Early Travel Experiences

I hadn't really traveled much before I fell in love with Doc. When our 1st year of college was over, I went home with him to meet his family. They lived in Chicagoland (which is the land in/around Chicago), and I stayed for a month (I got a job with a temp agency to earn some $ while I stayed with them).

When the day of my departure arrived, we got in the car to head to the airport. Doc's mom was driving, and we'd made it all the way downtown, when suddenly I realized I didn't have my ticket. This was pre-cell phones and there wasn't anything I could do about it, so we just continued to the airport because I'd miss the flight otherwise. I thought maybe (naively) that they could just print me another one.

Well, they couldn't print me another ticket. But they did say that if I could get my original ticket there by the last flight out, they'd let me fly standby on that one. Which meant my (hopefully!) Future Father In Law (we weren't engaged, but I was in love with his son and was TRYING to make a good impression) had to leave work, go to the house, look around and find the ticket I'd left there (on the piano. I'm a sucker for pianos and had sat down right before departing to play it one last time) and then drive down to Midway airport to deliver it to me. I was SO mortified at the hassle I'd created.

Doc left for a 2-year mission to Argentina after that, but while he was gone, I went to visit his family. This time I was traveling by train. Have you ever done an Amtrak trip? Well I have. And when it was time to go to the station, this same (hopefully!) Future Father In Law drove me down to the city, but when we got there, it turned out I was A DAY EARLY...and had to drive BACK to his house with him (longest drive of MY LIFE), and repeat the same trip the next day. By now I figured I was completely beyond redemption in his eyes and wished I could just turn into a soap bubble and float away.

Instead, I became a flight attendant and now I'm pretty savvy about travel.

And that's my story for today.

Grateful for:
1) Becoming a savvy traveler
2) Being able to laugh at things that used to mortify me
3) Learning to roll with the punches in life
♥

A True Love Story

One of the happiest times in my life was in January 1988 when I was a freshman in college. A couple months earlier, This Boy I'll call Doc had asked me out on a date. At the time, Doc was 18 years old, and I knew he was headed on a 2-year mission for the Mormon church that summer. He was a nice guy, but because of these facts, I wasn’t really focused on him at first.

I think it was after our 2nd date that I mustered up the courage to tell him “I just want to be friends.” There wasn’t anything wrong with him; I just knew that getting involved with a guy who was leaving for two years wasn’t on my To Do list, and I wanted to establish that point up front. “That’s fine”, Doc assured me, after I broke the news to him.

Perhaps because it was "fine" (it really did seem fine to him, even though I knew he was attracted to me), I was free to just relax and be friends without worrying about hurting him. After all, I'd warned him up front.

Well, we became better and better friends. Spending time with Doc was unlike any guy I’d ever spent time with. It was comfortable, with zero pressure coming from him to move things to the “next level”. He shared himself with me, telling me about his past, his family, his friends, and lots of his experiences. He helped me with my struggles and encouraged all that was best in me. We were getting closer and closer to each other, and before too long I realized that I loved this guy. I didn’t know that I was in love with him, but I’d gotten to the point that I didn’t want to imagine my life without him in it.

One evening when we were together, Doc told me “I want you to read my journal.” He’d started keeping it when he was 9 years old, so it covered half his life at that point. Unlike my former journal-keeping tendencies (which involved making lots of uninteresting lists and reviewing what I’d eaten, worn, or what had happened that day/week. It’s a total yawner, I'm afraid to admit.), Doc’s journal was a collection of heart-felt experiences, deep, personal thoughts, and things that mattered to him. Near the outset, he’d written that he was "never going to let anyone read his journal", because he wanted to be “free to write without censuring himself”. So it was ALL THERE, the raw, honest feelings of a boy becoming a man. It even included his first encounter with me (!!!), and his thoughts and feelings about that. I’ll spare you the details, thanks.

But reading his record did something to me. Through this process, I felt like I came to really know his soul. And his soul was so GOOD. So pure. So honest. I believe that the minute you truly know someone it's impossible not love them, because you understand them completely. That's got to have something to do with why God is able to love us.

