God Loves to Talk

Some time last week--or maybe it was two weeks ago, I really don't remember--I was at my friend Charlie's house and she could tell there was something I needed to talk about. The problem was, I wasn't really sure what. Or how.

But then, I think she knew that.

She knew that it would take a while for me to figure it out, and then even longer after that to get it out. She knew that it would begin with a long, prolonged silence. A silence that was augmented by the addition of her own.

At the beginning of it, she had told me that she wouldn't say anything until I had said everything.
And so for the next couple hours she didn't say a word.

When I was done I realized she had already known a great deal of what I had told her, and saying it had taken so long and been so hard. Why did I need to say it?

I told her I felt that way sometimes when I pray as well. God already knows how my day was. The scriptures tell me that He knows the thoughts and intents of my heart. So why is there such importance placed on the vocalization and communication of these thoughts?

I am quite familiar with the promise repeated multiple times in the scriptures, "Ask and ye shall receive."
"But sometimes," I told my friend, "I'm just not sure what to ask."

Charlie's answer was simple. She explained that while I was talking she had wanted so badly to comment--to give her input and suggestions. "God," she said, "wants to comment, too."

Perhaps that is the chief reason that throughout the ages men of God have expounded on the importance of giving God time to speak to us, of waiting in silence after our prayers.

It reminded me of something I had noticed in my scripture study that week. I had been highlighting with a yellow colored pencil every time a reference to God or Christ appeared in the scriptures. As I had flipped back through all my mostly-yellow pages I noticed that at least half of the references were engrained in the phrases "Thus saith the Lord," "the Lord God hath spoken it," and "the Lord hath said" and an interesting thought hit me, "God must love to talk."

It was almost funny to me to picture God as that toddler that just keeps talking because they love the sound of the words and how they communicate and they want to tell you all about the game they made up with their friend, and how their milk tasted weird after eating their oranges, and how they woke up in the middle of the night because Bubba, their stuffed teddy bear, had fallen off the bed.

The difference perhaps between God and this toddler is that God doesn't just love to talk TO us. He loves to talk WITH us. He loves to hear what we have to say. And He loves to comment.

If we will just speak, and then listen.

Everything I Need

Most people don't want to remember a break up, but this is one that I most certainly don't want to forget. Not because the break up itself was anything to tuck away in a hope chest or put in a locket of course, but because of the multitude of moments that followed, which, if I could, I would tuck away forever in the pages of a book that I would title "Tender Mercies."

Sunday afternoon as I walked home from church I had the thought to stop by a former roommate. We hadn’t talked since January, and my first instinct was to ignore the impression. But, having little else to do, and it being a gorgeous day, I meandered over to my old apartment and knocked. Moments later we were out on the lawn, lying on a blanket eating juicy watermelon and talking as though no time had passed between now and that blessed time two years and forever ago when we shared the pleasure of being roommates.

It was the perfect cushioning for what came next. As far as breakups go, it was certainly not the worst--he was good and fair--but it was still hard.

Later that night I texted my friend Rachel. Only she would be up at that hour. Almost immediately, my phone rang and it was she on the other end making sure I was okay. Now that’s a friend.

The following day was most miraculous. After an early morning chemistry class followed by an hour of work, I biked home, grabbed a bowl of ice cream (I know, a great lunch), and then laid on my bed for the next couple hours, doing nothing in particular. At some point I fell asleep and woke up just before I had to leave for my second job of the day. I had seriously considered asking if I could come in another day—my schedule is relatively flexible—but I figured work would be a good way to get me up. I had woken up from my nap more groggy than when I had first laid down and my headache was none the better. As I biked through campus on my way to work I said a silent prayer that I might run into a friend on my way. Just then I looked to my left to see a friend I had served with on my mission, Katherine Nuttall. Not coincidentally, she had often been the one to be there for me then too, when I was feeling alone or struggling. Our talk made me a little late for work, but it was worth it. And if nothing else, it was proof to me that God knows who our friends are, and when we need them.

