The evils of hope

 For all of my life, hope has been touted as a positive thing. It's peppered all over religious teachings, scriptures, and quotes that are supposed to make you feel good. No matter how bad things are you can hope for something better. 

And hope in the context of my faith, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, has an even stronger connotation. Hope isn't about something that could happen someday, it isn't a "wouldn't it be nice?" kind of concept. Hope is believing in something that will happen, having faith in something to come and truly believing it will come to pass. 

So it may seem strange that in the last year of  my life, hope has felt less and less like something positive and in fact has felt like a strangling and depression concept. 

Those of you reading those know that I'm single, and some of you know that I haven't had much experience with relationships (2 boyfriends IF you squint and tilt your head). In addition to that, some of you know that I have been boy-crazy from a very young age. One of my sister's favorite stories about me is from a party I had when I was still in elementary school and she overheard me say to my friends "Okay, what should we talk about, boys or clothes?" If we're being honest one of my first memories is watching my mom teach piano lessons to some cute boys down the street. I would peek out from my bedroom while she taught them in the front room. 

My level of desire for dating, relationships, boyfriends, and all that comes with that has been a strong presence in my life from as far back as I can remember. I am, and this may come as a surprise to some of you, a huge daydreamer and I am constantly building scenarios of how I would meet, date, marry, and otherwise just be loved by my current crush/crushes (because for most of my life there were usually somewhere between 3-7 boys I was crushing on). So the fact that in all of that wishing and hoping and dreaming I have only really had 1 relationship (like I said, the 2nd one only counts if you squint) seems a bit like a joke on me by the universe. 

In all of that time, not getting kissed until I was 25, not getting asked to dances in high school, being asked on very few dates in college, I still had hope. I still expected (remember, I operate in that level of hope) to definitely get married. Not just because that's the narrative that was fed to me in my cultural landscape but also because I wanted it. I have always genuinely wanted to get married and I still want that. 

However, about a year ago, having that hope felt more and more like a heavy chain around my neck. I could no longer listen to the comments of "Just wait until you find him" or "Oh you'll definitely get married" or "You have plenty of time don't worry!" Especially when they were in response to me saying something benign in which I wasn't actually expressing sadness about not being married. I was just mentioning my singleness matter-of-factly and people who aren't in that situation often don't know how to respond and resort to calming phrases that once again rely on that doctinal hope that surely it will happen. 

But here's the thing - they don't know that it will happen. I can't expect it to happen. It might not and I needed to stop living my life as if it was just around the corner. The expectation made every bad date worse, made every terrible interaction on a dating app more frustrating, made every man that didn't show interest in me more devastating. The hope highlighted the failures. 

Now for the context of this experience I need to make something clear. The argument often used in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints that 'single people will be married in the next life' does nothing for me. I'm not worried about being married in the eternities, my loneliness is impacting me NOW. I'm not worried about my eternal life, I'm worried about my current life because that's the one I'm living with right now. 

So I made a choice about a year ago to stop hoping for marriage and to begin to assume that it wouldn't happen for me and I cannot begin to tell you how freeing that was. I no longer felt guilty about the bad dates, or devastated about the men that didn't flirt with me, and I deleted the stupid dating apps. The way I phrased it was that I had "given up hope" but I didn't know how to word that to people without them thinking I was in a deep dark hole of depression. How could I help them understand that giving up hope was actually the most freeing thing I'd done in years? So I largely kep it to myself. 

It wasn't until recently when I started to hear more about the story of Pandora's box that I started to really understand what I had done to the concept of hope. Pandora's box held all the evils of the world and when the box was opened they were released. The one thing left in the box was hope. It wasn't until recently that I started to read about interpretations of hope also being considered an evil - otherwise why else would it be in the box with all the other evils? And perhaps if hope had been released into the world it would be considered an evil, but as long as it remained contained in the box, separate from and away from the world, it wasn't one. Now I'm far from a scholar on Greek mythology and am in no way qualified to interpret this story critically, but finally I had encountered a narrative that acknowledged that hope was not universally good and peaceful and, for lack of a better word, hopeful. 

Hope contains great possibilities, but constantly being faced with possibilities that are not realities can be very difficult. Having hope constantly in front of you can be exhausting and demoralizing. While there have been times in my life where keeping that hope front and center in my life is the only way I could function, there are other times when hope just feels like its mocking me. 

So for now I'm keeping hope in the box, tucked away. I can't carry it anymore, I can't let it be a part of my life or my daily existence because it just isn't serving me. 

