...not expecting anything back...but getting it anyway.

I learned a valuable lesson the other day. I think the talk with my 12 year-old self is really paying off.

I spent all last week brooding, worrying, festering. If you’d have asked me last week it was because I was feeling used and neglected, in truth, I was being insecure and selfish. I packed all of that into my shoulder bag and carried it like a chip all week long. It even spilled over into Monday morning.

Then, mid morning I received some information that changed my perspective. I won’t go into all the details, but this is what I learned: When I give to someone (whether it’s money, a gift, friendship, love, anything) I need to give it to them.

Too often we give things expecting something in return, perhaps not immediately, but we expect to get something in kind. That’s just how mortals are built.

I was worried all last week that I had an unbalanced friendship. I was concerned I needed this friendship more than my friend did and continued to further worry that I needed her more than she needed me (so basically, I was totally worried about me). When the truth of the matter is, my friend was having a terrible week and just needed her friend to check in on her and not be so worried about herself (that being me).

I get that maybe if she was more worried about other people she wouldn’t feel so bad for herself, but I’ve been where she is… and she has to decide all that for herself. Meanwhile, I need to be there for her. Offer a hand to that might pull her out of her rut, invite her to stuff, even when she may not be the best friend ever to me. I had a friend that did just that for me not so long ago, the most wonderful part, she didn’t even realize until I thanked her that she’d even done it.

Her comment to me, “Glad I could be that person who pulled you out of a rut… I had no idea...but you know, that’s what friends are for…right?”

So that’s my lesson I learned today. To stop focusing so much on what I need and more on what other people need. To give without expectation of something back, because I don’t NEED something back right now, but someday, I might… and someone will be there for me. Not that I’m expecting that, but that’s just how God works.

There’s just something about not expecting anything back...but getting it anyway.

...talking to a 12 year-old.

I have this very painful memory from when I was 12 years-old, in the sixth grade. I was in Miss Luke’s class and the lunch hour had finished and I was standing just outside the door to the class room.

Some background you should know is that I was still in that VERY awkward stage where you’re teeth are too big for your face, I had a terrible hair cut, and oh… red hair was SO not cool in the sixth grade. Did I mention freckles? I was taller than most everyone, oh, and I’d “developed” quite early… plus, I still had all my baby fat. (oh right.. STILL have that baby fat…. Not so cute when you’re 12 or 36, but enough about that) I had serious self esteem issues.

So I’m standing just outside of this class room, imagining what a wonderful teacher I’d be when I grew up, when Lane Bradford* (*name has been changed to protect the innocent, equally as unfortunate looking boy who was also a victim in this whole story… oh did I mention he was also red headed...again, not cool.)

So Lane walks up to me in front of what had to be the entire school and practically shouts at me, “How many times do I have to say I don’t want to 'go with you'? Can you not understand that?”

I was baffled.

Embarassed.

And Baffled.

Apparently a group of girls in his class thought it would be funny to pass him notes from me begging him to ‘go with me’. I’m not sure who exactly they were trying to make fun of, him or me. (probably both, you know…the red hair). Nonetheless, I was mortified. First of all, I didn’t WANT to go with Lane Bradford. He wasn’t my type.

Second, the only friends I had were the girls my big sister had threatened that if they weren’t nice to me she’d make their lives a living hell…so yeah, I was pretty popular.

Third, there were a million people standing around staring at me, and I doubt if at age 12 many of them had developed a sense of empathy and understanding.

So you’re wondering what in the world dredged up this story. Well, apparently I’ve been hanging on to this 12 year-old version of myself and her self esteem, self worth, and lack of understanding and empathy for about 24 years now. And I promised a friend I’d have a talk with this 12 year-old self and in a very kind loving and gentle way explain to her that she’s not doing me any good.

I need to explain that we (and by we I mean ‘I’) am worthy of being loved.

I am a beautiful daughter of God (red hair is SO in now days).

I have friends who love me, that somehow I managed to get all by myself and that most of my friends have never even met my big sister.

I am loved and I love a lot of people, I'm loving.

Being vulnerable makes me even more beautiful and more loveable.

I have at least one friend who thinks I’m patient, persistent and constant. When I am honest with myself, I know I have far more than one.

