Monday, November 2, 2020


I was a bit of a late bloomer. A tulip in October. Oh, sure. I could sponge on a good game of blue eyeshadow and had some sweet, tight, curling iron ringlets that I earnestly feathered and sprayed. But was I successful? Not really.

Now that’s not to say I was a stranger to “going” together. Beautiful days filled with passing notes, marking the yes box and then avoiding each other like the plague until a friend was sent to break up with you. I started with Troy and ended with Brian and filled all the years in between with spitty kisses, unrequited expectations and one poor mother’s stolen jewelry that was handed off to me in my coat pocket because I refused to pull my wrinkly, dry hand out of that pocket to clasp his sweaty palm. 

Which reminds me, want to know how to keep your children chaste? Give them grandma hands. Or a concave bosom. Or warts or zits or some other hideous disfigurement they’ll be ashamed to parade in front of others and will go to great lengths to hide and never reveal. Just a thought. Anyway…

I finally emerged from the dirt just in time to press on some Lee nails and go on a blind date with a guy who had a heart of gold. He spent most of his attention and money on me and called me, “Beautiful” like it was his job. I loved it, but because I was still a bulb at heart, I didn’t fully understand my part in this relationship. One day I was talking to my friend at work and got a little confident. 

“I can get a dozen roses.”



And when my boyfriend called me at work, asking what I was doing, I said, “Oh, just looking at Kristen’s half dozen roses…”

See what I did there? 

By the end of the night, I had my dozen roses. 

The relationship didn’t last, thank goodness. For both of our sakes. You see, I was a little disgusted with him—how easily I could play him. For years I told the story, always from the point of view of the woman who got what she wanted and lost respect for the man who gave it to her. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how embarrassed I should have been. 

A few days ago, my daughter came home from a date. 

“There’s something that kind of bugs me about him, Mom. It’s just…I feel like he would do anything for me. Like, anything. You know what I mean?” And I thought for a moment, remembering the boy of 18 who would have done anything for me. 

“Yes, I do know what you mean.”

Then I thought about the 54 year old man by my side who was currently on day 763 of an unbroken streak spent scratching my back while we watched TJ Hooker. The man who would do anything for me. One I played. One I married. What was the difference?

The difference was me. 

The world would have us believe that “edge” and “cynicism” trump giving hearts and happy eyes. That the guy willing to rub our feet is somehow inferior to the guy who refuses such an act, instead pulling off his own socks and wiggling his toes in our face. 

The real question isn’t what is he willing to give…the real question is, what are you expecting to take?

When Heavenly Father wraps up a person who offers you his coat and holds your hand and sends you roses and calls you pretty, do you mock and roll your eyes and lose respect because the present isn’t edgy enough? Because you aren’t torn and bleeding from the sharp angles that hurt your feelings and make you cry? No.

What you do is you lift up that gift like a new baby in church, ooo and ahhh and appreciate every nuance of it, then declare in your LOUDEST spiritual voice how grateful you are to have this gift and that you will never, ever, take advantage of it. 

And that you will try really hard not to ruin it. 

And will make it homemade bread. And occasionally cheese soup.

And let it go four wheeling. And shoot guns. 

And pull the long, gray hairs out of its ears at church so it doesn’t lose credibility.

And be its greatest hype man, loyal and adoring, and buy it great ties.

And will try not to yell when it crashes another really expensive drone.

But most importantly, even if that gift is willing to give his all, you will be unwilling to let him. Because you love him as much as he loves you. 

(But you can for sure let him keep scratching your back because it seems like he must really enjoy it and you’re probably blessing his life, so it’s a win/win and everybody is happy.)

Wednesday, September 9, 2020



I know what you're all thinking, and you're right. It's true. I was a junior high cheerleader. 

I thought it was the answer to all of my prayers when they announced my name. This was it. This was all I needed. And it ways I couldn't even imagine. But it took the form of a curse that would haunt me nearly every single day of my prison term in that short, pleated skirt. 

I didn't step-clap correctly. I talked too much about my sister. And I always asked how much things cost. "Why did you even try out if you couldn't afford it?" was their elitist response as they ordered me to go buy the bum cheek exposing pair of shorts for our day uniform.

A couple of weeks into it, we were told by the captain that we'd need to gather $400 plus so we could go to cheer camp. To the other girls on the squad, this was nothing. Most of their mothers lived vicariously through them in their cheer years and thrilled at the prospect of spending a hundred bucks on white Nikes. My mother didn't care how high I could jump split and $400 was our family's grocery budget for a month. 

I told my parents about the request. "We can't afford it and that's the same week as girl's camp," they said.

"I know. But they'll hate me if I don't go."

Long story short, I didn't go. 

And yes, they hated me. 

They even went so far as to make a pact that none of them would teach me the dance for the opening assembly. But one girl took pity on me. She had 20 minutes before her mom picked her up and with angelic help I learned that frickin' dance in 17 minutes flat. Thank you, Jesus.