30, LDS, Single, and why ward activities don't work

Alright, I've spent basically my entire adult life as a YSA (Young Single Adult), and I've also spent basically my entire adult life trying/wanting to not be a YSA. And I've got a lot of thoughts y'all, but I'm just going to pontificate on one major thought here.

A question that my single friends and I ponder a lot is this gem "where do I meet people?". Now, this question didn't haunt me until after I'd graduated college because holy cow, meeting new people is the norm there. But once I became an adult and moved into a career (especially the female dominated career of education) I'm at a total loss as to where to meet people.

The obvious answer to these questions would seem to be finding people in these places: singles wards, singles ward/stake activities, institute. I get you, this makes sense. Logically, when you put a bunch of single people in one place they'll find each other and it will all work out. And obviously, this does work for some blessed people. But it seems to be not working for a growing number of people (hello high rate of single members of the Church of Jesus Christ). Let me give you one theory as to why.

But first some backstory.

I recently moved into a family ward, and I did it before my "expiration age" of 31. The reason I did that was because I was becoming more and more unhappy when I went to church. I had some promptings to check out the family ward. When I finally went there and sat down I was astounded at the lack of anxiety I felt. I was mostly astounded because I hadn't realized until right then that I'd been feeling constant anxiety at church for so long. This anxiety didn't have anything to do with my testimony, with questions or doubts or any kind of faith crisis. It existed only because I didn't know my purpose for going to church.

You see, when I was going to a singles ward I wasn't sure if the purpose of going to church was for me to partake of the sacrament, learn about the gospel, and buoy up my fellow saints, or if the purpose was for me to meet someone. And if the purpose was all of those things, then I was constantly failing at one of them. So I came home from every meeting exhausted and anxious and angry at myself because I hadn't flirted or asked anyone out or gotten anyone to ask me out (I literally can't remember the last time a human male has asked me on a date in person) or even been interested in anyone (the pickings get slimmer as you get older...). I wasn't able to go to church and just partake of the gospel because I felt like that wasn't the only reason I was there. This feeling was exacerbated by continuous single jokes, elbow jabs and winky eyes, and flat out counsel on dating and marriage, some by my fellow ward members, and some by the married leaders of our ward. My singleness was defining me.

But the problem wasn't me and my social anxiety (which, I mean, is not not part of the problem). The reason I wasn't meeting people, or flirting, or getting dates wasn't because I wasn't trying hard enough.

When you walk into a singles ward or activity, logically you would assume that they are there so they can all meet people to date and then marry. The problem is, that is definitely not why they're all there. Some people in the singles ward are terrified of committment and absolutely not interested in dating. Some people in the singles ward are dating someone seriously or are even engaged. Some people in the singles ward are gay and aren't interested in or don't feel capable of dating someone of the opposite gender. Some people in the singles ward just straight up aren't interested in marriage. However, nearly all of those people are going to activities on a regular basis because in order to feel like an active ward member they go to activities. How many EQP's (Elder Quorum President's) have I seen at ward and stake actitivies even though I know that they are incredibly engaged? Sure, I'm glad they're at the activity, I want them to be part of the ward. But if I'm supposed to meet someone by going to an activity, how do I know who to talk to in order for it to be an actually good use of my time? Especially when it's a stake activity and there are literally over 1,000 people there. So unsurprisingly what do most people do? They talk to the people they already know from their ward (and likely the people they already know they aren't interested in). 

So I ask my question again "where do I meet people"? Unfortunately the answer for me and many of my friends just hasn't been in the singles ward. (And do not even get me started on Mutual, that's a whole other blog post. Or seven.)

My proposals:

• Dry bars - I 3000% think soda places in Utah need to step up and host singles nights. Why have they not done this yet? I recently walked into my first bar to hang out with some colleagues (don't worry Mom, I just had water) and I got checked out more in that one night than in the last 5-6 years of singles wards. 
• SINGLES activities - I know this sounds like I'm proposing the same thing as above but hear me out. What if singles wards had activities for people who were actually single and actively wanted to change that status? So all those engaged EQP's? Yeah, you're not invited. 
• Actually set up your single friends like you totally say you will but never do - yeah you*, I'm talking to you. You say you know someone you'd like to set your friend up with and then you ghost them like a Provo bro on Mutual (all terms that if you haven't been single for the last 5 years you won't understand and be grateful) 

You have any proposals?

