In Other Words, God Is Good

ser·en·dip·i·ty noun \ˌser-ən-ˈdi-pə-tē\

: luck that takes the form of finding valuable or pleasant things that are not looked for

In other words, God is good.

I have been so blessed to be able to see the hand of God in my life, especially these past few days. It's wonderful and beautiful to me that Heavenly Father will do everything he can to help me out in my life. He sends me remarkable people to interact with, He sends me music, laughter, and a smile. He sends me family, He sends me testimonies, He gives the rain, the mountains, the trees, the birds, the sky. . . It isn't that he had to do any of it, He just did those things because He knew they would make me smile. He knew they would make my day go a little bit better. He gave me those things because He cares. In other words, God is good.

(Please forgive the poor photography. I was more concerned about getting home. These are snapshots)

Gray Day

"Gray day. Everything is gray. I watch. But nothing moves today."

-Dr. Seuss, My Many Colored Days

Today was a gray day. It was rainy and lazy and quiet. There were still things to be done, there were still people to see, but it felt gray. It felt like a napping sort of day, a novel-consuming sort of day, a quiet sort of day. Today was gray.

Essays and Encouragement

Once again I've left a large-ish essay until the last minute and once again I've discovered myself fighting that bane of existence commonly referred to as writer's block. This is starting to be a sadly familiar experience.

Anyways, I texted someone about how I really didn't want to write my essay and he sent me the most wonderful response there ever was (I think. But I might just be tired and therefore everything in the world is hilarious). . . Anyways.

I was staring at the screen of my computer trying to think of a brilliant thesis when my phone buzzed. I then read the following words:

"Yes you do. If some guy came up to you and was like, "Hey, I want to write your paper," you would be like, "NO!" and then you would shove him in the face. So, yea. . ."

As I was still trying to recover from that text I received another one, marginally less humorous:

"(Wow. . . I'm not quite sure where that came from)"

I'm not sure either, D. I'm not sure either. But sounds like a magical place full of laughter and integrity (and maybe some mild violence but we won't dwell on that aspect tonight).

I think the best part of that whole text is that he predicted my reaction pretty well. 'Cept I would shove this guy in his shoulder or arm. I'm pretty sure his face would be too far away as I'm sitting down at a computer (also, pushing on someone's face is mean. We all learned that in Kindergarten.).

I guess I'd better get writing. I certainly don't want to be obligated to face-shoving. Here we go.

The Heater Troll

The heater in this apartment has a difficult time kicking on the first time. If you pay attention you can hear the click of it trying to ignite five or six times before the heater wakes up and starts to work.

My imagination ran wild when that happened once and I pictured a little troll trying to light the flame. I can picture his hunched form in our closet trying over and over (a little nervously that this will be the time it doesn't work and that he'll get in some sort of trouble) to get the flame to take.

Don't worry little troll. If you can't get it the first time I understand. Sometimes I have a hard time lighting things on fire, too. I just appreciate all you're doing for this apartment. Keep up the good work.

Sometimes

Sometimes the hardest decisions are the best ones for us to make.

I'm grateful for that.

Growing Up

Yesterday, I rode the bus to work. It was kind of a crazy ordeal because the last time I utilized public transportation extensively was when I was eleven. In NYC. With my aunt and cousins. So I kind of just followed and they told me what to do.

But Wednesday, I took the bus. Don't get the wrong impression. I didn't go at it alone--I had a seasoned bus-rider walk me through everything--but I did it. And I feel like I could do it again. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as I'd expected it to be.

It's kind of crazy how much a simple thing (like riding the bus) makes me feel like I'm growing up.

Words Behind the Silence

I base my entire life around words. They have been a vital part of me since before I can remember. I've loved the power that can come from words used correctly. I've loved it when I've been able to take that idea that I see in my head and make it clear to the people I'm talking to. I love it when I can communicate my needs, wants, fears, and dreams to the world around me. I love it when words enhance who I am. It provides a certain measure of satisfaction in my life. Satisfaction is a good thing to have, right?

I'm rarely at a loss for words. That's not to say that I'm always talking (although that is an activity I engage in quite often) but I usually know how to communicate with people. It makes working customer service so much simpler. It makes life so much simpler.

My French class is required immersion (this is related to the previous paragraph, I promise). Something about BYU having the best (aka most intense) college language program. . . Anyways. Last semester, in French 101, it was supposed to be immersion, but my professor never enforced it. It was lovely. This semester is a different story. No English. If you slip up three times you need to A) sing a solo in French in front of the class, or B) bring the entire class treats.

Now I recognize that the aforementioned punishments aren't too bad. I can definitely handle making treats for twenty-five students, but I also happen to be a perfectionist. I don't like messing up. So I've learned a brilliant trick: If I don't know how to say something in French, I don't say anything. Great idea, right?

Wrong.

Every time--every.single.time--I utilize that strategy (which is a lot) I feel ready to explode. I understand what my teacher is asking, I know the answer, but I can't say it in French so I remain silent.

. . .I didn't realize how damaging silent could be. 

I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel a part of me--that part where the satisfaction of words utilized well is stored--shrink, shrivel, and hide. Almost like it's ashamed that I won't try.

And it should be. I know that I'll learn far more from my mistakes than I will from my success, but again. . . I'm a perfectionist. Somehow, failing is too big of a risk for me, even if everyone else around me is doing the same. That's probably not a good thing.

There is one good thing that has come from my inability to express myself in an acceptable manner (acceptable as measured in the French classroom); I've gained an appreciation--albeit a minute one--for how people with communication disorders must feel. My French class has made me grateful that I only have to deal with that stress for fifty minutes, five days a week. Every other time I can say what I want, how I want, and with the confidence I feel. There are some people who have to live with words pushing at the silence their entire lives. There are people out there who have so much to say, so much to share, and no way to share it. I'm grateful I'm not one of those people. I'm grateful that I don't have to feel frustrated because my thoughts will never be known. My words don't have to stay behind the silence. My words can deliver.