I am not responsible for other people’s actions.

I also need to explain to my 12 year-old self that the Atonement encompasses it ALL, the pain and the sorrow. It even covers the part of my heart that for some reason insists on believing that I am unworthy of finding and experiencing falling in love and allowing someone to fall in love with me.

And so little Ang, sit down awhile and let’s chat. It could be a series of chats, but let’s just start with a hug and a smile. Know that I love you, all of you… baby fat and all.

There’s just something about talking to a 12 year-old.

…being silly.

I am at times silly. Not silly as in stupid or dumb, just giggly and silly. Sometimes it comes on because I’m super tired and sometimes the silly just happens. The times I most enjoy being silly is when I have friends to be silly with me.

A few months back I went to Hawaii with two of my very best friends.

We.
Were.
Silly.

In case you were wondering, this is just one of many times 'silly' happened.






This is a cliff. You can't tell it's a cliff because of all the grass, but when you get up close, you can see down through the little bare spots on the sides and see that it goes pretty much straight down.
The silliness started when Stephen said, "Look at that! If you got very close you could fall down there."

And then he stood too close...

And he fell down 'there'.

And I thought he was kidding.

And I started to laugh.

And laughed so hard that as I grabbed for him so he wouldn't fall down the entire cliff, I didn't have enough strength to pull him up.

After Tim and I were finally able to pull Stephen back up onto stable ground, we continued to laugh... and laugh... and then we stopped... and laughed some more.





Some silly faces...




Yeah... sooo the thing about silly, is that "you have to be there"...

Huh.

There's just something about being silly.

...my Dad.

I recognize that nearly every little girl whether she’s 2 or 92 thinks her dad is pretty much the greatest man who ever lived. I think it’s wonderful that as women, we revere these men who have such influence in molding and shaping our lives. I’m sure your dad is absolutely wonderful. However, mine, really is the best. Ever.
He’s the best at taking my sisters and I horseback riding & camping when we were so young we couldn’t even reach the stirrups. We’d ride double (I always ended up on back because I was the tallest, got thrown nearly every time…)
He’s the best at teaching me how to drive and then sending me out in the hay field to practice. I was 7. (Again, because I was tall and could reach the petals and still see over the steering wheel.)
He’s the best at teaching us to put up a shelter for girls camp, teaching me how to tie a double half hitch (it’s a knot you silly city kids), and showing us how to howl at a full moon.
My dad is the best at teaching me life lessons and then allowing me to make my own mistakes (even though his not so subtle guidance of “Well, you can do what you want, but if I were a little girl your size….”)
My dad is the best at preparing me to go on a mission, “I don’t think you realize just how hard a mission is going to be. Once you’re there, home is not an option.”
My dad is the best at showing me what an honest day’s labor looks like. Showing me how to love the land, love the soil, how to leave things better than you found them.
My dad is the best at telling stories – Benjamin Beaver, life lessons, or tall tales, Dad tells them all the best.
My dad is a wonderful father, a respected uncle and a loving grandpa. He imparts wisdom and council in a way that makes you want to please him.
My dad is also the very best a being stubborn. In case you wondered, that’s where I learned it, from my Pop.
My dad is one of the very best men I know. I don’t think he’s ever been in a boardroom and only wears suits to the temple, weddings and occasionally to church and most of the time to funerals. He prefers his clothing loose and comfortable and would rather entertain a 2 year-old than pretty much anyone else on the planet. Given the chance to go anywhere in the world, he’d probably just stay home in his mountains (or go back to Alaska… he likes it there too. Sparse population.) He loves his wife, his children and his grandchildren. He takes his church responsibilities seriously and although he may never be a Bishop, Stake President or a General Authority, he teaches Sunday School in a manner that I think even the Savior would sit and listen to, supports his leaders with unfailing sustaining and has a love of God that is unquestionable.
But did I mention my Dad’s a little stubborn?
Just a little bit.
Like nearly every little girl, I love my Dad. I love how each time I leave his home he tells me to “try and be a little bit better girl” and has even on occasion told me he loves me.
Yep. My daddy is the best one.
I just wish he weren’t quite so stubborn.
There’s just something about my Dad.