Work was well enough, but soon after arriving home, I was back in the same slumps. So I called a girl I had come to know recently from one of my classes. Her name is Hannah, which means “the grace of God.” A fitting name. I went over to her apartment and it didn’t take her long to discover how poorly I had eaten that day (apparently ice cream is not real food). So we walked to Wendy’s to get some chicken strips. Hot and sweaty, we arrived at Wendy’s to discover that the main lobby was closed. There was a little paper sign that said that only the drive through was open. We walked up to the drive through and were told that it would be illegal for them to serve us without a car. What?! So we did the only natural thing: we waited for a car. And when one came we hopped in and placed our order. Then came the second bit of satiric spit-fire: apparently, you can only have one bill per car. So this kind, saintly stranger who allowed us in his car also paid for our dinner.

Dinner was followed by naps and then a two-hour game of ultimate Frisbee that was a complete blast. After ultimate Frisbee, my friend called and we talked for some time while I walked around beautiful south ProvoThe next morning, I woke up at 5:45am to hike the Y with a girl from my chemistry class. I run part way up the mountain a couple times a week, but the view that morning was spectacular, and this time, I had someone to share it with. 

Coming back from the hike, I found I still had plenty of time before work at 8:30, and so took a longer bike ride to work, parking my bike below the stairs on the west side of campus. As I was loitering about the top of the stairs I ran into none other but Hannah, whose exuberant spirit never fails to put a smile in my day. She hadn’t been gone for long when Rachel came walking my direction toward her morning class. We talked as we walked the short distance, stopping outside the elevator in her class building. I knew her class started any moment—she had already pressed the elevator call button—and I turned to leave. “Don’t you want a hug?” she asked. That was exactly what I needed. 

And that's how it has been for seemingly every moment since: nearly every moment has been exactly what I needed. But perhaps what I needed most was to realize that everything I needed then were things I already had: a fun former roommate who lives only three blocks away, companions from the mission whose ability and willingness to counsel and comfort didn't end when we came home, a girl I only barely met who takes me on an adventure of food and laughter and then takes the time to sit and talk and listen, an utter stranger who buys us dinner, a ward family that puts together one of the most exhilarating games of Ultimate Frisbee I've ever played, a good friend who drops everything to make sure I'm okay and who knows when a hug is needed, and an overseeing God who most undoubtedly loves me and knows exactly what I need. 

Candidly,

Cookie 

There Is No B

This past week for my late birthday present my friend took me to Painting With a Twist. We had chosen to paint a scene of two cranes siloutted in flight against a red moon. The painting is called Hope. And that's what it gave me. Not the painting itself, per say, but the experience.



We were the only two in the class and so we got to chatting with our instructor, a smiley blond that reminded me of a gum-drop (don't ask why). She asked us about what we were doing and what we were studying, and it was the second time I realized how different we are, my friend and I.
"So how did you meet?" she asked us.
It was then that the full weight of it hit me: without Mandarin, we wouldn't have. We've always lived on opposite ends of campus, and would never have taken a class together otherwise.
I remember one day within the first semester we had met as I walked her to class and she talked of horror films and Marvel while I spoke of Aristotle and orchestra pieces, realizing how different we were. And so for the longest time, I assumed it was Chinese that held our paths together.
Lately, though, with a little bit of heart ache, and a huge breath of relief, I have come to the realization that isn't it at all.

This realization first came to me late one night as I walked around south provo in my pajama pants and slip on sneakers, talking on the phone with my friend. Although on the mission I often despised having someone over my shoulder almost literally 24/7, since coming home, I have found more than ever, a constant desire to talk with people, and a much more frequent (though still not constant) desire to be with them. I realize though that this can't always be reciprocated, even by those who mean me the best. And this was the subject of our discussion that night.
"If I ever need space," she said, in effect, "I'll let you know."
She paused. "Does that frighten or comfort you?"
"What, the idea of a warning?"
"Yeah."
"Both." It's true it held some comfort, except that in all honesty it wasn't frightening--it was terrifying.
"Why?" she asked, and I struggled to explain.
"Let's say the warning is A," I said at last. "And then let's say that B is the point at which you push me away forever. The point of no return, we'll call it. Well, it's comforting to have A because then I'm much less likely to reach B. But it's frightening because when I reach A, I know that B is that much closer."