Anyway, that night I kind of fell in love with Doc. Reading his journal just sealed the deal. But Uh Oh! I’d already told him I just wanted to be friends! Foolish foolish Blue!

We spent every free moment together. My heart was alive in a way it never had been before. One day I heard a song on the radio that seemed to perfectly describe how I felt about our friendship, and I recorded it on a tape cassette (yowza…how dated!) and memorized it. That night I asked Doc if he could bring his boom box with him when we went on a little walk. He said sure, and met me, with that big ole' boom box in hand.

We walked across the street and wandered behind a building to a grassy field with some trees. There was over a foot of snow on the ground, but there was a circle directly beneath a thick pine tree that was clear. Here we stopped, and I put in the tape I’d made off the radio, and proceeded to sing along with it for Doc. Which took a bit of moxy, because I don’t have any great solo voice. (To this day I'm still a little embarrassed by this, but Doc is nothing if not gracious, so it's okay.)

At the end of the song, which, mind you, was about friendship of the dearest kind, Doc looked at me and asked “what does it all mean?”.

I told him “I’m not going to say it first”…because of course that’s the guy’s job. But he persisted in asking, till finally I confessed it: “Oh Doc, you know I’m in love with you.”

He was in love with me, too. As it turns out. But that fact "was a given." For him it meant we were getting married (which is why he hadn't wanted to say anything. Can you blame him?!) And in the moment he told me so, it was like my whole life, my entire future, finally came into sharp focus. Truly, the Planets Aligned. Angels rejoiced. And I’m sure Bunch & Gator were up above cheering and doing the funky chicken together. As for me, I don’t know if my heart had ever been that full. No, I'm quite certain it hadn't.

You know that scene in the movie “Back To The Future” when Marty McFly’s parents finally kiss at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, and the images of him and his siblings in the family photo he has with him solidify? That’s kind of what that night feels like to me. Because before that experience, my life was just kind of a hazy nebulous uncertainty. There were a lot of possible outcomes, and none of them were really all that desirable. But that night under the tree, my course became solid.

It’s 2010 now. This summer, in addition to his graduation from medical school, Doc and I will celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. I did indeed wait out the two years he was serving the beautiful people in Argentina (note: longest two years of MY LIFE!). We were married a month after he returned, and the rest, as they say, is history. (But there are of course many good stories along the way.)

Last night I had a dream that Doc and I were at an island resort with all our closest friends and we renewed our marriage vows in a little ceremony followed by a grand celebration. It was a very happy dream, full of love and joy, and I awoke with an awareness yet again that, despite the bumps in our road, (for every road has pot holes), I’d marry That Boy all over again. And again. And again.

Happy Valentines Day Sweetest! ♥

Grateful for:
1) That Doc has been That Friend my entire adult life
2) The life we share together
3) All the fans in my cheering section. You are the greatest.

Pheasant Way

The other day I was exploring a neighborhood nearby when I suddenly discovered Pheasant Way. My mind instantly jumped back twenty-five years to when I was a sophomore in high school. I had met a girl named Connie at a dance in a nearby city and we struck up a friendship. Connie’s parents were divorced and she lived with her dad. Her mom lived in Utah.

Connie was slated to visit her mom over a school break that year, and somehow the plan was hatched that I would accompany her.

We didn’t actually know each other very well. My parents had never met hers, but they didn’t seem to have a problem with me taking off with a relative stranger.

We arrived in Salt Lake City and Connie was quick to reconnect with the young women she’d met at church here during earlier visits. I, of course, tagged along.

These girls were amazing to me. I’d never seen such a sweet, vivacious group of teenage girls. They were wholesome and kind, pure and just good. I lost no time falling in love with them.

My two favorite new friends were Marcie and Becky and they were adorable. Since they were in school that week (their break didn’t coincide with ours), I attended classes with them at Cottonwood High School. Their high school experience was an extraordinary contrast with the one I was having back home, and for the first time I realized that school could actually be a fun, healthy place to be.