*the only person this doesn't apply to is my sister-in-law Sarah who is BOMB at actually following through and setting me up and she will receive so many blessings in heaven. 

*also Camille Crawley

Obedience School Rivalry

So I got a dog. And he's perfect. His name is Inigo Montoya and he's part border collie and part blue heeler.

Inigo and I the day we met. 

I found Inigo at an adoption event about two months before I was scheduled to move out of an apartment that wouldn't let me have a pet. And I didn't yet have a pet friendly apartment to move into. So it was pretty much a miracle that when my roommate, Elaine, found us a pet friendly place Inigo was still available. We were meant to be basically.

Once I got Inigo, I quickly realized something. I know nothing about dogs. I foolishly put a PILLOW in his kennel. 

He ripped apart all kinds of toys and I'll be honest I was also slightly scared of him because I didn't even know if he was a biter? Needless to say, I pretty quickly decided that obedience classes were a must because I didn't know what the h-e-double hockey sticks I was doing. 

So off we go to obedience school. And once I actually knew what I was doing, it turns out that Inigo is a genius! Since he's a mix of two herding dogs he is, according to one woman my roommate met on a walk "the smartest dog in the world". It's fact people. He caught on to everything really quickly. Except....for leash training. 

Leash training is rough guys. Because not only is it a difficult concept for dogs to not drag you around everywhere, but it's also something you have to face EVERY CHINESE DAY (which, fun fact, is what I thought the emperor said in Mulan at the end to Shang about Mulan until I was probably 25 and had been teaching world civilizations for a couple of years, and then I thought, oh dynasty. Yeah that makes more sense). Especially when you have a high energy, intelligent dog and you live in condo with no fenced in backyard. 

In order to find a way to muscle through this, I needed to find something to help me push myself. It came in the form of another dog in Inigo's obedience class. In Inigo's class there was a real mix of dogs, some puppies, some rescues (like Inigo), but most owners at least were on the same level. But one owner did not seem to recognize that. This owner was annoyingly smug and practicing all the time that our instructor was talking while the rest of their owners were just desperately trying to get their dogs not to hump or eat each other. Scenario: I am holding Inigo's leash real tight because all he wants to do is sniff the heck out of the puppy next to us. The puppy's owners are in a similar situation while we try to listen to our instructor's directions. There is a short pause in her speech, we quickly check our dogs to make sure we haven't choked them to death and there's Roux's owner, drilling his perfectly behaved dog while Inigo's face turns blue and his barks no longer come out because I'm holding on to his leash so tight. Pretentious little prick of a dog/owner combo. 

 Now, I took Inigo the first couple of weeks, but one week I had to miss because of a performance, so my roommate Elaine took him (we're co-parenting). After Elaine came back she told me all the lovely things they had learned that night and then she asked me what I thought about a certain dog/owner combo. It was Roux. Elaine asked me if I thought Roux's owner was a little on the full-of-himself-because-of-how-good-his-dog-was side. YES. I vehemently agree and kind of hate that guy! I was validated!

And so began our rivalry. While before it had been a chore to train Inigo at home and I had always felt like a failure, suddenly it was a competition! Beat Roux! And so we trained. And we trained. I mean it wasn't anything like a Rocky montage but we did some good stuff. Every time our trainer gave Inigo a compliment, I victoriously yet silently said "Take that Roux!". Before we went on walks to leash train I hyped myself up by yelling "We're gonna beat Roux"! This always got Inigo very excited. But I'm pretty sure it's just because I was jumping and yelling and pumping my fist when it happened. He loves jumping. 

Eventually we came to our graduation day. We had learned so many things, sit, stay, leave it, lay down, come. I mean, my dog is basically amazing. So for our final session our trainer decided to have us teach our dogs a fun trick: shake. 'Oh heavens', I thought, 'Inigo doesn't need to know how to shake that's just silly.' But when our instructor asked if any of the dogs already knew how to shake, I think we all knew whose owner raised his hand. That's right, up goes the hand of Roux's owner as our instructor goes over to show the whole class how shake works. And then that pretentious little dog shook his owner's hand....and I knew I had to get Inigo to shake at all costs. By the end of the session Inigo still couldn't shake. But he still got a certificate! So of course we had to get a graduation picture. 

We're still working on his modeling skills. 

Also his ability to wear a hat

We'll get there. 

There is a happy ending, because Inigo FINALLY learned to shake, a mere two months later...But he's so good at it that it's ridiculous.

Also, he can also jump on command! Take that Roux!

