I walked through the crowded tables, feeling a pit in my stomach. I looked at all the women in their conversations, wondering where to insert myself. The scenario was familiar, but ancient to me. Apparently the insecurity of entering a crowded lunchroom on the first day of school is easily recalled if all the circumstances are similar enough, even when one is 34 years old.
Eventually I came to a table and instantly felt relief as I walked around to where there was an empty chair. I interrupted the enthusiastic conversing of six lovely, dark-haired women, who from the way they interacted, had been friends for a long time.
“ ¿Puedo sentar aqui?” I asked, and than instantly corrected my improper Spanish grammar in my head.
Looks of surprise but welcoming greeted me with a chorus of “ ¡Sí!”s.
When the one who told the stories finished with the colorful one she was telling, which was a little too fast for me to pick up on, they turned to me to ask me my name and get acquainted with the newcomer. The gringa.
They seemed impressed by my Spanish as I started to share how I know their forgiving and easy-going language. The connection was rápido as I gave the full disclosure that I wasn’t understanding everything— that sometimes they were going too fast and so I just ate my lunch and stopped paying attention for a moment. Their looks in response to that were understanding. I suddenly thought of how it would be to be in an English-speaking environment with unfamiliar words, rules, vowels. They understood what I felt when I was tired of trying to understand. Except their world was much harsher than mine. They were coming to a place where English was expected, even demanded, and negative stereotypes were rampant. I was there to practice my Spanish and have a good time. In my experience, making a new Spanish-speaking friend is always a good time.
My confidence increased with their smiles and positive words. I caught some of the stories, but mostly sat back and people-watched a bit. In that time, which flew, but was perhaps 30 minutes, there was banter, connection, vulnerability, love, teasing, stories, and so much of it punctuated with laughter. I was the tiniest bit frustrated at what I was missing, but mostly just felt joy at hearing this language that I love, so beautifully shared in a chorus almost like a song. At seeing each personality shine through — some very quiet, some calmer, some animated. At feeling like I was instantly accepted, just by existing. Just by my tiny bit of courage to ask if I could sit with them. It seemed almost unfair that that tiny bit of courage had such a generous outcome.
When I left the table, I hadn’t learned most of their names. But they all learned mine. And I felt connection and love. I cried a little later, about the quick connection that I sometimes feel for people but don’t always maintain. About people I care about who I most likely will never see again. It happened in Guatemala and Honduras more than ten years ago, and it still happens occasionally today. But then I thought of the future and I felt great esperanza. I truly believe there will be time to sit with friends and talk and laugh and know each other— and this time, when they tell their stories, I will catch every word. I really look forward to that.
How lucky are we to be allowed to have the relationships we have in this life?
“I don't know how God is going to help me," Sammy groaned, doubtfully. It was 1:24 a.m. He was experiencing a rough night on a sea of coughs and gasps. I was awakened by his broken voice a few minutes earlier when he came in, requesting a handkercheif. After the initial pang of annoyance at having my own sleepy voyage interrupted, I stood at the head of his bunkbed, stroking his hair, and stifled a small laugh at his statement. Honest, but oblivious. "Oh, sweetie, He is helping you. I'm here. Let me see if I can give you some more medicine.” I returned to my bedside in a fuzzy yet familiar way to get my glasses. I felt amused at his doubtful little attitude. It was fuzzily familiar… It reminded me of something that happened once…
When I was the sufferer. It was a little more than 12 years ago and 2,900 miles away. My memory is pretty foggy of that time, with most of my swirling thoughts being terribly, negatively self-critical. I was in deep depression in the heart of Central America, "failing" in a role I'd wanted to play all my life. No pressure.
"I just wish I could have a break. A little vacation. A chance to get better and catch up,” I muttered, desperately. I sat in our comfortable, clean apartment, perhaps the only one in the mission with its own washer and drier, perhaps the only one with a warm shower. Looking back at the experience, I wonder if Hermana Story felt that slightly-annoyed-amusement I felt in my 1:24 a.m. interaction with Sammy.
