Change

A little butterfly

Once in a cocoon

Knew not then I

That beauty comes so soon

Back at the beginning of summer, I roamed the yard looking for the perfect spot to plant a small tray of freshly sprouted Marigolds. I cleared away the mulch from a small flower bed in the back, dug nine holes, filled them with fertilizer and placed nine marigolds in the cool, damp soil. And there, all summer, in the bright evening sun, they flourished. They are a reminder to me of the beauty in change. 

I often find myself wishing things would never change. But if they didn't, I'd still be a lifeguard this summer, my bed would never be made, I would never have been able to revisit a high school teacher and find a friend, my marigolds would still be tiny sprouts, and that little butterfly would still be a caterpillar. 

I would be the same person I was one year ago, before I ever boarded a plane for Utah to begin my year at BYU. I would never be able to say those sweet words that Shakespeare so masterfully penned "Twas I, but tis not I."
I would still be an English major who wanted to minor in ballroom dance and creative writing. I would know nothing of the joys of editing, language, and linguistics. I would never have met my good friend and running buddy. I would never have laughed with the girls down the hall or joined them as we sat outside in the freezing cold late one night eating grilled PB and Js. I would never have sung duets with my coworkers in the dish room as we washed dishes with the gay-heartedness of the seven dwarfs singing on their way to the mines. I would never have met the wonderful group of people that work with me at the Dentist's office, nor the sweet, sweet children that I have the privilege to play with at the YMCA play center.
I heard a story once of how a man who was planning to go home and commit suicide, but, after attending a concert, changed his mind when he heard the beautiful music. I'm sure the artist had a beautiful voice, and I do not doubt the power of music, but after a summer working with young children, I am convicned that any toddler could produce the same change.

If nothing ever changed, I would take everything for granted, like a roommate, friends, a home, grades, and marigolds. With friends all across the globe - at home, or on missions - I've made keeping contact a priority, because I've realized that change is inevitable, and so you have to fight hard to keep anything constant, and friends are just that: not constants, per say, but two people constantly changing to, in change, be two that are constant.
And so, while I have my anxieties towards the upcoming year, I've resolved to welcome change, for without it, I could never recognize the constants.

My sheets are tucked tight. My bed, for once, is made. My suitcase and duffel are lying open in the corner, almost packed. My closet is full of empty hangers, a couple shoes and a bag of yarn. My bookshelf is crammed tight with all the books I wish I could bring with me but know better than to believe I'd have the time to read. There's a journal sitting beside my laptop that is finally absorbing ink after a summer's drought, as I try desperately to record the last few days of summer. There's a stack of notes, concert tickets, and memorabilia from college, that minus some pictures, is finally being scrap-booked. I did a terrible job of keeping up with friends from home, but my desk is littered with letters headed out to Mexico, California, and Russia, where my college friends are serving missions. Somewhere in some corner of my room is a little dust bunny crying because he is all alone after I went through and exterminated all his friends. Scattering the floor are a couple shoes, the gym shorts I'm supposed to be changing into to mow the lawn right now, my running shorts, which for once are clean, awaiting my half marathon tomorrow, a couple cords and chargers belonging to who knows what, the scrubs that I wore to the dentists office all summer and will have to be returning shortly, and a small stack of books I'm hoping will find room to squeeze into my carry-on.

But outside this mess is a small plant box, where, four months and forever ago, a young girl planted nine orange Marigolds.
And, there, all summer long, in the bright evening sun, they've flourished . . .

