loves it and raises her last two fingers in a wave-like motion just so the light will capture the individual cuts of the diamond.  She casts a rainbow everywhere she goes.  She has always been modest and this is the first time I have ever seen her show off anything.   She reflects her marriage in her hands. 

After showing off the ring came hints of her sassy side. Every day for thirty minutes my mother's hands exercise her brain by playing Dr. Mario on an old Nintendo 64.  She plays on a tv that was long forgotten, but is up and out of the way in her game room turned sewing room.  The room is piled high in quilts or dresses or projects for someone else waiting to be finished.  She loves too many people.  But when her hands ache from working the needle through thick fabric, or cutting out seemingly endless amounts of fabric she takes a break and turns on the forgotten tv tucked away in the corner.  She has a banana chair set in front of the old set and will lean back so she can sprawl her legs wide to place a foot on each side of the tv, almost like she is preparing to give birth again.  This is the one game she loves, because this is the one game she will always win.  This is the one game I get to see a hint of the competition and genius inside my mother.  I get to see her natural man, her enemy to God side.    Her fingers whiz away on the joystick and the different buttons, cursing viruses as she desperately tries to save the sick with copious amounts of colored pills.  I'm pretty sure she shouts at them in her mind to die.  I see that spark in her eye, but she would never say it aloud.  Unless of course she slips a "stink", which sometimes happens.  She is really good at this game and beats my butt every time I play against her.  My cheeks sting as I think about it.  The only thing I have ever seen her be remotely prideful about. But I love it when she wins.  She gets humbly smug, I didn't even know such an emotion is possible, but somehow she can do it.  She reflects her personality in her hands.    

These are her opportunities to plant nourishment back into the soil of her hands.  Nothing can grow without nourishment.  This gives her the strength to scrub grout, sitting on her hands with her hands  clenched to the scrub brush, moving back and forth between the work of the dirty grout and the eroding simple green that leaves her hands red, cracked and dry.  This gives her the strength to play with, take care of and carry five grandchildren who all want to crawl all over her and get as much of grandma as possible.  This gives her the strength to rub my back in the morning, waking me up with her cold hands as she snuggles close to push me out of the bed.  She lies there for a few minutes after I get out, talking to me about my plans for the day and adding the appropriate tidbits of advice.  I have many mantras.  This gives her the strength to make several batches of  succulent jam to give to the neighbors, or dip professional-looking caramel apples, or comforting cookies as my best friend prepares for her wedding, or consoling casseroles to someone sick or in need.  She always imparts of her substance.  She has true charity.  She reflects her love in her hands. 
  
  I want my mother's hands.  Mine are the exact same shape and size, yet not as beautiful.  I don't have so many stories. My new engagement ring is gold with a single diamond in the center and will sit dutifully on my hand for twenty one years or more.  Every time I look at it I think of my mother and the devotion she showed to my father.  I anticipate my marriage to be the same.  Right now I only have a sparkling future.  As soon as my ring took it's seat I started to wave my fingers in the same manner my mother does.  I guess I am just hoping that my hands will become her thirty-three years in the future hands, overnight.  I want her skill in Dr. Mario and her desire to heal the pretend sick with bottles and bottles of fake pills.  I want to be domestic goddess like she is in all things cooking and cleaning and giving and playing and tending and caring.  I want to yield fruits of my labor like she does.  I want a mother's hands.  Holy hands.  Beautiful hands.  Hands of selfless service. 

Meeting In The Living Room of Memories

I opened my off-white bedroom door, hearing the familiar creak that would accompany it only after it was two thirds of the way open. I walked down the hallway, avoiding the parts of the floor that seemed to cry in anguish when stepped on, towards my family room, which had light protruding from it. The hustle and bustle of life was overwhelmingly loud: kids were running and screaming everywhere, playing tag or driving pretend cars through the adults' legs, my brothers talked about work and their recent endeavors sporadically while listening to the game that was on the television, and the women in our family spoke of what women talk about, their topics of conversation never on one consistent track.

The couches in my family room weren't big enough to hold everyone, so the men had slid the rolling chairs from the kitchen to the edge of where the dining room hardwood met the family room carpet so they could be a part of the conversation that would soon begin. The setup was almost like every other family gathering: Christmas, except the people are split up into their own families, facing the Christmas tree in front of the window, and kids sitting impatiently on the floor waiting for their toys to be opened before they can go play. Birthday parties, where everyone sits randomly and the birthday girl/boy sits with almost a whole couch to themselves to make room for their presents. New Years, except with our family more centered around the table and the food, rather than the usual carpeted gathering place.