"This is your break. This is your vacation. It's happening right now. You can get better. Can't you see?'
For months, that woman reminded me to take my medication. She sacrificed her own comfort and pride to help me in ways you don’t expect to have to help an adult. We still did missionary work but she had the extra loads of doing all the contacting and teaching, and even making sure I crossed those busy Honduran streets safely— I didn't have the presence of mind to do so. She held me when I had panic attacks. I think perhaps the only positive thing I felt in that time was the compassion and love from her. I will be forever grateful for how she helped me when she was companions with me and my depression.
As I brought Sammy’s rice bag warmed to perfection and a warm lemon-honey drink, he immediately proclaimed, "I don't think this is helping." Is this a taste of how Hermana Story felt? Is this how God feels?
"On child. Can't you see? I am right here. I am helping you right now. I have a plan. You can trust me. I will not let you fall.” There are times I do not see his compassionate arm reached out to me. But He is still there. And sometimes He might be a little amused at my doubtful desperation.
A few months ago, I transplanted a sunflower plant from the front yard to the back garden. Within a day it was droopy and looking very sad. I gave it plenty of water and it had good soil and sunlight, but soon some of the leaves had turned brown and it was so bent over, I thought it was a goner.
I got the idea to put a little stick in the ground, and tie some twine around the top of the stem and the stick in an effort to straighten the plant. I hoped that if the leaves on the top, which hadn’t yet died, would be able to get some sun straight on, that it would get the necessary chlorophyll and be able to eventually become strong again.
I marveled when this worked. Within a week, life was literally coming back into the brown, dry leaves. It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in my garden.
When I’ve thought about the Atonement of Jesus Christ over the years, I think I had a basic grasp of the concept of the redemptive power it brings. I hoped that one day, if I did the very best I could do, He would “make up the difference”. What I am only now starting to understand is the beautiful enabling side of it. He gives us life, even now. All along the way He strengthens us and allows us to grow. The Atonement isn’t something that I hope will save me someday. It can save me today. And tomorrow. And every day.
You are that sunflower. Now there is time to turn inward and restore that relationship with yourself — the divine being that you are — and allow Christ to breathe life back into your leaves. Be gentle with the parts of you that feel bent and lifeless, and have hope for what is to come for you. God can cause a miracle in a sunflower, but more meaningfully, He is bringing about miracles in you. And you are worth it.
When those moments come, where everyone is getting along and there’s no chaos at all — those golden and ever-so-rare moments — that’s when I intentionally memorize it. Try to bottle it up. This is how I can “enjoy it because it goes so fast”.
With four children under the age of 9, it feels like moments like this happen 1% of the time, if that. Our usual consists of breaking up the fights, cleaning up the spills, getting ground-in playdoh out of the carpet. It’s chaos between the kids, between me and them, between me and myself. The constant guilt-ridden thoughts of how I’m doing it all wrong, and how they are too, are absolutely exhausting.
If you have stopped reading, I don’t blame you. I would want to stop reading. I wanted to stop having this life.
And I am so glad I chose to stop. Enough was enough.
For years, I have had a victim mentality. I had no idea how much power over my own experience I actually held in my hands. My negative thoughts became so loud and bombarding, and I felt so miserable, that it was even affecting me physically. I thought, ‘if all of these thoughts can make me feel this bad, I bet if I could turn this around, I could fly’.
I’ve made a conscious choice that enough is enough in the self-loathing department. I now like myself, an awful lot. I am doing things I want to do, just because I want to (#Bostonwithoutkids). This lightness I feel has extended to my husband and kids and I am enjoying them, just as they are, way more.
Two nights ago, I just sat, watching my kids play duplos together, feeling waves of contentment wash over me and throughout my body. I watched, smiled, and sat there, amazed that I could feel so good and for so long. It was way past their bedtime, but they were enjoying each other, and I couldn’t stop watching.
