To the person who tried to buy Verizon prepaid minutes with my debit card today

You took two cameras, a GPS and a Zune, my wallet, twenty dollars, and an insurance folder from my car. After calling State Farm, I know that the total value of all this is estimated at $744.00. After talking to the police, I learned that there’s not much that’ll happen now. Although, he did take fingerprints from the car, which felt a little like CSI.

The insurance folder included insurance cards, registration, some napkins, and a 10mm socket wrench. In my wallet, there was my license, my school ID, three different insurance cards, a credit card, a debit card, and a significant stack of punch cards that I collected from various restaurants. The worst part about losing the cameras is losing the memories on them. The GPS was broken anyway.

I don’t know why you did this. I’ve imagined a lot of reasons why, but the one I like best is so your kids could have presents on Christmas. I know that doesn’t explain everything, like the insurance stuff, but I still like to imagine your children unwrapping one of the cameras, or the music player, or whatever on Christmas. In my head, they’re younger—maybe nine or ten, but they might be older too. It doesn’t matter. I imagine they’ll be excited, that they’ll wonder how you got the money together to afford something like this. They will probably hug you. They will be so excited. And, when I imagine this, I wish you would have taken more.

“Only Brazil worms, only Brazil worms, only Brazil worms!”

This is a line from an essay written by Amy Leach. Karli recommends her. I read a recent interview and want to post some of her quotations.

About her--"On October 27th, Chicagoan Amy Leach, Instructor at Northwestern University, author and musician, won the 2010 Whiting Writer's Award.
This prestigious $50,000 award recognizes ten young writers for their extraordinary talent and promise and is one of the most coveted prizes for new writers. Awarded annually since 1985, past recipients include Michael Cunningham, Kim Edwards, Tobias Wolff, Jeffrey Eugenides, and Mary Karr – all have since become acclaimed, bestselling authors."

Good Quotations--
"The best writing is when you're writing about something you love- it's not about sounding smart or anything. It's the language itself."

"When I write, I don't start with any kind of message really, or any meaning at all. I want to learn about and think new things, to feel new things. Every time, I'm learning about a new subject, making an imaginative effort."
"Writer's 'block'? I stop writing and read a lot, walk the dog, replenish." As a teacher of creative writing, a lot of time is spent on other's writing. "I like sharing ideas in the classroom." What does she tell her students about writing?"
No hesitation here; her answer:
 "I tell them to combine personal experience with truth."
"They've become wise in a way only they can be- by not just accepting someone's truth or way of thinking, good writers, in their writing, are thinking for themselves and coming to their own wisdom, coming to their own truth." James Baldwin and  Allen Ginsberg influenced my writing."

Good stuff.  Thanks Karli.

Hello

I like the new look. I haven't checked this blog for ... boy, six months? More?

Firstly, I think your unintentional post is lovely, Meghan. I almost hesitate to follow it, because it's so honest and ... oh, I hate to use the word "profound" -- what does that even mean? -- so I'll just call it truthful. For the record, I think that worrying about writing, my writing, being profound is one of the biggest obstacles that stands between me and putting anything on paper. I always worry about writing something profound.

When I was in sixth grade, I remember hearing my teacher, Mrs. Bass, praising my brother Tanner's writing (Tanner had the same teacher a couple years previous), commenting that he wrote some "deep" essays, or something like that, I can't remember what adjective she used. Anyhow, I thought that I should be writing deep things, if my brother was, so for the next writing assignment, I wrote this paragraph about a old man, except I think it was just his head, floating in dark space, and he had a really long beard, and his beard was tangled and there was a key stuck in the tangles, I think. He may have been sad. It was completely meaningless.

Well, I don't have a whole lot to say. I have really enjoyed reading everyone's posts on here. Reading the writing of friends inspires me to write more than anything else. Outside of my journal and my work, these few paragraphs are possibly the most writing I have done in months and months. There's a good chance that it's the only extra-curricular writing I will do for a few more months. I miss you all, and I hope you are all doing well as you grade finals and create finals, carve out your prospective and nascent motherhoods, and work through the various tangled, key-filled beards of your winters.