Now let's end on this perfect picture of Inigo and a peanut butter jar. Because we can. 

Disclaimer: Roux and his owner are actually lovely. I'm just obscenely competitive sometimes. 

The day I became a dinosaur.

It was my first year of teaching. Those of you who are teachers don't need the stage to be set at all, those are all the words you need. Anyone who isn't a teacher, let's just give you an idea.

For the first time, people are trusting you with their children's future. Suddenly, you are an adult who is in charge of a classroom and what goes on in there. It is both exhilarating and terrifying. It is empowering and daunting. And that combination of excitement and terror makes for some crazy power struggles in the classroom.

One of the first things you've got to do as a teacher is decide how to practice your authority. If you've only ever been a student, I'm going to tell you something about your teachers that may shock you. They were terrified sometimes. And depending on how much experience they had and what kind of students they had in class, they were possibly terrified more often than not. Now, being terrified can make teachers do crazy things. If I, as a teacher, am terrified that my students will see through what feels like a phony facade of my authority, I might react a little bit crazily. I might be angry when they do any little thing wrong. I might arbitrarily enforce or create rules for my classroom because I feel threatened. And I did all these things my first year of teaching. Because I was terrified.

This story is one of the first examples of how I stopped being quite so terrified and learned to laugh at myself and let my students do that to. It can be terrifying to be laughed at by teenagers unless you've learned to laugh at yourself.

But really, this is actually just a story about me turning into a dinosaur.

Shortly after the school year began came the dreaded day. Picture day. One nice thing about teaching school is if you hate your ID picture, you get a new one the next year. Since this was my first ID picture as a teacher, this felt like a big moment. After I got this card I could get all the cool teacher discounts (that are always at places so expensive that even if I use my teacher discount it still doesn't fit in my budget) and I could feel more legit.

On picture day I shepherded my students into the art room where the photographer was and waited for them, one by one, to get their pictures taken. Once it was my turn I dutifully smiled and hoped they would come out alright.

Now here's the thing, my pictures came out GREAT. In fact, one of the best school pictures of me ever. There was just one small problem. It was my name.

My last name isn't easy. It's fairly uncommon and is always mistaken for Jorgensen. If that was the mistake they'd make, I'd have rolled my eyes and moved on with life. If they'd gotten a step closer and put Yorganson, I'd have let out a small sigh and said "next year". But they didn't just change my name into some more recognizable and common.

They made me a dinosaur. And not only that. They made me a married dinosaur! In the scenario created by this ID card, there is a Mr. Yorgsar somewhere out there that I come home to every night. Maybe even little Yorgsars. 

Shortly after getting this mistake of a card, the principal assured me they would make a new one with my correct name. But I decided this was too good. I shared it with my students. And they loved it. It was even crazier than the nickname they had given me...

Yep. You read that right. Miss Yolomcswaggins. Middle schoolers .

Now obviously, getting these great nicknames and letting students laugh at me didn't change everything. They didn't suddenly respect me totally, I didn't stop losing it at them every once in a while. But it was a step. Honestly. Humor is the way I deal with difficulty. It's a gift (and a curse). And when I can bring humor into my classroom and allow my students to see that I can laugh at myself (my current way of doing that is by using hilariously outdated slang and pretending I'm cool) my students see that I know that I'm human. They accept my authority more readily. So there you go, use humor to create authority in your classroom. 

Well. Humor and dinosaurs. 

Mr. Pilates

This story has two important background points.

1. Due to nostalgia of my folk dance days and a stunning realization that my pants are starting to get real tight, my desires to work out have skyrocketed recently.

2. My hair has been chopped from super regular long 'do that I could have cut myself...

to a fancy, short, asymmetrical cut that makes me feel cool and edgy.

Cool and edgy people pose with Benjamin Franklin's printing press.

Now that you have the background. We can get to the story.

I resolved on Wednesday morning to start going to fitness classes. This is new for me. I was always able to dance my way into shape and then I left college and that's no longer an option. Now I actually have to do work out things, with spandex and gym memberships and running. And I don't know how that world works. I have never understood people with gym memberships who go to Zumba and Pilates and who own workout clothes. But suddenly, due to the aforementioned shrinking of my pants, I decided it was time to enter that world.

I spent the day at my summer job looking for fitness classes that seemed fun, non-threatening, and inexpensive. I quickly became overwhelmed because there are 1800 fitness studios just in my little piece of Salt Lake. I thought to myself 'Well I tried. I'll just figure it out later, like when all my pants split open.'

