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.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
...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.
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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
…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.
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.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
...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.
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.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
...feeling the pure love of Christ.
It’s really an indescribable feeling. Sometimes for me it feels like a “burning in the bosom” or a “fire in my chest” other times I simply find my eyes filled with tears. When I’m really feeling it the most, feeling like my entire chest is about to explode from the swellings of my heart, I find I just want to put my arms around everyone I see, hug them, and never let go. I want them to really feel how much I love them—I’ve even done it to perfect strangers.
In the April ’09 General Conference Elder Todd Christofferson spoke of this love in his talk The Power of Covenants. “It is by the Holy Ghost in you that others may feel the pure love of Christ and receive strength to press forward.” (emphasis added)
The past few weeks, with our ward putting Elder Ballard’s 21 day promise to the test, this quote and its implications have once again come to the forefront of my mind. As I’ve prayed each day for my friends and loved ones, I’ve prayed they would feel of our Savior’s love, that they’d have a desire to come closer to him, to repent, and to experience the true joy of the gospel of Christ.
I’ve felt so strongly that this phrase from Elder Christofferson is a reminder of how I must be more valiant, more conscious of working to have the Savior in my life. How can I help others to feel of God’s love if I am not living worthy to have the Holy Ghost and therefore help others to feel the love of Christ? How can else can I help them to have the desire to have the light and love of Christ in their life--light and love that I need… that I must have so that they can see it… then want it... then work to have it.
“Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16)
It is the Holy Ghost that lies within each of us that allows others to feel of the pure love of Christ. It is this love that gives confidence and instills faith and hope. These are the tools available to all of us as we enlist in the fight to press forward, to engage that perfect brightness of hope, and to come unto Christ once again.
There’s just something about feeling the pure love of Christ.
In the April ’09 General Conference Elder Todd Christofferson spoke of this love in his talk The Power of Covenants. “It is by the Holy Ghost in you that others may feel the pure love of Christ and receive strength to press forward.” (emphasis added)
The past few weeks, with our ward putting Elder Ballard’s 21 day promise to the test, this quote and its implications have once again come to the forefront of my mind. As I’ve prayed each day for my friends and loved ones, I’ve prayed they would feel of our Savior’s love, that they’d have a desire to come closer to him, to repent, and to experience the true joy of the gospel of Christ.
I’ve felt so strongly that this phrase from Elder Christofferson is a reminder of how I must be more valiant, more conscious of working to have the Savior in my life. How can I help others to feel of God’s love if I am not living worthy to have the Holy Ghost and therefore help others to feel the love of Christ? How can else can I help them to have the desire to have the light and love of Christ in their life--light and love that I need… that I must have so that they can see it… then want it... then work to have it.
“Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16)
It is the Holy Ghost that lies within each of us that allows others to feel of the pure love of Christ. It is this love that gives confidence and instills faith and hope. These are the tools available to all of us as we enlist in the fight to press forward, to engage that perfect brightness of hope, and to come unto Christ once again.
There’s just something about feeling the pure love of Christ.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
...someone who would desert a dessert in the desert.
It came to my attention today that the English language is once again just plain weird. Did you know that desert, desert, and dessert are all the same word yet totally different?
desert - a landscape or region that receives very little precipitation
desert - abandon: leave someone who needs or counts on you; leave in the lurch; "The mother deserted her children"
dessert - a course that typically comes at the end of a meal
I knew the difference between spelling the place desert and wanting some dessert (cause who doesn’t want seconds (you know, two “s’s”) but deserting dessert? And I’m not talking about a sand cheesecake…
Huh.
There’s just something about someone who would desert a dessert in the desert.
Friday, April 24, 2009
...wearing an extra long shirt.
I had a softball game last night, the first of the season. We hadn’t received our shirts yet, so I wore an old jersey with an extra long shirt under it, you know, so I can change into my new shirt w/out flashing anyone, and a pair of my favorite new Capri’s. Favorite because they have such a great light weight fabric that is both strong (in case I have to slide) and comfortable (for running, bending, stretching for the ball… you get the drift).
So, I’m playing away, minding my business and I keep feeling this draft in the zipper area of my pants. I checked it probably five or six times, but it was always zipped up, so I chalk it up to the breezy light-weight fabric and kept going. Then, about the second or third inning a grounder came my way, I went to scoop it up and run for the base and that’s when I heard it:
Rrrrrrrip
HUH?!? For real? I reach down and feel near my zipper, but it’s still up. That’s when I feel it, right NEXT to the zipper… the now 3 inch hole where the stitching either didn’t catch or has now come apart and all of my running, bending and stretching for the ball is only helping to make the seam unravel more quickly.
I pull my EXTRA LONG SHIRT down and keep on playing.
Internal dialog: I'm glad I have this shirt on.
3 outs… I head for the dugout. I go off to a corner, lift up my shirt and discover that 3 inches has now become 4 and I have no pins or any way to stop it from unraveling more. I quickly pull my shirt back down, let out a panicked giggle and pray for quick innings.
Internal dialog: I'm SO glad I have this shirt on.
Fourth inning. Several plays to first later, I hear it again:
Rrrrrrrip
More nervous laughter.
3 outs… back to the dugout. 6 inches. (yes, I’m serious… no, I’m not exaggerating). Now not only has it pulled completely away from the zipper, but is now TEARING down my right leg. I can’t keep it to myself any longer and flash the hole to a couple of girls on the team…
“Check this out! Can you believe this?!?”
Loud laughter from all who see.
"It's a good thing you have that long shirt on underneath."
More innings. More at bats. More of the sound that has become worse than fingernails on a chalkboard:
Rrrrrrip
Internal dialog: I am SO SO glad I have this shirt on.
I finally make it home and check out the damage in the mirror… the tear in my pants has extended an additional 5-6 inches from the bottom of my zipper, down my right leg and is a good 2 inches LOWER than the crotch of my pants.
There’s just something about wearing an extra long shirt.
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