I loved everything about their world. I loved the camaraderie of the group; they had a cohesiveness that I’d never seen before. They enjoyed good clean fun everywhere they went. I noticed the generous way they were with each other, pitching in gas money for whoever happened to be driving, supporting each other in pursuits and struggles, cheering each person on in their lives. In short, they were happy. And I wanted that for myself. Desperately.

For reasons I never knew, it didn’t seem like Connie’s mom was very pleased with my being there, and so somehow I ended up staying with Becky for most of my stay. Becky’s father had passed away not too many years before, and her mother was raising their large, happy family (was it six or eight kids?) on her own. And they lived on Pheasant Way.

It’s hard for me to recall much of those years. I kind of lived in a haze. But all too soon my trip was over, and I was back in California. Once I’d had a taste of how life could be though, I started trying to figure out a way to make mine like it.

Even though my friendship with Connie faded after that, I kept in contact with Marcie and Becky. As soon as I had another chance, I bummed a ride back to Utah with a friend, and went to stay with Becky again. It was during this visit that I came up with the idea that I would just move in with them. They had a large home. I’m not much trouble. I’d pitch in and pull more than my share of the weight to compensate them. I could get a job to earn the money I’d need for my necessities and go to school. I doubted my parents would object. THIS WOULD totally WORK!

Amazingly, I think I went so far as to propose the idea to Becky’s mom, and she didn’t directly shoot it down. So somehow, I got it in my mind that I was actually going to just become part of this other family. That it was a go.

And I had no problems with this…which, in hindsight, is really an interesting insight.

Unfortunately, shortly after this visit, I was a passenger in a serious car accident while driving home with some teenagers one night. I missed the rest of my sophomore year, and a lot of my junior year. Which, in a way, alleviated some of the problems I was dealing with since I wasn’t in school any more. I spent many many hours hanging out in my room in the garage, feeling sorry for myself. And the grand plan of moving to Utah and living on Pheasant Way died.

It’s interesting how just seeing that street brought back so many memories of a time in my life that I generally don’t think about. Those were some dark days. But in the middle of that darkness, I saw light. I saw another side of life…a different way of living. And it made me hungry for more. I view that as yet another tender mercy of the Lord in my life.

Grateful for:

1) The Cottonwood High girls who welcomed this stranger into their lives
2) Good examples of others, everywhere.
3) Facebook. I found Marcie on there and reconnected. What a darling woman!

Edit this page (if you have permission) |

Google Docs -- Web word processing, presentations and spreadsheets.

Feeling The Spirit

One of the hardest things about depression is the way it numbs you to feeling the spirit. As I wrote yesterday, I was fifteen years old the first time I had a spiritual experience…or at least realized that I was having one. I’m sure God had watched over me, prompted me, comforted me, and guided me all my life, but I’m also quite sure I’ve suffered from dysthymia since I was quite young. Numb was my “normal”. I didn’t know any different.

That experience was so tremendous and amazing to me that it carried me for years. It was my sole fallback whenever times were tough. Because of it I knew that God knew me, and that for some reason I mattered enough to Him to intervene.

At first I thought this was the start of a new thing in my life, that maybe I’d regularly have more amazing moments like that one. But five years later at the age of twenty, I was still clinging on to that single experience, and it was starting to fade in it’s ability to carry me, spiritually. I was struggling and wishing there were some way to have another one…a little “boost”, if you will, but I didn’t know how to make that happen, and was wary of seeking for signs.

One day while I was in college, my dear roommate and I were sitting on our beds talking about spiritual experiences, when I confided to her that I “never feel the spirit”. When I said that, this sweet friend looked in my eyes, she said to me, “Yes you do. You know that feeling you get sometimes, it’s kind of soft and quiet…” and right then, as she said those words, I was suddenly touched with that small, “soft”, quiet feeling she was describing…a feeling which I had experienced on occasion in the past, but which I had never identified as being one way that the Holy Spirit communicates with us. Her words almost faded into the background as my mind was illuminated by this new awareness. I was amazed! Here all this time I’d had something, but I had never realized what it was.