The best part was, I didn’t feel this desperation of bottling up the feeling because of how rare it was. Because, you see, when I am looking for the good in me, I am also finding the good in them way more often. It seems they changed, but really, all I changed was my focus. I can’t believe how simple and yet absolutely life changing and profound it all is. The agency God gave me extends right down to how I choose to think about things, and how that makes me feel. And I’m glad to feel content much more often. I deserve it.
(I give credit to this change in myself to: Jody Moore coaching, The Big Leap by Gay Hendricks, the enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, and myself for the work I’ve been doing to be wrong about my previous painful and terrible story, and for challenging my thoughts and choosing ones that serve me much better. And to Paul, who said, “Just try Be Bold for a month, and if you don’t like it, you can always cancel.” And who has had many discussions with me about all this along the way.)
This past year, I took a drawing class in which I drew portraits. It had been more than half my life ago the last time I spent time sketching. Being the sentimental sucker that I am, I almost exclusively practiced on photos I had taken of people who I knew and who meant a lot to me. I sometimes would capture their essence, but often there would be several flaws, and often I would leave drawings unfinished, fueled by frustration or disappointment at their lack of perfection.
One day I sat down to work on a portrait of my sister, which I intended to give her for Christmas. My three year old bounded over and hopped up on the couch next to me. “Draw me, mommy!” She requested, unabashed. I chuckled and consented. Instead of working on my sister for yet another attempt, I found a photo of my daughter and started to sketch.
It came easily, as I had nothing to prove. I felt relaxed and had fun with it. I kept it simple, with lots of white space for the viewer to fill in with their own imagination.
Of all the drawings, this is the one that I find worthy of a frame. I captured her so beautifully.
This is what happens when the creator has nothing to prove. When the reason for the creation is not esteem or wealth or attention. The final product only exists because of an amused kind of curiosity. And instead of frustration, it is motivated by love.
I’ve learned this in other ways throughout my life, but with this drawing it’s a visual reminder when I see it every day. Success comes from putting time into something. Being willing to fail and fail a lot. Trying again. But success doesn’t have to be so strenuous and agonizing. It can also come when we don’t overthink things. When we just go for it, with amused curiosity. And the most sublime creations of all are born by love.
"Look at me. Look at me!", her sister insisted forcefully. Despite the volume of the request, it was pushed down, almost silenced by the chaos going on in her body and brain. At any moment she would succumb to the pain which surged through her; she was surprised she hadn't already. But then that nagging command to look subtly interrupted her thoughts, like a rock in the rapids, a rock which she perhaps could hold onto and keep herself from drowning. At last, drawing upon all the strength she had, and with a long, trembling breath, she willed her rolling eyes to stillness and they focused on her sister's intense stare.
"Keep looking. Don't look away. You can do this. You are doing this." She had a good grasp on the rock now. She was still very much affected by the rapids - they beat upon her as they had been for hours. But as long as she kept looking at those big eyes staring into hers, at least she wouldn't go under again. She could breathe. She began to breathe and breathe and breathe. She breathed hope and strength and love down throughout her body, surrounding the baby that would soon take a first breath on its own. She breathed the support of her sister into her mind, where it calmed the storm within if only for a moment. She breathed the grace of her Savior into her wings and soared until --
An entirely new sound pierced the air. A sound too beautiful to believe. The baby was finally here, making herself known to all within earshot.
Something made me think of this old blog tonight, and I went way back to read of happy college days. It was fun to remember how life was then: the friends I had, the things I was learning. It was fun to see the comments from those friends, and to feel validation from them even now. But the most fun, was to remember the days when I would write, and the joy I received when allowing myself to do so.
In 2009 I served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My blog became a place for my weekly emails. Those posts were the beginning of a long decrescendo as I lost myself in mental illness. Eventually I came home from my mission after serving for 10 months instead of the anticipated 18. It took years to recover, and in that time I wrote some blog posts, but I never look at those now. I was(/am?) ashamed of them. I thought they betrayed the real me. I have considered deleting them occasionally over the years.