Forgive me, Meghan Hoyos Scoresby.

Meghan Hoyos just posted this under a "Comment" section. I'm taking creative license and moving it into a post of its own because it's good writing, interesting, heartbreaking, and honest.

I'm really grateful for what you have all said. Shannon, I read "A Lantern in Her Hand" when I was young (like 6th grade), and I loved it. I don't remember anything about it except that it was about a good mother, and that's all I ever wanted to be. Sounds pretty ridiculous that that's what I wanted in middle school, doesn't it? I know you are going through a tough transition right now, and you are one of those women Jami talked about. You'll find a way to make life brighter and more interesting than ever before. It will take time, I guess. I'm learning that everyone has challenges that all sort of even out eventually.

Sister Morgan, thanks for sharing your thoughts on patience. It seems Heavenly Father knows just what we think we can't live without, and he lets us learn patience by having us live without it anyway. I really had to force myself to say "lets" instead of "makes." Really he's making us though. It's not in my control to be a mom or not to be. It's all in His. I don't understand Him. I trust Him more than ever after all this, but it's partly out of desperation. If I don't trust him, I'm giving up. And I won't ever give up. Sometimes I feel so stupid. Why do I have to care so much about being a mom. Could I have hidden it and pretended to be completely fascinated by painting or something that wouldn't ache so much when it was taken away? Obviously you can't hide that from Heavenly Father. Sometimes I wish I could have. I know He knows what is best and when the time is right. I know he knows what we need to learn and how. This is the first time I've ever asked "why me" in my life. (I used to pride myself on never doing that. Ha.) I guess everyone has to do that sometime, just to learn to accept tough stuff. Some weeks it's easy and I am as trusting as a baby. Some weeks, like this one, it's harder. I had a dream the other night. I haven't told anyone about this but Jason, who I really couldn't help but tell since he wouldn't accept my sobbing "nothing" for an answer--even at 4:30 in the morning. You'd think he'd be glad to go back to sleep. I had my baby girl in my dream; it was wonderful. It wasn't even a great baby dream, but the problem was it was a dream. I woke up. I tried to go back to sleep, but I felt so empty handed. I don't know where my babies are. That's what I sobbed to Jason. It sounds funny, maybe. It's not. Where are these children I'm supposed to watch over? Why am I empty?

That's it. My fingers stopped moving, so I guess I'm done. I just had to type it all out. I read what you said again, Sister Morgan. Thanks.

Jami, if you got this far, I really wanted to tell you how happy I am that you are feeling better about being a mom. You have great insights about not letting yourself disappear, which must be harder than it looks. I'm sitting in my dark apartment (sun went down while I read), and I feel as if it's just us four in a room and I just spilled my guts. Thanks for listening.

Corrected by Students

Today, for my class activity, I had my English 1010 students divide into four groups. I handed a printed copy of a different personal essay to each group and instructed my students that they had 15 minutes to read the essay. Then, after discussing their group’s essay, the students in each group had to identify the strengths, weaknesses, and ways they would apply what they learned from their assigned essay to their own personal essay they’d been assigned. During my first class, I told my students that two of the essays were written by my colleagues and two were written by me. The group that read my bee essay (Bumblebee Homicide from this summer) lauded its humor, and the group that read my disgusting service project essay (Used. $1.00 from about a year ago) praised its detail. Neither group listed any strong weaknesses, but the first group did indicate that the parts of the essay could connect to each other a little more smoothly. The second group said that they didn’t see what the main point of the essay was. I thought that the students were holding back genuine criticism because they were aware that the essays’ author, the teacher, was listening. I wrote a note to myself not tell my later class that I’d written any of the essays.

When my next class came around, I divided the class and distributed essays like earlier, but this time I didn’t tell them that I’d written any of them. The results were quite different. The students who read the first essay boldly proclaimed their confusion in following the bee narrative. “What does this part have to do with anything?” one student loudly asked her group mates. In the group reading the disgusting service essay, a student yelled across the room to me, “Mr. Hall, did you write this?” I told him that I wouldn’t confirm or deny anything because that would bias my students. Then I walked behind my desk and pretended to write something in my notebook.

