I Want To Be A Regular

Every Wednesday since the beginning of September has been relatively the same: I've gotten out of Orchestra rehearsal around 9:00, dropped off my French horn at the library, and walked to the temple to do vicarious baptisms for the deceased.
The kind older gentleman at the front desk greets me with a smile, "You're back!" he exclaims. "We've been waiting for you."
Sister Bingham greets me with a hug. "So good to see you," she says. "You're ten minutes early today."
"It's good to see you too," I respond. "Orchestra got out early today."

I love going to the temple; it feels like coming home.

Last month my roommate, Kenley, began coming with me. And just this past Wednesday, her friend Bekah joined us. Most of the volunteer workers at the temple recognize Kenley now.
"It's another regular," they say to Kenley, and her face lights up with a smile.
"I want to be a regular, too," Bekah says.

As I was waiting to go down to the baptismal font, Brother Minert called me by name. "It's Sister Anderson. How I love to see the regulars."
It was then that what Bekah had said really struck me.

I want to be a regular. 

I want to be a regular in heaven. When I get to there, I want the gate-keeper to exclaim, "Oh! It's a regular! So good to see you again."
I want to have come before God in prayer so often, and stood before his face and in his temples so often that He rejoices to see me again. I want to come before him so often that, when I see him again, I will recognize him. There won't be any catching up to do--no, we'll talk as though we had talked just the day before. We'll be familiar friends.
I want him to say, "Brooke. It's good to see you again. Come on in."

I think about how exciting and joyous it is to be recognized at the temple, how wonderful it is to see familiar faces that I know and love, and I want heaven to be that way too.

I want to be a regular to Him. 

Candidly,
Cookie

When Life Gives You Lemonade

We all know what to do when life gives us lemons. Some, like myself, would say to chuck them back and demand chocolate, but the rest of us are probably thinking "make lemonade," which is, of course, easier said than done.
But what about when life gives us lemonade? Obviously, you can't go backwards and make lemons. And you can't chuck it back and demand chocolate either. Now I'm making it sound like it's a bad thing to get lemonade. And it's not. But lately, life has given me a lot of it, so much so that sometimes I'm afraid I can't drink it all. I'm a little sad to say that life has given me a pitcher of lemonade, and after only a glass, I'm left to leave the rest on the table.

This past school year has been little but sweet and refreshing. Last year handed me a few lemons, and I have since squeezed their precious juice into a sugary sweet nectar. I have made some wonderful friends, I've enjoyed my classes, I'm working my two dream jobs, I've been offered a job as a research assistant and editor for one of my favorite professors, I'm volunteering as a senior editor for a linguistics journal in which I'll be published this semester, I have an incredible roommate who lives with (and in many cases feeds) my quirks, giddiness and enthusiasm—toward indexing lately, and toward life in general. And just this past week I was able to start my application to leave this summer on a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

When talking to a friend about a mission I confided in her that last year it would have been so easy to leave, because I wouldn't really have been leaving much behind. But now . . .
"Of course I still want to go, but I don't want to leave you," I told this good friend.
And then the thought occurred to me that if she is a true friend and we stay so for some time longer, it doesn't matter when I leave, for I will always be leaving a friend behind. It may seem like a rather sad thought, that I will always be leaving a friend, but it means the reverse is also true: I will always be returning to one, too.

And so when life gives me lemonade I recognize I don't have to drink it all now, because there will always be some waiting for me. Or perhaps I may return to find something even better. Perhaps I will find some sweeter, juicier lemons while I am gone. Or perhaps, if I am fortunate, I will find with my lemons some chocolate too. And then I can return to a steaming mug of hot chocolate, which beats lemonade any day.

So, when life gives you lemonade, sometimes, but not always, its best to leave some, trusting in better things to come.


Candidly,
Cookie

When We Take More Than We Give . . .

 . . . sometimes it is just called giving.

The other night my friend texted me asking if I could help her fix her thesis for a religion paper. I laced up my sea-foam green running shoes, donned my neon-green jacket, tucked my phone into the back pocket of my running shorts, and went out into the steady, cold drizzle. The run was exhilarating, and I was thankful for the excuse to take it. 

It's a short run to her place and her thesis didn't take long to fix, but I was there for almost two hours. Just talking. Much of it was a talk I'd been needing to have. 

As I was leaving, my friend made the comment that she felt like she, in most relationships, takes more than she gives. 