So many memories decorate the smells and the laughter of the room constantly occupied with people: Announcements that someone is pregnant, the laughter and competitive spirits created by the new Wii placed in front of the living room, the music that our family seems to somehow be centered on from fun nights of karaoke and dance parties, the center of blanket forts and cardboard box towns, a home theater filled with reclining chairs and popcorn, and even a counseling office. My family has seen it all and have been strengthened by the activities that our family room has held.

It was unusual to have every single family member present at that same time. Every special occasion seems to always have someone missing; whether for work or travels or something unexpected. But this occasion had everyone there, laughing and enjoying the stories; memories made together. Everyone was there because this occasion was different.

There, in the middle of all the craziness, were my parents, holding hands, distant, but still smiling at the recalled memories. This was odd for my mom to be sitting in a house full of people, normally she'd be up making food of some sort, or getting her grandkids drinks. But not this time, she just sat next to my dad, tears and fears showing themselves in her wise and understanding brown eyes. Trials and adversity polka-dotted their marriage and the love that they had made at such a young age. They faced each trial together, as a team, and never let the other fall. The next one would be no excuse to their unity.

I sat down on the floor, my back leaning against the piano bench that faces the east wall. The immense amount of emotions in me conflicted in every way, making me feel hollow. One thing I knew for sure: I was grateful for my family, and I loved them. I knew that what the near future held for us was going to bring our family even closer together. We would need each other to lean on.

Sitting there, observing my family, I thought of 3 Nephi 7:4 "Now behold, there was no man among them save he had much family and many kindreds and friends; therefore their tribes became exceedingly great." Not only did we have a lot of family in that room, but because we had a family, we were "exceedingly great." My family is not perfect. We are not the typical American Dream family. But we still have something precious and of great worth just being part of a family. My family is the biggest support I have. They lift me up. They have helped me grow into the person I am today. They are priceless and of exceedingly great importance to me.

My family, the one that has bonded over years of meeting in that family room, came together again that night with a different fear than any of us had felt before. We had all fasted that day - even the family member who had separated himself from religion - for my mom. The kids had finally all come to a stop at the foot of the couches, sensing the somberness, as we sat in silence for a few moments. Tears flowed easily from even the strongest of eyes. And then, in the middle of the living room that cemented our memories together, as one exceedingly great and giant family, we knelt in prayer for my mom, who was going in to surgery to have her breast cancer removed the following day.

The family pictures that were taken before my mom's surgery.

God Blessed The Broken Road

            Step by step for over eight months I had walked this street. Sweat always protruding from my body into my nice white button-up shirt, begging for the dust and dirt that I kicked up to cling to it. Heat, sweat, exhaustion, and the dust are things I try to forget as I trudge once again down this forsaken spat of road. Bustling about up and down the road, the kids go about playing, oblivious to their surroundings. African Spirituals can be heard coming from people’s yards, showing their utmost devotion to their Creator. Women with baskets on their heads would yell out like a frenzied baboon, as they were passing through in, trying to make a couple of sales for the day. Older kids would go about doing their chores, going out and finding water, and then carrying by the gallons the water back to their homes. Adults take advantage of the islands of shade that are spotted up and down the road, chugging alcohol like it was nothing.

As we pass by, all of their eyes are upon us; kids and some adults’ eyes lit with curiosity while others look on in bewilderment. “Chinesh” one of them yells, and soon after follows the chorus of kids like a wild pack of dogs yelling the words Chinesh and Amigo. It always amuses me that we are mistaken for so many nationalities, predominantly the Chinese. Their childlike innocence was always in full display on this long, dusty road. They have never had much in their lives, exhibited by their appearance and mannerisms. The ragged clothes, or lack there of give little to no protection to the merciless beating of the sun’s rays on their skin. Like a bag of bones, they would run, jump, climb, and make toys out of garbage and admire them as if they had just gotten a new Xbox. Excitement always rises when we pass by, wearing beaming smiles with their cracked lips. They would always want fist bumps with the white aliens that would come into their world everyday, and be so excited like a celebrity had touched their hands. Giving them attention was like putting them on a stage, and they wanted to show you how cool they were like a talent show. Totally oblivious to the comforts of life, they go about like happy go-lucky kids in a candy store. Just happy to be alive and happy to have what little that they could call their own.

This sense of contentment and happiness rubbed and wore down on me with each step over the past eight months. How could these people be content and comfortable with such a way of living? The question ate at me each day as I turned onto that path. Observing the families and kids go about their daily lives as we walked each day on that road only amplified that question. Their tiny brick homes, that they probably laid brick for brick by themselves, was only an outward manifestation of what I thought was the state of their lives.  I felt such pity for them for not being able to experience the comforts and privileges that I have lived with my whole entire life. Wasted potential is all I could think of as I stared at each person that went about their business on that road.