The others were really ticked. They wanted to punish me for not conforming. And when it turned out this wasn't in their control, they spent the rest of the year belittling, mocking and eye rolling everything I did and said. Every other day I'd open a folded note that looked benign only to have ugly words tumble off the lined paper, or a "friend" would pull me aside and say, "Guess who hates you?" and my heart would drop into my stomach. Wretches. My skin got thicker and my poker face straighter until I could finally experience the greatest relief I'd ever felt, at least up to age 14, as I put those shredded pom poms in the Halloween costume box and was released from my year long lesson in loneliness. But by damn, I knew how to stand.

Now here I am, staring at the adult version of junior high having been thrown back into the mire, this time in public service. "Guess who hates you" is now a tag in a facebook post. And folded notes have become emails sent from "concerned citizens" who tell me to "do what we tell you to" right after calling me apathetic, corrupt, stupid and gutless. It's super fun. Kind of like when someone pinches your upper arm fat. 

But forty years later, I've learned some things. Like, I totally know how to step clap, so super confident there. Also, I will talk about my sister whether you want to hear about her or not. But, even now, I haven't stopped caring about how much things cost. Specifically fully staffed fire departments, traffic units and merit pay for our police, and parks and recreational space for an ever growing city, to name a few. But highest on my list is how much it costs for a young family to live, well, anywhere in Utah, really. But most especially, here in our city. 

"Why do you even try to live here if you can't afford it?" Is their elitist response, as they order them to buy a house and a piece of land that exposes their empty bank accounts and student loan debt. 

Their empathy is negligible, their discernment is limited and their insistence that the world doesn't change fuels their indignation toward anyone who says otherwise. 

"You're ruining my view!" 

"We are a farming community!"

"All developers are greedy!"

Actually, let's tell it like it is. You ruined my view, you shop at the grocery store and you live in a home provided by a developer. Your car is on my road, your house sits in my field, your children crowd my schools. And never once have I told you that your kind doesn't belong here, that you are corrupt or that you have ruined my city. 

Go ahead and throw your heads back like human Pez dispensers at everything I say. You can belittle, mock and eye roll until the Second Coming, but I won't conform. I don't need your vote, I'm not 13 and if I am forced to do junior high over again, I'll do it on my terms. Because after 50 plus years on this earth, by damn, I know how to stand. 

And yes, Hilly Holbrook, I am talking about you. 

Thursday, April 9, 2020


I’m eating a lot of treats. Chocolates, jelly beans, assorted marshmallow fluffs. I know, big surprise, right? Welcome to Thursday. 

But I’m preparing spiritually for the WORLDWIDE FAST to kick Rona’s rump. #ronarumpkick #fullastfast #don’tfeedtheworld

I’ve been surprised and delighted to see so many people wanting to participate, especially when we often hear people declare that they abhor, or at the very least, dismiss, “organized” religion.

There are a lot of reasons given. “I feel closer to God in nature.” “I talk to Jesus all the time, I don’t need a building to do it in.” “My ‘church’ is holding my baby, swinging on my front porch.”

And I get it. All of these things are true. We can absolutely feel close to God in the midst of His creations. We can talk to Jesus any time we want, and there’s hardly anything more delightful than a beautiful evening spent at home sucking in the sweet smell of babies and cut grass. 

But to suggest that organizing something diminishes or corrupts, is not only disingenuous but intellectually lazy.

Take, for instance, education. Organized. From recognizing colors and shapes to scientific theories and algebra—organized. Line upon line and building upon facts, you learned and earned that degree that was organized according to your field of focus. 

Want me to perform your brain surgery? No? I guess I don’t blame you. My knowledge and skill set aren’t very organized. We assume and even base our life on the expectation that a neurosurgeon learns all that is required to remove a tumor based on organization. Someone had to figure out what the brain does, how it’s organized, and precisely how it can be effectively dissected to remedy the worst case scenarios.

The car you drive? Organized. Unless it’s a Pinto. The computer you’re reading this on? Organized. Circuits that all have a specific place to go and a precise way to get there to show us the very best cat videos the world has to offer.

Your career? Organized. Money and it’s value? Organized. Government? Organized (with a condescending smirk). Music? Casserole? The Avengers? Organized. My fridge and shoe collection and mind? Incredibly disorganized, but that’s not my point.

My point is this—although there is tremendous value in the individual and the lone, there is even more to be said for bringing together the many, the complimentary, the like minded and the diverse. To say that corruption only belongs to the organized is nonsense. Corruption happens on every level. Maybe even more so when we’re left to our own thoughts, choices and a bag of Doritos at 1:00 a.m. with nobody around to save us from ourselves.