Since that time, I have recognized a number of experiences with the Holy Spirit in my life, and have learned that God has far more ways of communicating with His children than I had ever imagined. And I am quite certain that I have only experienced the smallest fraction of His ways of communicating with His children. Sometimes, like my experience in the ocean or a vision, it’s completely unmistakable. I haven’t ever had a vision, but I know people who have. More often than not, I believe our Heavenly Father uses quieter, more subtle means of communication to connect with us.

Which is why depression can be such a trial for one’s spirit. You just feel numb a lot of the time. Like your soul is in a lead box. But as hard as it is, it also provides those who deal with depression an opportunity to develop and fine-tune their ability to hear His voice. And in order to learn to recognize Him in our lives, we have to create space for Him…possibly more space than we’d otherwise give Him. But maybe, just maybe, that is by design. For without having to work extra hard on a consistent basis, perhaps we wouldn’t learn what He knows we need to learn. Perhaps we would figuratively "drift far out to sea", as I literally did that day.

I’ve tried to focus my attention on understanding the ways that God communes with me, and am still learning. I try to note times when He has answered my prayers, and all the different ways His Holy Spirit has touched me. Whether it's something as simple as a song that reaches me, or being filled up with gratitude at the beauty of this earth, direct answers to specific prayers for things I need, or that tiny, cozy, warm feeling that I didn't understand growing up, I've learned that most of the times when I feel His spirit, it isn't miraculous. At least in the way most people think about miracles. But for me, it will always be a wonder.

He knows our struggles. He IS there for us. And I know that if we seek Him faithfully, we will find Him in small and grand ways as we sojourn through our lives.

Grateful for:

1) Different kinds of communication
2) Faith in my Savior
3) The things I learn from my struggles

The Ocean Experience

Every time the Olympic Games come around, my mind wanders back to the summer of 1984 when they were held in Los Angeles. I was fifteen years old, between my freshman and sophomore years of high school, and had lived just a few miles from the ocean all my life.

There was a palpable energy in the area at the time, with thousands upon thousands of tourists pouring into southern California for the event. During this time my parents went out of town somewhere, and enlisted a woman they knew named Carlene to watch over us in their absence.

It was July and exceedingly hot. Carlene decided to take us to the beach for the day, which, despite our proximity to the ocean, was not a very common occurrence in my life. I wasn’t much into sunbathing (aka “sunburning” in my case), nor was I a very strong swimmer in an ocean setting. I mean, I could swim, but I definitely had a preference for keeping my head above water.

The beach was totally packed. I had never seen so many beach-goers in my life. It was as though every tourist in the world was seeking reprieve from the heat. Finding space next to the water was impossible, so Carlene set up camp about as far away from it as you could get, and settled in.

I headed down to the water and jumped in, wishing that we owned a boogie board to play on. The waves were coming in every few moments, and it seemed like it would be an especially good day to have one.

I’d been out for quite a while, body surfing and keeping above the waves as best I could. Initially I’d been near the shore where I could just jump above them as they broke, but every now and then a rogue wave so big that I couldn’t get above it would hit, and I’d get tumbled inside the roiling surf.

Time passed, and after a few disorienting tosses during which I’d drunk my fill of seawater for the day, I was worn out and decided to get out. It was then that I realized I’d drifted quite a bit, and had a long way to swim to shore. So I started in, keeping the lifeguard stand nearest Carlene in my line of sight as I struggled to make my way back.

I wasn’t panicked at first, but I slowly realized I wasn’t making any progress. No one had ever explained to me that in a situation like this one should swim in at an angle, verses in a straight line to shore. I was expending lots of energy trying to get straight back in. But the harder I tried, the more frustrated I became.

After what seemed like a long time, a helicopter began flying overhead broadcasting over a loud speaker that due to a strong rip tide, everyone had to get out of the water. This gave me great hope because I knew I was in trouble at that point. My ability to get myself out of the water was gone, and I needed rescuing. Lifeguards were patrolling and I assumed that if they couldn’t see me, the helicopter would, and alert them to the fact that there was someone not complying with the mandate to get out of the water. They would come out and bring me in.