When it came time to present their essays to the class, the group with the bee essay didn’t hold back their criticism. “This essay was a mess and really confusing,” the girl speaking said. “It was funny at parts, and it had lots of good words, but we just didn’t get what was going on.” I felt deflated. Then the student from the other group asked, “Mr. Hall, did you write that essay?” I blushed, caught myself blushing, and tried to regain composure.

“I wrote some of these essays, but I won’t tell you which until after class,” I said. After my reply, the girl presenting at the front of the class continued her assault on my writing.

“What I’m going to take from this essay is to not make mine so confusing,” she said. “But it does have a lot of personality, so I am going to include that.”

The student who figured out that these were my essays spoke on behalf of his group members when his group presented. The only weakness he listed was that the essay had a negative tone, and that he felt that essays should have a more positive message (this is the kid who has a large tattoo of a cross in front of a sunset on his right upper arm, by the way, but not that that means anything).

I left class feeling small, a little dejected, but acknowledging that my students’ comments were probably right. “This shows that even if you really like a piece of writing, if it doesn’t work, you need to change it,” I’d told the class right before I let them go for the weekend. “How the audience reacts to your writing is more important than if you like a particular wording or not.” And I’d meant it as I said it.

In my melancholy acceptance of my essays’ quality (which I really used to like, by the way), I felt a lot like I did in seminar all those times when Sharon would very forcibly show me the areas I needed to improve my writing. And I felt that same undeniable sense of “I don’t like this, but she’s right” that I did when Sharon pulled up an essay about a chair or something trivial like that and made me stand up in front of everyone in seminar while she dissected it.

I have a degree in English. I worked for almost two and a half years at the Writing Center. I was the EAS president and the top student in several of my classes. I’m Mr. Hall, a bearded college teacher, for crying out loud. But a group of college freshman reminded me of where I really stand in comparison to good or even competent writers.

And that constant reminder of what I’m really capable of (which is not much compared to The Greats) is part of why I love teaching university. In my experience, I haven’t had a student of a bad Sunday School or Priesthood lesson force me to face my spiritual inadequacies. I think it’s because class members at church don’t comment on the quality of a teacher’s spirituality. I’ve never heard a student say, “But Brother Jones, you say that we must love one another, yet I saw you flip off that old woman driving slowly on the road last Wednesday.” But my students, by being honest in sharing what they thought about my writing, slapped me in the face with the reality of my quality as a writer.

Once, while I was persuading some students on the British literary pilgrimage to dislike other students singing on the bus, Kirsten said to me, “You need to find a wife who is a little bit better than you to keep you humble.” These students aren’t quite a substitute for a wife (maybe a girlfriend, though), but they are helping me remember how lowly I really am and how much I have to improve before I can begin to call myself “good” at anything.

For some perverse reason, that feels nice.

(P.S. for the first time ever, I feel too intimidated to make comments in a class. I see the other graduate students as more intelligent and insightful than me, so I just sit and listen while they speak.)

(P.P.S. Also, posting on this blog is intimidating for some reason. Even though I know and love most of you and I know that the ones I know aren't perfect, I see your writing as much more significant than my own.)


(P.P.P.S. Congrats again, Shannon and Cooley.)

"Writer" with a capital "W"

I sit in the red armchair that’s much too large for me, my legs curled under me and my daughter nursing with grunts, squeaks, and slurps. On one arm of the chair I’ve spread a book, and I turn the pages with my free hand.

The book I’m reading is not a novel, but it holds me enthralled. It’s a book of creative non-fiction called Two-Part Invention: The Story of a Marriage by one of my favorite fiction authors, Madeleine L’Engle. I picked it up because my creative writing teacher said we need to read more of what we want to write this semester; we can’t work on novels for his class, I haven’t felt inspiration for poetry in over a year, and I’m very bad at short stories, so creative non-fiction it is.