But now, I don't know if it's just that it's 3:11 AM or if I'm serious, but I think it's time to resurrect this little blog of mine. I don't expect the people who used to read it to rediscover it. Heck, I don't really expect anyone to read it. I know it will never be the same as it once was. I am not the same.
And I'll leave all those cringe-worthy posts which were written by a woman who was mentally unwell. Because though I consider myself recovered, that woman was still me.
Deep inside, I have felt out of sorts for some time now, and I believe the reason could be that I am a writer who hasn't been writing. It's time to try again.
No, this is not the twilight zone. I know it has been A YEAR AND A DAY since I have written anything on this beloved Blog, but I have repented and here I am again. For those of you who have me on your google reader or sidebar (etc), I'm sorry to have neglected you.
Much has happened in this past year. I have become a completely different person, as I have taken the hand of the Savior and stepped out of my darkest days. I'm sure I'll share some reflections about it when there's time.
But to share something funny, today I trespassed upon a break-room and pretended to be an employee until I had finished my leftovers for a quick dinner break between tests (I had 3 today!)I opened the fridge and went about, heating up the meal, when I saw a couple very focused on themselves/each other and nothing around them. I still assumed they had seen me, at LEAST in their peripheral vision, but soon discovered that either they thought they were very much alone, or were simply disgusting, inconsiderate creatures, as they started kissing passionately for a VERY long time. I didn't expect to see a PG-13 movie today, especially at BYU! When they finally looked up and saw me (I averted my eyes and pretended I hadn't seen --or heard-- this obvious pda,) they didn't seem embarrassed or apologetic. I found a table in the same room but behind a partition, as I had a plate of warm food, my backpack, my water bottle and couldn't conveniently find another place to eat. And as soon as I was out of sight (but still within hearing range) the disgusting sounds began again. I am so grateful Paul doesn't let me show much pda. Being on the other side, it is GROSS!
It's not quite right. What does it need? Comment please. Don't forget your towel... Don't forget your towel... Many are unsatisfied with their current life situation. They wish they could go back and fix mistakes in the past or repair broken relationships. They wish they could go forward and reach their destinations, whether it is a coveted job, mansion or the family they dream of. But they don’t understand how easy it really could be. In short, it can be said that many wish they could interrupt the fabric of time. It is well-known that the only way to do that is with a time machine. Where can this device be found? Scientists (“rocket” and otherwise) have been searching for the mechanisms to make such a machine for centuries. From lightning bolts to other forms of electricity, they’ve tried everything imaginable. But how they couldn’t have tried what I’m about to reveal is what astounds me. For it is so simple, so obvious, it’s amazing that no one, even the most brilliant scientists and scholars still know nothing about it. It needs to be understood that I'm about to share my most treasured and significant secret.
The shower is a time machine.
Think about it! You enter, and when you get exit again, about ten, fifteen or twenty minutes have gone by. I figure that the special dials that you would expect to see in a time machine are labeled "H" and "C", which are most definitely abbreviations in a foreign extra-terrestrial scientific language. The common man is not meant to know its meaning. The farther you turn the "H" dial, the farther in the future you'll go. With the average person, this dial would be turned some, but not all the way. This is why when the bathroom is again vacant, only ten-or-so minutes have gone by, and not months or years. It can be assumed that the "C" dial takes you into the past, but I wouldn't know... I've never tried it.
Once the machine is on and warmed up, hot or cold water can be expected to shoot out (or trickle, depending on the positioning of the dials) and blast your body into smitherings. Although the showerer may be in small particles temporarily, when they emerge from the machine, their body is back in one piece (about 86.5% of the time) and nothing is noticeably altered except for the fabric of time. This change is so subtle, that the showerer notices nothing different except perhaps a slight adjustment in the positioning of the sun, or some higher numbers garnishing the clocks around the house. But this can not be proven to be time travel. Most don’t even consider that an amazing journey through time has occurred. They notice very little difference in time or circumstance but little do they know. An entire ten minutes has leapt out of their daily life. Imagine the experience of a germaphobe, whom showers perhaps twenty to thirty times a day to escape dangerous bacteria. They may experience hours of time travel and not even know it.