Candidly,
Cookie

***See A Summer's Portrait

To College Rookies Part Two: The Secret to Grades

You want to know the big secret about grades?
Keep 'em secret.
And here's why: Unless you are absolutely certain you have the worst grades in the group and are wishing to make everyone feel better about themselves at your own expense, no one wants to hear it. Or it may also happen that you talk to someone about your perfect scores because you assumed they were as smart or smarter than you, and then realize they aren't . . . Awkward . . .
So far, you're either so smart everyone hates you and is secretly (or openly) jealous, or you come across as stupid.
But wait, there's a third option. You could find out that you land right about the middle of the crowd. Well, here's the problem with that: people resist change, and this includes yourself. The problem with finding yourself to be in the average crowd is you and the crowd both begin to believe that that is where you belong, and subsequently, where you will stay. And if you don't stay, and your crowd finds out, you'd think they might be happy for you, but that's not always the case.
There's a special secret that any crab fisher knows, and it is this: it is alright if you're bucket is not big enough to hold the crabs, as long as there are two in the bucket, because as soon as one crab tries to escape, the other will pull it back in.
There are crowds that will do that to you when you try to break free, and perhaps even worse is when we do it to ourselves. When we categorize ourself or label ourself according to our ability, we get this absurd notion that our level of intelligence is as much a part of who we are as an arm or a leg and it will never change. When we do this, we are effectively putting a cap on what we might otherwise achieve.

I'll let you in on one more piece of wisdom: no one likes a proud winner, but few people mind a humble one. The thing is, if you really are trying hard, making good comments in class, taking diligent notes, and studying often, people notice, and already, in their minds, their categorizing you in the smart crowd. Either you aren't as smart as they think, in which case, you can just go on saying nothing and they'll think you are very humble, which they will like you for. Or, you ARE as smart as they think, and in saying nothing, they think you are not only smart but humble. Like I said, no one likes the smart and proud, but few people mind the humble genius, and those who do mind, don't matter.


And that is why, it's best not to share your grades. It' alright every now and then to get excited when you did really well. I'm not saying you can't every now and then tell a few good friends.
But for the most part, it's best to keep 'em secret.

Candidly,
Cookie

Why I Owe the World Eleven Dollars and Ninety-Seven Cents

All over FaceBook and the news one can find stories of abandoned infants, drug curtails, divorce, and violence. Every once in a while you run into a small article, perhaps tucked in a corner in the middle of the newspaper, that seems to say, "Some people are still good. Don't give up on us yet." But there never seems to be enough of it, which is why, when I was collecting stories of service for a short sermon in church some weeks ago, I could not get enough of them. It was like sitting by a warm, crackling fire after playing out in the snow all morning, and, asking forgiveness rather than permission of those whose stories were told, I wish to share some of that warmth.

For my talk, I'd asked a number of people two questions. The first was, "What is the most meaningful service you've given?" The responses were as follows:

"I've had some really special ladies who I visit taught. I became good friends with them. It was interesting because I didn't have a lot in common with them. But during the experiences I had serving and teaching and chatting and praying and fasting with them, I all of a sudden created a really tight bond with them and cared for them really, really, deeply. I was surprised that when someone was really different than me, when I served, loved, and took care of them, I all of a sudden loved them with all my heart."

"The most meaningful service I've given has been to my children and husband, just trying to think about what they need and how to help them with their schedule and their demands."

"The most meaningful service I've given has been to my children. It's the times when i'm the most tired and they ask me to play a game or watch them do a new trick . . . It's the simple things they want. It's when you're really tired but you have this feeling, 'this is important. They're not always going to want you to do this.' They want your attention. They want your time."

"The thing that popped into my mind first was the time when I was able to give extended service to a woman who had had recent surgery. I was able to provide a few meals and convinced her it was okay for me to come provide regular cleaning service, as well. The best part about it was I was able to involve my children and it gave them wonderful opportunity to learn about service first hand. And one of the nicest benefits was getting to know this woman more deeply as we spent time visiting each time we came to clean. This wonderful opportunity blessed many lives, brought people together, and was a marvelous blessing to my family."

"I had the opportunity to go to my brother's house twice when he was in the hospital and care for him and his kids. That was great because I could see the impact I was making and enabled his wife to be with him to serve him. I was able to hang with his kids so that she could serve him."

"A woman who used to be in our ward [church congregation], who had married and had three boys, had a divorce and left state pretty quickly. Quite frankly, I don't even remember how I found out about it, but when I found out, I went over to her house and helped her pack so she could get out of town. I packed for two straight days with her. Any time you follow the spirit and do what you're asked to, I think that's the most meaningful service you can give."