One thing I’m struck by as I read is the way she talks about writing. Of her post-college-pre-marriage years, she says, “I wrote. Got out of bed in the morning and wrote, forgetting breakfast.” In her journal during her married years she recorded, “There is a gap in understanding between me and our friends and acquaintances. I can’t quite understand a life without books and study and music and pictures and a driving passion. And they, on the other hand, can’t understand why I have to write, why I am a writer. When, for instance, I say to someone that I have to get home to work, the assumption is that I mean housecleaning or ironing, not writing a book. I’m very kindly permitted to be a writer but not to take time in pursuing my trade.”

I lift my daughter’s head to my shoulder, rearranging the burp cloth and patting her back distractedly while the book’s pages slowly flip without a hand there to hold my place. I’m currently taking the last two classes of my bachelor’s degree, a degree in English, emphasis in creative writing. But this passage makes me question: am I really a writer?

In the book My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok, the main character is an extremely gifted artist. While he is young he has the opportunity to take art lessons from a famous artist, but first the artist tells him that if he can do anything else with his life, anything, he should do it, but if he has to be an artist, then so be it. I’ve heard similar things said about writing, that “real” writers write because they have to, not because they necessarily want to.

I don’t have to. In fact, most of the time I feel very little drive to write. I can go days or weeks without writing more than emails and status updates on facebook. I haven’t kept a consistent journal since high school. I write to fill my school assignments, and every once in awhile I’ll get some inspiration (a.k.a. inner turmoil) and rattle off a blog post.

But then I’ll read something like Two-Part Invention, or the essay “Pearls Before Breakfast” by Gene Weingarten. And then I have to write. Suddenly it is compulsory, poking at a corner of my brain that makes my mouth dry up and my fingers twitch and my mind spin in circles, driving me crazy until I start to let the whirling dervishes out through words—and then it’s over. I get it out and it’s gone. I go back to clicking around on Facebook, or, if I’m feeling really ambitious, I do some dishes.

So I apparently do have some of the drive of a writer, but its infrequency makes me question its validity. Rather, it makes me question whether I can truly be a Writer-with-a-capital-“W,” or if I will finish my degree this semester and then let it sit and rot.

My daughter’s fussing again. I should go get her, but I’m actually writing, and I’m afraid if I stop I won’t start again.

Did not intend this to be a "Sermon" to Shannon, but, hey . . .

(I tried to write this as a comment to your post, but it got too long and wouldn't post.)

What a doll she is. And, hey, you can't write a conclusion because there isn't one, nor will there ever be. You now have another life attached to yours--forever. Sounds overwhelming? It is. But, it gets better . . . then worse . . . then better. I promise. Don't long for things to be good and well--a trap we all fall into. Earth life never reaches plateaus of pure happiness and peace. It keeps moving. But, you learn to adore every good day or moment and set your teeth tight against the bad. And, we keep walking. Only now lucky you have more company. The more your family grows, the more you have great spirits around you to comfort and heal you throughout all eternity. After, you have children you are never alone again (literally, in the first years). It's a wonderful feeling.
But, Shannon, I so relate to the physical agony of setting dreams aside for a while. That can even seem like the physical tearing of muscle. One time when I was having trouble with this, I got an interesting answer to prayer. It's sacred, but I'm going to tell you anyway, since I never see you anymore.
I was teaching full time while raising six kids and a "husband." Between lesson plans, grocery shopping, potty training, etc. plus dealing with an energy sucking illness, I often felt like I couldn't breathe because I had no time for myself. But, you have to treasure your own dreams, no matter how you squeeze them in. Figure out a plan because the dreams feed you. Me? After Jim fell asleep, I’d often sneak out the window and sit on the roof to write--small moments of pure flashlight delight. Yet, this stopped also after the kids became teenagers because they came home around midnight and took away even that small amount of space. I felt like pieces of me were flying out to everyone else leaving me shredded, with nothing of Me. Does that make sense? But, in prayer one night, a soft answer came. The Spirit said, "You will be compensated; you will not lose any good desire of your heart. This is what eternity is for." I was amazed and thrilled as that vision opened up, But, then horror set in as I saw what kind of patience this would take to wait, maybe even until the next life, for some dreams to unfold-- especially since "patience is not a strong suit of mine (or yours). Yet, think of it: To be a goddess, we HAVE to have patience even as great as Heavenly Father’s. What a plan. What a way to let us practice patience until it’s really a part of our character. I think the Lord is brilliant (ha, obviously). This path we walk is bigger than we can imagine. I love you. You’re strong. And whatever you can’t do, Heavenly Father can. (I feel like I should say Amen, and I remember promising never to give advice again. Ha. Sure.)