But it didn’t happen. I’d been pulled too far out by then. Twice as far out as the jetty was long, I slowly realized that no one noticed the tiny speck way off in the distance that was my fifteen year old self. I was having an increasingly difficult time keeping my head above water. Wave after wave after wave caught and tossed me. It felt like I was churning in a blender and there wasn’t enough time to get above water before another wave caught me and sucked me back under.

In my exhaustion I remember opening my eyes and looking up through the swirling sea-green water towards the sunlight just a few feet above me, wondering if I’d ever get back up there again. It was then that I had this idea come to my mind, the source of which I have no doubt. It said to me, “You’re tired. Just close your eyes and take a rest. Only a little one, to get your strength back, and then you’ll be able to swim back to shore.”

By then I was so far spent that this idea actually struck me as rational, and I decided to go along with it. Crazy, I know. But literally just as I was about to stop fighting and give myself over to the suggested “nap”, there came into my mind a voice like no other I'd ever heard. Distinct, kind and clear, it sounded for all the world to me like an audible voice, although I’m sure it wouldn’t have been audible to anyone else. And it spoke only one word: Pray!

This voice pierced right through the fog in my mind and instantly I snapped back to alertness and clarity. I responded to the voice by talking in my mind, saying “but I can’t pray, because I can’t get down to the bottom to kneel.” (It was deep!)

No sooner had I thought this than I had an experience which many have described as “their life flashing before their eyes”. This isn’t an easy one to explain. Unless you’ve experienced it yourself, it’s hard to understand how it could happen because our minds tend to think about time flowing linearly, like a river moving forward in a straight course. But in this case, time wasn’t the way we normally experience it.

It was as if I could remember every detail about my life ALL AT ONCE…which would of course be impossible under normal circumstances. And more, this recall happened all in the exact same moment, but without the memories being all jumbled and piled up. It didn’t take up time the way remembering even one of those memories normally would. But in this experience, the focus of the memories was to highlight all the times I’d been taught about prayer. How we can pray any time, and any where about any thing, etc. That it’s not something we can only do kneeling on the ground. It was as though I re-lived every Sunday School class and Primary lesson I’d ever been in, where I had been taught a true principle, but which I had yet to implement in my life.

My reply to this has always amused me in hindsight. I replied back in my mind with the words, “Oh. Duh.”, feeling kind of sheepish that I’d forgotten such a basic, foundational principle.

And then I prayed. Interestingly, I had never in my life said a prayer that wasn’t completely formal, with all the traditional “parts” included. But in that moment, from my swirly green position out in the ocean, I offered what was probably my first truly heartfelt prayer, and it was only five words long: Heavenly Father, please help me.

I woke up some time later and found myself laying on the sand, just above the water line. Apparently I’d been there long enough to get a little sunburn, but when I first came to and realized where I was, and remembered what had happened, I looked around to see who had rescued me. The beach was still packed…no one was allowed in the water past their knees. Yet not a living soul was paying any attention to me. No person had come to my rescue.

And then it hit me, the magnitude of what I had just experienced!

He really is REAL! Not only that, He Knows Me! And I MATTER to Him! My life was worth preserving, even though there really weren’t that many people back then who would have been impacted if I’d died. Before this, I was just barely surviving, and not doing a bang-up job of it either.

I was also simultaneously impressed with the realization that if He knew and cared about me, the “ugliest girl in the world”, then He clearly knew and cared about EVERYONE. That we all really do have a Father in Heaven watching over us.

That experience transformed my life then, and would again “save” me many many years later (another story for another time). For the rest of my teen years, no matter how unbearable things got, I could never set it aside. And I will always be grateful for that unseen guardian angel, whoever it was, who was sent to “swim me to shore” and lay me down in a safe place, looking for all the world like I was operating under my own power. For I am convinced that that must be what happened. I look forward someday to hearing their side of this tale.

Grateful for:

1) A Heavenly Father who loves us all

2) Guardian Angels, both those above and the many who are right here among us

3) Help when needed