If skeptical, think of how long the last shower you took seemed to you. Mine usually seem to be over as soon as the water is at the right temperature. As I get out and check the clock, I’m often late to work. Especially if I keep the bathroom door shut tight, I may be in another time dimension until an hour has passed. Can’t society see how dangerous this could be? Our entire lives seeping through shower heads, and all we see and feel is warm, clean (depending on what country you live in) H2O. But while we cleanse our bodies, we’re getting older and losing our lives.
You may be skeptical, but it can’t be denied, as more research shows. In our culture, the richer you are, the more bathrooms you have in your house . The time machines typically get fancier, with all kinds of extra features, and even seats for comfort if the journey is long. And with more time machines, more people can hypothetically experience this phenomenon at the same time. And yet, not a single soul on our planet has realized the power of this miraculous device. Think of the potential! We gripe about how things were in the good ol' days, or how we wish we could be graduated, married, and happy with a family and a boat already, but we never think that it could be as simple as taking a shower. Something we do each and every day.
Despite his brilliance, there is one thing that the inventor of this extraordinary machine didn't quite think through. If I ever succeeded in getting into another time dimension, I'd be naked and too embarrassed to get out.
Comment on which poem(s) you like the best. I'm gonna enter them into a contest, but I only want to present my best work. Thanks!
-Dianey Face
Perspective
Gloomy, burdened, dark with pain
its cause I could not find
it slowed my step and thoughts of me were flooding up my mind.
Then suddenly, through some small sort
of miracle I guess
the cold wind stilled and sunshine brightly
lit upon my face.
I felt such joy and gratitude
and that I will get by.
I am convinced it was a gift:
That comfort from the sky.
Friend
Bits of paper cling to a notebook's spine
Confessions to be pulled out of my soul
I need firm hands to tear them all away
and ears to listen as my words spill out
The job is messy, quite undignified
and yet rewarding when the task is done
Fragile, weak, small without my paper bits
you kindly help me take them to the trash
Princess Di: age 7
A galloping child
knows nothing of guile
head crowned with golden flowers
Holes in the knees
of hand-me-down jeans
escaping the evil king's powers
She's frightened and still
she sprints down the hill
Eyes wide and breath short with excitement
The horses draw near
but the prince she can hear
to save her, much to her delightment
She climbs up a tree
from there she can see
him slaying the guards all around
The king runs away
Her prince saved the day!
He helps her back down to the ground
But now it gets dark
The forest's a park
Her playtime and daydreams are done
Thanking her friend
for the fairy tale end
she goes home to sleep with the sun
Ball
If I had ears I first would hear
The wind's high pitch from moving fast
Then painless crash as I met house
crescendo-ed laughs with each return
If I had eyes I'd keep them shut
For being thrust into the air
would be enough to lose one's lunch
With blurs of color streaming past
My nose would smell the young boy's hands
His sweat from repetitious play
And then, too soon, the paneled wall
the ling'ring cedar still remains
If I had nerves I would feel pain
As bruises blue became rebruised
And wounds were not allowed to heal
Forever suffering-- endless game
Reasons for William
I sit on the dock and watch the boats sail
passengers laughing, enjoying the sun
though some look with longing back to the shore.
I know the feeling -- stuck, trapped, alone
Remember that time? Seems ages ago
we ran down the dock, impulsively jumped
right into a boat. We sailed for a day
sun shone so brightly; the water was fine.
Then after some time it lost its appeal
felt claustrophobic though out in the air
but you steered the boat still farther away.
I wanted to dock but you held the oars.
A storm began brewing, crescendoing wind
the boat began rocking, my hands clutched the sides
the sound of the waves crashing against wood
was just like my gut, and naucious I felt.