Dreams and Motherhood

Cimorene Elizabeth Cooley
Born Aug. 6th, 4:24 a.m.
7 lbs. 2 oz.

I check on her ten times during her nap just to make sure she’s still breathing. I hold her and just stare at her, amazed that I could have played a role in helping to create this moving, grunting, slurping, beautiful creature. I love her. Why can’t that make it easy?

I made cinnamon rolls last night, because I wanted proof that I could accomplish something. There’s not a lot of satisfaction in changing diapers when I know my little girl will likely poop again within five minutes.

I needed that sense of accomplishment to balance the panic I sometimes feel over moving into a stage of life which is unquantifiable. Always before, I could measure my progress against something. I could win a piano competition. I could master a dance lift. I could get an A, keep my scholarship, etc. But now I’m a mom. I want to be a “good mom,” but what does that even mean, and how will I know if I’m accomplishing it?

I’ve watched moms for a long time. It’s always been my goal to become one, so I thought I ought to know something about them. I marveled at the strength and selflessness of these unsung heroes. But now I wonder if I’m strong enough to go unsung.

The transition from “Shannon” into “Mommy” scares me. I feel that I’m covering up all my old masks with a giant new one, a mask which doesn’t get rid of the things I previously used to define myself, but which smothers them and tells me they’re not allowed anymore. But this new mask is not me either, and part of me is crying at adding one more layer to an already overly-masked soul.

The first week I was home from the hospital, my mom, knowing me all too well, looked at me with worry lines across her forehead and said, “You can’t stop dreaming. You just have to find new dreams.” But where do I find those dreams?

There’s a book my mom told me about years ago. I’ve never read it, but it’s called “A Lantern in her Hand.” Apparently it’s about a woman who is young and full of dreams, but she gives them up to raise a family, and her children go on to do all the things she hoped to do.

My daughter got her daddy’s long fingers. Though she’s only two weeks old, they’re already over a third the length of mine. Everyone who has seen her hands has held them up and commented that she’ll play the piano. Those who knew me when I was younger add, “just like her mom.” Everyone also talks about how she’ll “have” to be musical, because there’s so much musical talent coming from both her parents. I had dreams relating to piano once. I tried to give them up years ago, but it would be so easy to let them slide onto my daughter.

She has long limbs also, again from her father, not from me. She’ll likely have the tall, slender build that I always envied in dancers like Kami, my friend and former coach. My daughter will have lines which would be gorgeous for dancing, but I can’t push that dream onto her either. If she wants to dance, I’ll be thrilled, but only if she’s doing it for herself.

I can’t transfer my dreams onto my children. I don’t want to put that kind of expectation on them, because I’ve known people who had to choose between their own dreams and their parents’, and that’s a situation I never want my children to face.

So where do I look for new dreams? And how do I let go of the old ones? I have dreams I’ve been trying to give up for years, but they still lurk, coming out whenever I get too tired to fight them. I’ve attained Mommyhood, which was always the “big dream,” my career plan, but now I find that all the little dreams, which were just meant to fill time until I reached this one, have somehow become a part of me, and beyond not knowing how to amputate them, I don’t want to.

Does that make me a bad mom?

I love my daughter. I wouldn’t give her up for anything. I still can’t believe God trusts me enough to lend her to me.

Maybe that’s the real problem. I don’t trust myself nearly as much as God seems to trust me. My old dreams bother me because they remind me of how I don’t feel unselfish enough, or prepared enough, or just enough. Back to quantifying things again. I seem to have a fixation with that.

Sunny Summer Day--July 3rd 2010

Somehow this has become a tradition for the 4th of July (starting with Kristen, Anona, and the balloon snake hats). It's the Rexburg (tractor) Parade and playing in the park. Ninja games. Music. Hippie ribbons. BBQ at my house, and then rodeo for the strong and the hungry. It's rest and relaxing. If you're wandering around the country some year with nothing to do on the 4th, drop up to Rexburg.