The second question I asked was. "What is the most meaningful service you've been given?"

"When my daughter was born, our ward just showed a lot of love and care and kindness. They really watched over us and helped us and it really made a difference to how we felt at the time. We were just really scared because we didn't know what down syndrome would mean or if she would have heart problems. She was being tested at the time. They brought dinner and clothes, played with the kids, came over to visit, and showed us a great amount of love."

"The closest family members give the biggest service to me because of the selflessness the have; my parents especially. They've done so much -- not just one big huge even but all the little things they've done over and over and over again."

"People have cleaned my home when I couldn't. They've been so nice when my son broke his leg or when I was totally sick with a baby. People have brought dinner or brought my kids to church when I hurt my ankle."

"One of the most meaningful services I've received is people just listening when I've had struggles or challenges or when I'm confused -- just to talk to someone about it is so meaningful and for them to listen and share their thoughts and experiences helps me tons."

" . . . My sister opening her home up to us. We lived there a year and a half."

"When we lost our child and people took the time to talk to me for a few minutes when they dropped off the meals. Because my husband was traveling and I was by myself, it meant a lot that they took the time to talk to me and be a listening ear and give me consoling words. Their talking to me meant more than the meals they brought."

"As I've become a parent, to think about how much my parents served me growing up . . . It's been illuminating and inspirational . . . to see the service they gave in their callings growing up and the commitment they had to their covenants."

"We had some help from our neighbors when my son was born. He was born in the middle of the night and my wife had to go to the hospital at a moment's notice and we had neighbors that came over in the middle of the night. It was meaningful because we couldn't have foreseen and planned on it and it was not convenient to them at all."

To this collection of heart-warming stories, I wish to add my own little experience. It occurred just last night at the local supermarket. I was on my way home from work and my mom had asked me to pick up one of the ingredients for our dinner that night on my way home. I bolted through the heavy rain, still in my grey work scrubs, found what I was looking for, and went to check out. It was only then, standing in line as they rang up my one item, that I realized I had no cash. But I had my debit card on me, and though I had just run it near dry purchasing text books, I figured I had a good twenty dollars left.
Have you ever experienced that embarrassingly awkward moment when you are standing in line with people waiting behind you and you realize you don't have enough to pay for what you bought?
The cashier must have seen the look on my face when I swiped my card and the small screen read "insufficient funds."
The item had rung up to twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents. I had no idea what was left on my card, but however much it was, it was not enough.
"Do you want me to hold your item for you?" the cashier asked me.
"Umm . . . yeah. I'll be back."
I then, since it was still pouring outside, stood inside by the exit where you return your cart, and called my mom, explaining to her my situation. She offered to come meet me at the store.
As I was about to hang up, a kind woman, who I recognized as the women who had been waiting behind me in line, presented eleven dollars and ninety-seven cents. With the two quarters I'd found in my purse, it would be enough.
"Are you sure?" I asked her. "My mom can come meet me."
She just smiled and handed me the money with a simple message, "Pay it forward."

Which would be why I now owe the world eleven dollars and ninety-seven cents, a debt I hope to pay time and time again, and owe for the rest of my life.

Candidly,
Cookie

A Beautiful Analogy

Today in church I heard an analogy that spoke to me. It was a simple, sweet way to capture an important principle.

The story was of a little boy who was going to the airport with his dad. As they neared the airport, he watched the planes fly overheard and noted how very small they looked.

He was astonished, when they arrived at the airport, to find how big the planes actually were. He was further amazed when his father explained to him that they were the same plane. Earlier he had been seeing it from far away, but now, up close, it looked so big.

Like the planes, the nearer we are to God, the bigger He is in our lives.

How big is He to you?