Then we tipped over. The rest is a blur.
Somehow I made it, safe, back to the shore.
That's why I sit here and watch others smile
enjoying the constance of my solid ground.
Sir Robert
Like steadfast knight
with foe to conquer, boldly he stands,
with not a sword but
rubber weapon in my father's hands.
He strikes! Impact
causes crumbs to dance on the table.
Mother glares: she
just wants a nice meal, if we're able.
Determined to
slay the small black wing-ed enemy,
he slaps and slaps
but buzzing means the fly still lives free.
Fly swatter hits
right in between celery and chives.
The fiend is dead!
Our father has saved our very lives!
All cheer but mom.
Table is a graveyard for dead flies,
But through her hand
I see her smile, twinkle in her eyes.
Dawn clouds
power lines slice through faintly pink
dawn-streamed cloud
like kitchen's sharpest knife
silently
effortlessly separating
the thick sweet blanket
of "cloud" that mom likes to make
with thawed whipped cream
hint of strawberry jello mix
generic brand of cottage cheese
God's recipe shows no sign
of Miss Muffet's preference
but in His broad bowl we call sky
long, thin leftovers of night
greyish blue
after my eyes have had their fill
the flavor tastes of orange
like mother's after I've already
removed the squishy mandarins
still changing
as rays begin peaking over lofty mountain tips
my eyes taste a
dampened, inoffensive lemon
all traces of night now seem but shadows
as sky lightens
and earth is made ready
for vibrant sun's
reentry
Craig's house
Dusk.
air pleasantly warm
reminding us of a sun-baked day
steady creak of the porch swing
keeps time for a soft orchestra
of crickets
distant highways
and subtle wind
whispering wisely to ancient trees
your sharp intake of breath
indicates the first sighting of a firefly
They ignite!
And gradually the field is a vast galaxy of stars
which live but a moment-
just long enough to fascinate
then, stifled out
one by one
in Night's thick blanket.
Darkness.
like nothing happened at all
Miriam
I see her in their faces
though lacking lines from years still to come
framed in heavy hair
not as white or wispy soft
Mother's movements look so familiar
the way she softly taps the table with her hands
just as she had done
just like Miriam
As they retell her stories re-retold,
passing them from mouth to mouth, reverently
as one should handle one of her precious quilts
I see her in them
The stories form bit by bit
pulled from each memory
sometimes interjection
correction
on the particular wording
she may have used
even so,
the morbidity
of Big Clause and Little Clause
or the shocking lack of mentality
of dear lil' Epaminondas
is clearly communicated
there's laughter at the accuracy
then tears at her memory
I cannot yet recite her words as they
and my youthfulness does not reveal much resemblance
but I see her
in that ancient skirt
its unusual style for these times
but my favorite to wear
I see her
in my desire and attempt
to sew patches of random old projects
into something to keep someone
warm and comfortable
much time is spent
and every stitch says "I love you"
I'm beginning to understand her
She called me "friend"
and I become my own
friend
as I begin to see her in me
John
there's something so poetic
about the candle
never moved, never opened
fire never playfully teasing the wick
the smell of apple cinnamon
never fills the room
never performing the expected task
only touched three times a day
so as to hold a tube in place
as liquid drains
in a slow steady pace
leftovers of some
unsatisfying nourishment
for one who cannot taste or smell
other tools may think it useless
but its consistence is vital
it, being there, near the sink
helps the helpless
live.
My Paul
left thigh unusually warm
from the weight of his head
as he sleeps
seeing him this way
as my heart nearly leaps
from my chest
wishing to be his
wishing to still know more about him.
Life is so beautiful
so short but so full
when he's there to fill it up
was there really a time
in my life before him?
were my smiles real?
did I really know joy?
did I really have love?
no.
and I know
my life will always be filled
with him.
his laugh.
his tears.
his tired sighs.
or it won't be life
at all.
I bought some books for class, minding my own business, when out of an orange colored sky... crash, bam, alakazam...
a random boy asked me out.