But fate didn't want my pants to split open, because when I got home that night and mentioned to my roommate that I had been looking for fitness classes, she was literally getting ready to go to a Pilates class. So of course I was trapped. I couldn't say no to a Pilates class after I'd just mentioned my commitment to health. So off we went.

Now, I made some bold decisions when dressing for this Pilates class. But I didn't realize how bold they were until I was holding a plank position while facing the mirror. Let's just say there was more of me visible than I've ever intended to show in public.

My roommate and I arrived about 5 minutes late. #classy. But we weren't as late as Mr. Pilates. Shortly after we came in and found a place to lie our mats, in he came. This man looked to be about in his 40's, black tank top and short black shorts, very tan, curly dark grey hair pulled into a ponytail. Exactly the kind of man you'd expect to be in a Pilates class really (although sidenote, 75% of that class was male so apparently the men of Millcreek are very interested in Pilates, or in the adorable Pilates instructor).

From the moment this man came into the room, he'd locked on to me. Remember in junior high when you totally thought your crush was looking at you, but you actually secretly thought you were just crazy or paranoid (just me?). Well, I've since learned that if it feels like they're looking at you, it's likely true. And this man's gaze was locked. Like uncomfortably locked. So the Pilates class was a mixture of trying to work my core, trying to not look like an idiot (that's just a constant really), and trying to avoid what seems like the lecherous gaze of this man.

Many thoughts ran through my head. I'm way to young for you dude. Wait, am I too young for him? Wait, he is kind of attractive. I mean, what is age really? No! He's old! Stop looking at me, stop looking at me. Why did I wear this shirt, it's showing everything! He's looking down my shirt, he's looking down my shirt....Oh no if we face this way he'll just stare at my butt the whole time. But mostly I just repeated over and over, 'stop looking at me, stop looking at me, stop looking at me.'

Well it didn't work. Homeboy gazed in my direction most of class and I felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Class ends and I roll my mat up and manage to put it away without saying anything to him. I must be in the clear. I've made it. I won't get asked out by middle aged Mr. Pilates. But then he corners me, and do you want to know what he said!?

"Who cut your hair?"

Yeah. Yeah. He's a hair stylist and he had not been lecherously gazing at me the whole class he had been looking at my sweet haircut and wondering who did it. And in fact he had some great tips for how to make it an even better cut next time. And once I knew that's all he wanted to say, I realized I probably seemed like a jerk the whole time. He was just trying to get my attention so I would give him some hair stylist deets and I pointedly avoided his existence during the entire class even though we were right next to each other for like an hour.

Sorry Mr. Pilates Man. Sorry for thinking you're a creep. You actually seem pretty cool.

Will you cut my hair?

The sunburn.

The last couple of years have been pretty crazy for me, and it's reflected in my blog. I'm trying to get back to reality and get humor back in my life. Because that's always been a big piece of me and I seem to have lost it in the post-college kerfuffle. And so I'm starting this attempt off, with a story about a sunburn. A story about the sunburn.

This past spring break (aka the second best time to be a teacher) I lucked out. The heavens rained down a blessing in the form of my best friend Amanda and I somehow having the exact same spring break as each other. This despite the fact that we teach on opposite sides of the country (me in Utah, her in Mississippi) and we both had spring breaks that were different than the schools around us. Hallelujah! Once we discovered this, we planned an epic road trip in the south with me coming to visit her.

Painfully unaware of the sunburns to come. 

And it was glorious. And I could probably write 15 hilarious blog posts about it, like the tiny bottle of complementary rum we got or the 3 in the morning knock on our hotel room door asking us where the money was. But that's beside the point. The point is, I got a sunburn. Let's backtrack.

Our original plan included a couple of days at the beach in Alabama while we stayed in a precious little cabin in a campground near(ish) the beach.

How precious is this cabin? On a scale of ladybugs to baby animals? And yes that is a swing you see on the porch.

This was a great plan, the only thing we didn't plan for was the fact that we are idiots. We both went to the beach with next to no sunscreen on. I put a minimal amount on my arms, chest, and back and then stopped there because I couldn't ever remember a time where my legs had ever sunburned. Maybe because I've always put sunscreen on them. Hindsight guys. Hindsight.

So Amanda and I lounged at the beach. And we looked adorable. The both of us.

Check out that hottie of a best friend. 

I've never looked cuter. But oh man did I pay for it. 