Candidly,
Cookie

To College Rookies, What I Wish I'd Known

1. "Roommate" does not mean "friend"

This isn't to say that your roommate can't be your friend, only that the two are not, and do not have to be, synonymous. So if you and your roommate aren't Mike Gazowski and Sully, Bambi and Thumper, or Pooh Bear and Piglet, don't despair. Maybe thumper lives down the hall, and Piglet lives upstairs. And that's okay. 

2. Give and Take

Having a roommate is a little like being in a relationship. There are some things that you can change, and others you just have to learn to tolerate. You'll probably find that most things will fall into the latter category. But I'll tell you from experience, it's crazy the things you'll miss. So a good rule of thumb is treat everything and everyone like your gonna miss 'em. Because trust me, you will. I didn't think I could ever miss my roommate's alarm going off at the crack of dawn and then again every ten minutes until she'd wake up an hour later after exhausting her snooze button, but after she left, there were still mornings when I missed my nightmares that a giant fly was chasing me only to wake up to her phone buzzing on the window sill.

3. It's Just Like High School

There will be the cliques and there will be the cool kids. Hopefully by now you've figured it out. You are the cool kid and your friends are the ones who think so too. Don't try to be someone else, and don't waste all your energy trying to be part of a group where you can't be yourself and you won't be happy. If you are trying to do it all, you WILL feel left out. Find your people, stick with them, have fun and, most importantly, quite comparing how much fun it LOOKS like other people are having with how much fun you KNOW you've ACTUALLY had.

4. What! You Don't Know You Major Yet?

That is perfectly okay. It's easy to feel inferior to those who have their life mapped out, but I'll tell you a little secret, their plans will probably change about as much as yours will. The difference is some of us write our plans in permanent marker, and others write theirs in pencil. Both groups will have some erasing to do. Those who wrote theirs with sharpie, when it comes time to erase, crumple up their papers and start afresh so no one will know. Others of us choose to keep the sketch marks. I started out using a sharpie. If you asked me what I was majoring in, I could give you a minute by minute account of my future. Those plans changed a lot, but unless you had been there from the beginning, I accounted my new ones with such surety, you'd never know they weren't the original.  As my plans have changed though, I've learned to embrace that they will -- not inevitably, but just enough to allow for some discovery and growth. So when someone asks you what your major is, don't be afraid to say, "I'm not sure yet." While you aren't really sure of what you want to study, the rest of us aren't studying what we're sure we really want. My suggestion, start with a pencil and a BIG eraser ;)

5. Have Fun!

No seriously. I'm not saying go party every night. Not at all. Considering, I was the nerd who sat in my room with my 4.0 for company, that would be hypocritical. I'd sooner say don't ever leave your room. But I will say, it's only after the opportunity is gone that you can see what you missed.
In the end, you're going to miss something. Either you'll miss college, or you'll miss out. Choose wisely.

College certainly has its share of pot-holes and pit stops . . . but those hardly matter when you're flying. So spread your wings and soar.
Best of luck,