Definition.

Right now I am sitting in front of a mirror. I look in mirrors a lot; they provide a pretty good reality check. A ceiling fan spins around--its light glowing dullish, and its fixtures clearly 80s style--just above my head. It's harder for me to notice my "flab" when the light around me is warm-toned and soft. The tendrils of hair that always fall around my face whenever I wear a ponytail--some straight, some curly--quiver a little under the wind of the ceiling fan. I feel the air whisk over my shoulders, and it makes me feel calm.

I keep my earrings in a jar next to the mirror. I pride myself on my earring collection. A vintage turquoise one in a diamond shape faces me through the glass. The round silver ones I wore today lay upside down beside the jar. "You are wearing a different pair of earrings every time I see you I think," a friend told me once. After that comment, I made a conscious effort that I did indeed wear a different pair every time I knew I was going to see him. "And they're all unique," he had said. Yes, they were.

I'm about to pick up where I left off in Anne of Avonlea, the movie. I'm scared to, though, because the scene where Anne and Gilbert meet in the gazebo on that misty day in Kingsport--the one where Gilbert whispers to Anne not to forget him and then leaves her there, holding his note to her signed "your old chum"--made me cry this time. I pressed my eyes into the pillow tucked under my arm and wiped them in one quick, messy movement, almost angry that they were there. I pride myself on my ability to stay tearless during movies.

At this moment, I'm glad to be alone. If someone were here with me, I'd probably be too conscious about the pudge on my stomach to really listen to the fan or to feel or notice whatever this unfamiliar room has to offer. But even the ceiling fan's low, pleasant drone cannot make me forget that I'm not completely happy. I don't want to be defined by an earring collection or by my ability to stay unaffected during movies or by this darned pudge on my stomach.

"A scar means, I survived."

The comment that Sis. Morgan made on Jami's post below reminded me of this from a book called Little Bee by Chris Cleave. (I am not recommending this book because I had to stop reading it for personal reasons, but some of the writing really was breath-stopping beautiful.) I thought I'd share it with all of you:

"On the girl's brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived."
— Chris Cleave (Little Bee)

Facebook. . .Finally!

Woah, love the new look on the WC blog. Looks so professional.

Since I have been in the Dark Ages without Facebook and everyone neglects this blog because of Facebook, I've decided to break down and create an account.

Yes, this means that I now have another digital addiction that I will simply have to combat. But it also means that I will know a lot more about your lives and what you're doing. Yay!

So, I don't know how this works at all. . . do you magically appear as my friend? Do I have to hunt for you? We'll find out. Uh, come and be my friend?? (Awkward) If you want. . .okay, bye.

--Jami Wilson Nichols
(some know the maiden name, some the married, so hence the formal name here :)

To Sis. M. (and anyone else interested)

We're making our way up to Rexburg for a quick trip this Friday and would love to see you! Lance will be getting the crown on his root canal fixed (he had the root canal done in Rexburg, and they guarantee it for 5 years...), so it'll be just me and the kiddos. We can visit the WC around 2:30ish. Hope you're there! That goes for anyone else still in town who would want to see me and meet my sweet babies. =D So many of y'all have left like I have.

--Leanna

We're goin' on a picnic

Saturday, August 7 at 2pm
Nunns Park in Provo Canyon

Everyone is invited :-)

My Call

My call was sent to our Grey Gables house in Rexburg, April 8, 2010. My roommate Victoria and I were in-between classes, talking in our room. I saw the mail truck parked outside of the house next door, and I must've stopped mid-sentence--or stopped Victoria mid-sentence--to walk to the window and watch. In what seemed like slow-motion, the mailman turned from the neighbor's mailbox toward our house. Beneath coupons and junk mail, I saw a big, white envelope in his right hand.

Immediately, I jumped down our twisted staircase, pushing myself off of the walls as I bounced between them on the way down. I ran past a group of people on the couch and almost tripped in front of the mail slot by the door. The mailman tucked the envelope through the slot, and it landed on the floor. In heavy breaths, I picked it up and read the address label: Sister Alyssa Nicole Fort.