It’s also important to recognize what happens when somebody or something refuses to organize. Take YOU for instance. You are one of the most perfectly organized events in the world. Your cells split and multiplied at just the right time and in just the right way to allow your heart to beat, your eyes to see, your brain to think and your bum to stink. What happens in the instance that our cells go rogue? All hell breaks loose, that’s what. And speaking of hell, if you don’t think they are organized, well, you are up in the night. With a bag of Doritos. About to regret every decision you’ve ever made. 

But maybe we’re using the wrong term here. Maybe it’s not so much about organization as it’s about unity. Unified cells. Unified people. Unified purpose. 

Anyone who knows God, knows His house is a house of order. And that doesn’t mean there are vacuum tracks in the carpet, although I am sure there are, along with pink roses and lilacs in crystal vases and robin’s egg blue walls and…but I digress. No, I think it means one heart, one might, one mind, one faith.

One God.



And that’s why we can expect a miracle as we gather in His name, fast for one purpose and lend all of our hearts to this cause.


Monday, April 6, 2020


Well, the Ronas came and they done got us, you guys. Ruined our weddings, senior years and the mental applause we were sure to receive in our Easter Sunday dresses. 

When Rona first declared she was in charge, we didn't even lift our heads from our virtual shopping. Hawaii and Women's Conference and Rod Stewart in concert? Add to cart. We rolled our eyes at the jock straps and bras that were tied to people's faces and questioned the sanity of the people wearing water coolers as head gear. "Bat shiz crazy" (I still stand by that assessment) we called them as, speaking of such, we walked past the toilet paper aisle and figured we could go another couple of days with what we had. 

But now, just look at us. We prematurely carry our grass filled baskets through the house, gnawing on hardened marshmallow peeps and Chicks and Rabbits, wondering why we didn't have the foresight to not sign up for that weight loss app that is now charging us for every single notification and prompt we ignore, because LISTEN, NOOM, WE ARE JUST TRYING TO SURVIVE, OKAY?  FIRST A PANDEMIC AND THEN AN EARTHQUAKE AND ISOLATION AND NOW YOU WANT US TO EAT AIR AND GO TO THE GYM? WELL WE CAN'T, OKAY NOOM? NOBODY CAN. WE WOULD IF WE COULD, ACTUALLY THAT'S A LIE BECAUSE WE DIDN'T WHEN WE COULD, BUT YOU CAN'T PROVE IT, SO JUST BACK OFF! 

Plus that cinnamon roll ain't gonna eat itself, am I right? 

Just chalk up my chins to a casualty. Unintended consequences. This Rona has been a ruinous thief in the night and as my daughter ran into my arms in the parking garage of the airport, I couldn't help but consider the collateral damage we're now experiencing. More has been stolen than just our simple joys and expected homecomings—also our sense of purpose and control.

Julia's 18 month mission was cut short by 14 months. She went from teaching people about Jesus Christ and writing us stories about the *misguided (see *meaner than hell) folk who threw coffee on her car every day, to a midnight phone call telling us she was coming home tomorrow. 

I hardly slept that night. 

I worried about everything from her sense of worth to my own part in this play. Although it was true that her asthma put her in a high risk category, it was also true that for months, she'd had the lazy trained out of her until productivity was her new normal.  

Now, overnight, she was told to stay in her apartment, do nothing, go nowhere and think of only herself and her companion while nobody accepted the invitation to be taught or contacted. Indefinitely. That's kind of like telling a nursing mother to stop producing milk and forget her baby for a few weeks or maybe months. Despair is sure to follow. 

"Don't lament the experience," they said. "Celebrate the homecoming and act like nothing was lost!" "Just focus on all of the good that's coming from this time in the world," they suggested. 

Wonderful advice. But really hard to follow when you hold the other end of the experience stick.  This side feels incomplete and disappointing and fills the palm with slivers as we pretend to only notice the smooth wood. 

The other night, Julia said through tears, "I know you're disappointed in me. Go ahead. You can tell me. You wanted me to stay on my mission and you're disappointed. So am I."

For a moment I considered the lie. But then I thought better and I told the truth. Yes, we are disappointed. But not in our daughter. Not. In. Our. Daughter. This was not all she was meant to have or experience and we are sad. Pretending it doesn't exist is like telling that nursing mother she has nothing more to offer her child when everything in her says otherwise. 

But grieving is not the same as wallowing. And sitting in the sadness for longer than is necessary negates all that is ahead. Julia is meant to have and experience more than she did, and that is what the rest of her days are for. The weeping ends and she'll rise again.

We're not the only ones looking at a weird, surreal wreck right now. And this isn't the hardest thing that has or will happen to any of us. We are all together in this misery, and it turns out the old cliche is true—Misery loves company. It also loves Cadburys and pandemic memes and Dr. Pepper and sweats. And it loves prayers, fasting, sunshine and hope. 

But mostly, misery loves Christ. Because if ever there was somebody who knows what it feels like to be isolated, disappointed and sad, it is Him. And yet, He didn't wallow for any longer than was necessary to redeem us from the weight of our burdens. 

He had the rest of His days to live, so He rose again. 

And we will, too.