Let me back up a little bit. He started talking to me and I didn't pay him any mind. The conversation consisted of "What's your major?", "Where are you from?", etc etc. We walked toward some stairs and it became clear that he was going to go down. I didn't feel that we should continue the chat. So I walked parallel to the stairs on that same floor as he began to go down. He stopped awkwardly on the stairs and kept talking. After a while he came BACK UP THE STAIRS and stood by me, talking. He moved closer; I moved away. He moved closer; I moved away. I couldn't believe he would hit on me... doesn't he see the love in my eyes for another man?!
I don't know how Paul came up in conversation, but he did. The boy's disappointment was almost tangible. "Oh... are you two serious?" "Yeah," I said, not admitting that we were, in fact, ENGAGED. "That's a shame. I was going to... you know... see if you and me wanted to... go out sometime....."
::awkwardest silence::
"Well, nice to meet you. What was your name?" "Scott" "Nice to meet you, Scott. I'm Diane" "Thanks, Diane. See you around?"
I didn't respond. I just walked away.
It feels good to know that another man may be interested in me. Especially as Paul is the only one who has asked me out or wanted to be with me for the last 6 months. But I still love him the very best. :)
But if he wants to keep me from the flirting tactics of the single men on campus, he better buy me the bling bling. And soon. ;)
This morning I took the bus to school. All was fine, I was gonna be ontime and everything, and then we stopped by a place where freshmen live. And there were so many people waiting for the bus. They piled on by 5s 7s 11s, until all the seats were filled. And then they kept piling on until there was a long line of people all the way down the aisle. But they kept on coming. Until we were all so squished, I was afraid to breath so as to not disturb the atmospheric pressure. There were probably 300 people on a bus that can have 45 (if that). And then we started moving. Tentatively... forward. We all laughed and screamed "NO!" As we saw a guy running to catch the bus.
Temple= Vernal. Man= My love. :) Paul got a 94 percent on his test. so I made him a crown. BRILLIANT. (the crown has 94 star stickers) John McCaskey and I meet again. Yes I do have stickers on my face. John is excited about his dreamcatcher from Honduras (made by the lil kids there) Temple= Timpanogos. Man= My one true love.
Double date action!!!!! Love this. Rock band collage!!!!!!!!! Love John E. my penguin pjs are bonded. Here we are on the plane from Utah to Virginia. To meet the parents. We are cuteums. Temple= Washington DC. Man= my one true love, Paul. He took this blurry blurry photo, but it turned out to be the best one of many attempts. Dog= Sammy. Footie Pjs = Penguins Dianey. cute!. The cat is cute too. jajjaa. I'm liking animals this trip. ?! But not to keep. Right? (not pictured yet= a big huge pitbull with a silver tooth who is quite tough looking but LOVES to cuddle me) Church= Paul's. House= Jared's. we= adorable adorable adorable. Love my bangs. Love him. School = Paul's HS. Planetarium!!!!! House of God= WASH DC TEMPLE. Us= cold. I= no jacket but Paul keeps me warm. Coat= red so on the ground. Paul's thoughts= COLD!!!! Ellsworth= us. Del, Marylou= Missionaries. Ant, Sharon= cute!. me= wannabe momma with Ira. Paul= the love of my existence. Christ= our Savior. This is a good shot. me and Ira sittin in a tree.... trying to k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Mary-Lou (what is it with Aunts with 2 names hyphenated? Mona-jo?), me being gorgeous!, Sharon being Sharoney. The hottest couple at the prom. I may have some news for you. ;) Uncle Del plus my love. Pose= I said "pretend like you like each other!" and they... leaned. Check out his birthmark on his hand!! (heart shape)
Found it. Thanks to Robyn's help. This is the ring I would like. Hint hint. :) It's a pearl. and it's only $60. That makes my ring + my wedding dress = less than $150. Less than$145. wow. :)
Rock band collage!!!!!!!!! Love John E.