We talked for a few minutes more. Me, expressing my fears, my friend subsequently coming to an understanding. At last she said the words that haven't left my mind since that night.
"You've got it all wrong," she said. "There is no B." 

I wanted to believe her. It was such a beautiful thought. But as much as I tried, I couldn't.
I read on the advise board at my friend's wedding reception that there are two words which must be used with much caution in any relationship. They are always and never. And this sounded much too like an always for me to trust it.

The second part of my realization came to me later that same week. I had decided that I wanted to study in China. Well, I had almost decided. The decision rested on one thing: would my friend go with me? I called her all week with no response. Walking home from campus at the end of the week, my decision still uncertain, I realized perhaps there was a reason she hadn't answered. God knew I needed to make this decision irrespective of my friend's response. This needed to be for me. I decided I'd go.
A couple minutes later, my phone rang. It was my friend. When she told me she didn't want to go to China again--she just wanted to graduate--I was honestly heart-broken.  We were on different levels of Chinese classes, and we would never go to China together. If Chinese was what held us together, we were certainly falling apart. Then came my second paradigm shift of the week. I thought about what she had said over the phone that night a week ago--there is no B--and realized Chinese did not keep us together; Chinese had brought us together. And nothing could bring us apart.

I know, that sounds a super lot like a never--or an always, depending on how you look at it. And I'll be honest always doesn't sound all that trustworthy or certain. But it is hopeful. And I have found few words so hope-filled as these: there is no B.

Candidly,
Cookie

Just Talking

“What would you have today if you had only what you had thanked God for yesterday?”

These past few days I have been reading over the emails that a friend and I sent back and forth while I was on my mission. It’s heart-warming and inspiring to remember the miracles and mercies I saw almost daily, to see how I struggled and overcame, and to recognize anew the love and prayers of family and dear friends which were, if not my foundation, in the least the walls I leaned on.

But honestly what has struck me most recently about these emails is the things I was excited to do when I came home—everything I looked forward to and everything I missed, everything I thought of and added to the after mission bucket list. There were things as small as listening to some music my friend had recommended, attending the Krishna temple worship service, watching Beauty and the Beast live action, and taking a Latin dance class. And then there were things as momentous as sitting on a wall on campus with a good friend and just talking about life. When every week I attempted to pour out my soul and experiences in one typed email I had only an hour to write, that’s what I looked forward to the most: just talking.

Honestly, looking back, most of the items on that after-mission bucket list have yet to be crossed off. There are times I wish I could go back to the mission just so I could keep dreaming about the life I might be living now. I could dream about the classes I’d take, the people I’d meet, the shows I’d watch, and the time I would have alone to read all the books waiting for me on my goodreads shelf (which, to be honest, I still just dream about).

But then gratitude stops me to take an inventory. Yes, there are things I have yet to do, but back then when I dreamt of this perfect world I’d come back to, even then, did I dream it as good as it is now? Could I have dreamt that I’d finish my first semester back with a 4.0? Could I have dreamt that I would love my chemistry class and make such good friends? Could I have dreamt of the jobs I luckily landed? Could I have dreamt of the wonderful dates I would go on, of how kind, fun, and supportive my roommates would be?

After our morning run yesterday I asked my boyfriend the question, “What would you have today if you had only what you had thanked God for yesterday?” His reply was clever, “Well, I’d start thanking him for all the things he hasn’t given me. For the million dollars that would fall from the sky, for plane tickets to Japan . . .”

I thought about that and about what I would thank him for, and I realized, quite happily, that if I were to thank him for all he hadn’t given me, there really wouldn’t be all that much to thank him for,  except for one thing. I'd thank him for the time I'd spend sitting on a wall on campus or on the grass with a friend, just talking. 

Candidly,

Cookie

Okay, so being honest, there are of course times that I have just talked with a friend, and many wonderful family and friends who do more than their share to oblige me in this insatiable desire, but in my opinion, if I could be so greedy, there could always be more.