"It's here!" I screamed. Victoria paid more caution to the stairs but wasn't far behind.

We yelled and jumped together. My heart beat fast and hard. What was in that envelope determined what the next 18 months of my life would be like--where I would live, what I would eat, who I would come to know and teach and love. Would I go foreign? Would I learn a language?

I didn't always know I would go on a mission, and actually, I never really wanted to. As a teenager, when people in church would ask me about it, I'd say, "maybe?" with an awkward smile, knowing for sure that I would get married at 18 to a tall, dark, handsome man who would take care of me and our beautiful children forever. Needless to say, I've had to revise my life plans a few times.

During the Fall 2009 semester, I planned to graduate from BYU-Idaho Winter 2010, then sell pest control in Arkansas with Victoria for the summer. Or work at the downtown Austin Anthropologie until my room was purely saturated in merchandise. Or maybe find a great job at a publishing house in a big city--Seattle, New York, or London would work. But I leaned more toward practicality and pest control.

I watched the 179th Annual General Conference broadcast in the comfort of my own spandex pants and school hoodie, on the sofa at our Snowed Inn house. During the Saturday morning session, there was a talk that impressed me greatly. I've since tried to look it up but haven't been able to find it. I'm not sure if the speaker said it or if I was just impressed personally by the Spirit, but I heard something along the lines of: just the fact that you have the gospel, means you have something wonderful to offer. The strong thought came to me: "Maybe I should serve a mission." I shared my impression with my mother and a few close friends. But still, I decided for myself that I would sell pest control first.

The next semester, I was sitting at the break desk in the back of the Writing Center, eating my dry turkey sandwich from Cafe McKay. Sister Morgan was having a conversation with Matt, about his post-graduate plans. I listened intermittently, turning the pages of Huckleberry Finn, trying to read but much too distracted to. I thought about my plans and wished that I knew someone I could talk to who had been through this particular decision-making process--graduating that semester, not knowing where to go from there. My plans made sense, but something didn't feel right. Their conversation ended, and they left. I tried to read, but my eyes watered over, and words got blurry. I said a silent prayer for comfort and direction and wiped my face. About a minute later, Sister Morgan came back to the break area.

"What are your plans, Aly?" She asked me.
I looked up from my book. "I don't know..."

I told her about my pest control idea. Her response was: first, that gurgle thing she does in the back of her throat when she's disgusted by something :) , then, "They make a lot of money. But God is in control of everything in this world--even money. If you serve Him, He'll take care of you. Have you thought about serving a mission?" I nodded and studied the Andrew Wyeth Helga painting in front of me. "Why would you sell something full-time that you don't believe in, when you could be preaching something full-time that you know?" I nodded and began to cry silently. "It's such a high calling," I remember her saying a few times. I knew this moment had been designed by Heavenly Father, specifically for me.

That Sunday, I went to my bishop and told him that I was pretty sure I should serve a mission. He told me I needed to be sure, sure and recommended I go to the temple with the question of a mission. I went, and the next Sunday I began filling out my papers.

When I got my call, I waited to open it, so my family could be on the phone to hear. Victoria called her RM friend and asked him about postage for foreign mission envelopes vs. stateside mission envelopes. She giggled and smiled to her friend on the phone, and I said, "don't tell me a thing." I waited until about 7:00pm.

Finally, with friends gathered in our Grey Gables living room and with family on the phone, I read:

"Dear Sister Fort:
You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Philippines Cauayan Mission. It is anticipated that you will serve for a period of 18 months.
You should report to the Provo Missionary Training Center on Wednesday, August 4, 2010. You will prepare to preach the gospel in the Tagalog language..."

There have been times when I've questioned my call, my ability to learn such a crazy language, whether or not I can live without Bvulgari perfume and Pier1 soy candles, or if I can survive on the opposite side of the world without iTunes. But there have been so many times when I've received perfect answers from God that I should go on this mission, and that he will protect me, guide me, provide for me, and be there when I pray to Him. I am grateful for this opportunity to serve Heavenly Father with my complete energy, time, and heart for the next year and a half.