"What do you mean?" I asked her, utterly bewildered at the audacity of such a statement. In my mind, I would forever be in her debt for all that she had given me. 

True, I often read over and corrected her papers, I walk her to classes, and I try to be a listening ear. 

But with each of these, I realized, she had not been taking, but giving. And what she had given me was the the chance to give back. 

The truth is, when we talk about our struggles, we are not taking time from someone, but giving them perspective for their own trials as well as the chance to commiserate with their own. 

When we ask a friend for help, we are not just taking time from their busy schedules; we are giving them the validation that they are needed and that they have something to offer us. 

When we accept a gift or an offering, we are not just taking of what we are given; we are giving to others a way for them to display their love for us.

When we take, we are giving others the opportunity to grow, to serve, to love, and, ultimately, to give. 

And so, in a sense, we can really never take more than we give: when we take we are really just giving to someone else the opportunity to give back--an opportunity which they take whole-heartedly, happily, gratefully, knowing that they can never truly repay the wonderful gift that is given them in return. The gift of perspective, love, and friendship. 

So to answer my friend, you cannot take more than you give. Because that is just called giving. 

Candidly,

Cookie

A New Conviction

If success is to accomplish such a task
That once you thought to be impossible
To at first believe you can't but prove at last
Despite the limits, you are capable
Then if this is success in rawest form
I hope to say I never did succeed
If failure takes the opposite in form
I hope this horrid term applies to me
I hope there never comes a time I doubt
That I can say I always did believe
When beneath the worldly limits flesh gives out
My heart in faith's still striving to achieve
I'd rather say I failed, yet I believed
Than say despite my doubts I did succeed

Limtiless

When I came to college, I was a writer. I was a musician. I was a runner. And that was pretty much it. It took me less than a day to realize I was far from the best writer on campus. I quickly realized that telling music majors that I could play the French Horn was a lot like boasting about my role in my high school play to the actresses and actors and Broadway. And though I was a runner, I struggled finding time to run. While I was running my little 5ks, a girl down the hall was preparing for the Boston Marathon.

Suddenly everything I was--everything I had defined myself as--wasn't enough.
Suddenly, the question of "who am I?"carried much more weight.

This year I have my first advanced writing class. For our first writing assignment we were asked to trade our essays with one of the other students in the class and mark up their essay with comments and suggestions. I traded with a wonderfully kind girl named Bethany. I took her essay home, read it, and immediately stuck it back in my plastic red folder, behind an assortment of papers for various other classes, where it stayed for the rest of the week. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Well, such has never been my fortune. As the days dragged on and the due date loomed nearer, I still couldn't stop thinking about her paper. It was flawless, beautiful writing. How was I supposed to critique an essay that was already better than anything I had ever written? (or so I thought).

I began, once again, to doubt myself as a writer, and even doubt that I was worthy to call myself such. I began to see the page as a minefield of potential errors which I was to laboriously navigate on nervous tip-toe. I was so terrified to make a mistake because I believed that being less of a writer made me, almost, less of a person.

When I confided this in my friend she told me that there's a huge difference between making a mistake and being a mistake. It all comes down to how you define yourself. "Your reality," she told me, "is defined by your perception of it. Want to change your reality? Change your perception. So who are you?" she asked me. "And who do you want to be?"

It was then that I realized something profoundly important: I am not a writer; I am not a musician; I am not a runner. These are things I do, but they are not and do not have to be who I am.

Wow, that's hard to say. And yet, it leaves a sugary-sweet residue on my lips. It's incredibly liberating to rid oneself of these titles. But then, who am I now?

I am Brooke Ellen Anderson. I am a noble daughter of God. I am one of his beautiful creations. I have been blessed with incredible talents for writing, playing the french horn, running, and many other things—but these are not who I am.

I've found, having rid myself of these titles, I'm okay not being the best at something, at messing up and making mistakes, because these mistakes—these mess-ups—don't lessen who I am; rather, they provide me the incredible opportunity for growth that comes only when I am willing to be stretched and make those mistakes.

I am not perfect. I make mistakes. But that's okay, because I am not a mistake. I am not a runner. I am not a musician. I am not a writer. I am not my GPA, my awards, my talents, or my honors. Nor am I my mistakes, shortcomings, blunders, or failures.
I am a daughter of God. I am beautiful. I am loved. And I am absolutely limitless.

Candidly,
Cookie