Finally, one more trip down this road opened up my eyes that I already thought were open. Watching a family cooking and laughing together as they sat on plastic lawn chairs in their yard wasn’t anything out of the ordinary that I had already seen on that road. But within that family, I could see my family doing the exact same thing but under a few slight different circumstances. Their meal was nothing more than rice and beans, nothing in comparison to my family’s dinners, but they were having a special family bonding moment, like many times my family has experienced. The feelings of tenderness and love were easily exhibited between each other, forging the bonds of true affection.  The companionship and unity transcended the dismal circumstances surrounding them, and they were truly happy. Their living conditions were not the shackles that held them captive but actually liberated them.

They did not have the hindrances that are designed to constantly entertain a person everyday and tune out everyone around them. Their lives reflected the desert travels of Nephi’s family, where all they were left with was the bare minimum. In these circumstances their love for each other grew and they praised their Creator for everything they had. Whatever happens and whatever circumstances people experience, happiness is always right there for the taking. Always available, and always sought after, but most of the time sought for in the wrong mediums. I now miss that forsaken spat of road, for truly God blessed that broken road.

Take my heart and seal it.

I leaned forward, pressing enough weight to zip the remaining inches of my full suitcase. I stepped back, sighing, as I embraced this reality. Two suitcases shut tight, one bulging backpack, and a nervous heart pounding inside. The next 18 months of my life was now packaged up. 

I curled my toes over the tough cold carpet. My feet were numb. My hands clamy. My head spinning. This was it. I sighed again. 

My reflection in the mirror stared back at me. I peered into those eyes, my eyes. I breathed heavily, as I realized, this was the last time I would be called Emily, before I took on my new identity, Hermana Lewis. I blinked furiously to stop the tears from falling. 

I'm awake. I lose sight of my reflection in the fogged window pane as I breathed heavily in the cold air. I reached over to my mom's shoulder and left my hand there. Why did I have to do this? Actually, I didn't, I reminded myself, but rather I choose to, I knew I was to be obedient. I thought this was suppose to be the happiest moment of my life? 

"Here I raise my Ebenezer
Hither by thy help I come
And I hope by thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home"

The bustling airport commotion distracted me completely from my worried heart. This was the moment that I had been avoiding, departing from the embrace of that last final hug. I ignored the lingering stares of travelers as my eyes flooded with tears. 

I whispered my love and goodbyes as I found my place in the growing security line. Before I turned the corner to find my gate, I glanced behind me, to see the two most important people in my life, the two figures of love, support and care. The two that have truly cared through attention, hours spent in my behalf, money in my direction, and a lifestyle in the teachings of Jesus Christ. They taught me somewhat in all of their learning, because they love me. My heart was ripping and pounding louder than the thoughts in my head.  Through it all, I felt a healing seal my heart. 

'Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above' 

I was in God's path, so I stepped forward. One foot after the other. 

7 months later. Location: Neuquén, Argentina

The sun sneaked in through the wooden slats covering the window. Eyes open, back flat, sheets tossed to one side. I was becoming conscious enough of the inevitable back pain from the ancient dirty mattresses that we were forced to sleep on. I wondered if the floor was more comfortable.  I waited in peace before the phone alarm ring tone would make its mark and start our day. Yippee, another day in this country I grumbled so unwillingly in my head.

I flopped out of bed. Glancing over my shoulder to see my companion do the same. I knelt down, and prayed. I did not want to be there. But I pretended that I did. I was a robot, passing through the normal morning routine. Prayer. Exercise. Showers and breakfast, and studies. It was normal, every day was new, but the same. As soon as it was 11:00 am, I smiled in my heart, it was time I could be alone again for that last hour before we went and talked with the world.

"Wondering from the fold of God
He, to rescue me from danger
Interposed His precious blood

Jesus sought me when a stranger"

I clenched my Spanish Book of Mormon, walked to my bed, and sat down. I read. And read some more. I had read the Book of Mormon over ten times in English, yet, now I was reading lines and words and characters that I did not understand. I did not love this book. It wasn't my book yet.

I slammed it shut. My heart's frustration began leaking through my eyes. I let my head fall back on my pillow. I looked at my watch. It was 11:23 am. But what I really saw was a time clock telling me 11 more months as a missionary.

My vision blurred and the tears streamed down my face, soaking my pillow. I looked up at the wall. Perfectly hung by scotch tape on all four corners was a painting of Joseph Smith's first vision ripped out of the latest Ensign. Time stop. In this instant I knew everything was true. Yes, even the book that I held in my hands that I didn't understand. God taught me something. Actually, He let me feel His love that morning and a reminder to His daughter in the small town in the middle of Argentina that He was aware of her needs. That was my life changing morning.

"O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!

Let thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to theeProne to wander Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I loveHere's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above"