Candidly,

Cookie

This Life Does Not End. It's Eternal

Three years and five days ago my family and I said our goodbyes to a man I loved very much: my grandpa.
He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) when my mother was still very young. From the time she was a little girl, she had been told that he would not live to see her graduate college. Every prayer in her family included the phrase, "Please help us find a cure for MS."
And perhaps they did.
Considering after his first diagnosis some forty or so years before his death, he hadn't been expected to see his second eldest daughter, my mother, graduate college, the fact that he attended the graduation of his eldest grandchild, my sister, and died the proud grandfather of 17 grandchildren was nothing short of a miracle. His family never found the cure to give him back the movement and control of his body, but as a result of their love, support, and positive attitudes, my grandpa cherished his life with a spirit of hope, faith, patience, and gratitude, and surpassed all odds, dying at the remarkable age of 72.
Their cure was a simple one, with the most profound of impacts: Love.
When my uncles Todd and Brent were young, they saved their money to buy a bench press so that they would be better able to help take care of their father. My grandma spent countless hours dressing, shaving and caring for him, and everything he ate was fed to him one bite at a time by a hand as patient and selfless as the mouth it served.
That tradition of love and service forged their family together, and became a foundation and a legacy for his children and grandchildren.
I remember when we would come to visit, every morning my sister and I would stretch and strain with our young and undeveloped muscles to help crank Grandpa from bed into his wheelchair. We each also had our turns helping to feed him.
His disease, in the end, brought his family together in such a way that perhaps nothing else could have. Every summer, he and his family would go camping together, pushing and puling his wheelchair through the sand so that he could float peacefully in the waves that rolled in along the shore—one of the few times he was free of his wheelchair.
I never knew him without his wheelchair. The morning of his death, as I lay alone on my bed, listening to the rain outside patter against the window pain like the constant drip of morphine that was at that time entering his veins, watching the blinking red light on my alarm clock illuminate the otherwise dark room, I fought to suppress the feelings of regret and self-pity that accompanied the realization that he would be leaving us. He'd been a quadriplegic for forty years - all my life. Never had I the opportunity to toss a football with him in the backyard. Never had he read to me or walked down the street holding my hand. I'd heard he had a beautiful bass singing voice that I had never heard.
We played the games that he could play: chicken feet and Mormon Bridge. At night he would tell us bedtime stories, which always began with "once upon a time," because, he said, "That's how all good stories start", and ended with "they lived happily ever after," because that's how all good stories end.
When he came down to visit we would have cookouts in the fire pit in our backyard and he would eat all the burned marshmallows. We thought he liked them that way, because he always offered to eat them when no one else would, and so we, thinking ourselves so kind, would sometimes burn them on purpose for him. It was only when we were older that we learned he'd never liked them burned.
Whenever we had potato chips we would try and find the biggest one and see if he could fit it in his mouth without cracking it. If he did, we owed him a kiss.
I remember how every time when we went up to visit grandma's house, he would be waiting in his wheelchair, right inside the door, dressed to his best. He would greet us with a hearty "Hi-ya" and we would clamber onto his lap to give him a kiss, because "all kisses go to Grandpa."
Many times when I was younger I would go for a ride on his lap, making circles throughout the house. I would throw my arms around his neck and give him a big hug. But never had he been able to hug me back.

While we were up at my grandma's house this past week, we went to visit his grave. I looked over at my grandma and wondered what she could be thinking about as we sat around the tombstone on a grassy hillside, and my mind kept wandering. It's hard to think about death.
"I wonder what he's doing right now," I heard my grandma say.
"I'm sure he's busy. I'm sure he's running and swimming and singing and doing all the things he loved," my mother replied.

I remember when my mother told me he was going to die, and later informed of his death, there was a feeling of comfort, of peace. A few days later at his funeral, I had held the hand of my little brother as we stood together peering into the beautiful oak casket. I'd watched as he reached out his hand and laid it gently on that of my grandpa's, recoiling ever so slightly at the touch. "He's so stiff and cold," he whispered, "And he looks so sad." I'd smiled to myself as a tear rolled down my cheek. "That's because he's not there," I told him, "but I'm sure he's here with us now." I didn't have to explain for him to know what I meant. I could tell from the small smile glowing on his face, and the glint of warmth in his eyes that he understood.

That feeling of peace and comfort I'd had when my mom had told me he would die and later informed me of his death was there again as we sat around his grave. And I knew now, as I knew then, what it was. It was joy and hope; hope for the life beyond this one when I shall run up and hug him among the hosts of heaven. Joy, for when he can run and hug me back.

I'm so grateful for the knowledge of eternal families and of a life beyond this one where we can dwell with God. This life does not end. It's eternal. I am grateful for the sacrifice of God's beloved Son, Jesus Christ. I am grateful to know that He lives and that because He lives, all men shall live again. Because He lives, all things shall be restored to their perfect form, and shall be brought to stand before the bar of God.

I look forward to the day that I shall meet my grandpa there, standing to great me, and I shall hear his beautiful bass voice say "Hi-ya. Welcome home."
And we will live happily ever after. Because that's how all good stories end.

I love you Grandpa,

Brooke