After a few hours of lounging/reading poetry aloud/seeing drunk college students and wondering what the heck the appeal of drunken spring break is (another side note, did you know there is such thing as a G-string fanny pack? Because that is definitely a thing we saw), I started to think 'I might be a little sunburned'. I didn't actually look sunburned, but I started noticing when I put my finger on my leg, I could see the white outline of the finger for a few seconds after removing it. I mentioned this to Amanda. She assured me I was fine, I didn't look sunburned. Spoiler alert: she was wrong.

We eventually packed up from the beach and started looking for a good seafood place, still unaware of the burns boiling in our bodies. At some point, my legs started to hurt a bit and I realized I did have a little burn. My legs were also starting to firmly protest to my wearing of jeggings (my staple leg wear) in the form of feeling slightly like they were on fire. So Amanda and I decided to turn back to a Target to get me some shorts.

Now the first step to trying on shorts is taking off your pants. And when I took off my pants, what did I see? My two lovely legs covered in a color somewhat akin to a mid-life crisis sports car.

What a lovely color, I think I'd like my legs to look just like it. 

It's funny, as soon as I realized how red my legs were, the pain became exponentially worse. And I quickly realized that even wearing shorts would be painful. Sadly, walking around with no pants wouldn't work for me (although I'd fit right in with those college kids), mostly just because I hadn't shaved in some time. (And I soon realized that I would not be able to shave again for even longer, holy smokes guys.)

I eventually picked out a nice maxi skirt, we picked up some aloe (as Amanda's sunburn was starting to set in as well) and off we went to our seafood dinner. 

I had insisted on finding a seafood place because I always thought I didn't like it until I had it fresh on the coast of the Adriatic Sea (did you catch my slight international travel bragging?) and since then when I'm on a coast I like to go for it. Amanda found this lovely place and we had an even lovelier waiter and we got a nice platter to share. This food was so good, but you see, the sun sickness was setting in. NO. So even though I hadn't eaten a meal in quite some time, this was my plate after I finished.

I took at least one bite out of everything, and then sat back and hated my life. 

I wasn't necessarily nauseous per se, which was a big fat blessing considering my phobia of vomiting. But I definitely didn't want any food. In fact, after dinner we had gotten s'more supplies for our little campsite, I attempted (and failed) to eat one s'more. I made it through maybe three small bites. (That campfire, by the way, is a pretty hilarious story in and of itself. I blame it on the fact that I only attended one full girls camp that Amanda and I needed serious help from our neighbors to get that sucker going. Even with matches.)

The next fun symptom was shivering, by the time we got back to the cabin I was freezing my buns off but I also didn't like anything to be touching my skin. Slight problem. I solved this by finding a good position in my bed and not. moving. at. all. under the covers. 

And the very best part came the next morning, after (very painfully) trying to walk to the bathroom near our cabin I had to quickly come back to the cabin for a few reasons. 

1. Blinding pain
2. A wave of nausea and a few telltale signs that vomit was forthcoming (NO) (also ps, I didn't throw up, thank the heavens)
3. You know those black dots you get when you stand up too fast? Well I had a bazillion of them and they wouldn't leave. In fact, they only left after I was sitting for a good five minutes. 

After a quick Google search that told me that I should most def seek emergency care Amanda and I drove back to her house where we both laid on the comfort of her cold, cement flooring. 

All in all, I learned a lot of things here. 

1. Wear sunscreen
2. Sun sickness is real
3. Wear sunscreen
4. Your legs WILL burn even if you don't remember them ever burning before
5. Wear sunscreen
6. Sunburns give you cankles
7. Wear sunscreen
8. Bad sunburns turn your legs purple and make you look like a dinosaur in the affected area for months
9. Wear sunscreen
10. You can't shave sunburned legs and when your sunburn is really bad, your legs won't look normal for months
11. And most importantly, when you're a white girl who rarely spends time outside because you're a weirdie and then you spend spring break much closer to the equator than you usually are, and are laying on a beach for a few hours...WEAR SUNSCREEN. 

Those opposed to #anyopposed

I don't know much about the group Any Opposed. In fact I had never heard of them until today and just opened their website up about 1 minute ago to make sure I had their name correct. I also wasn't even listening to conference at the time of the vocal opposition to the sustaining of the First Presidency and Quorum of the 12 Apostles. I was teaching munchkins to dance. So I was busy. BUT, after having seen what happened on Twitter and reading some articles, I found myself extremely disheartened.

And it's probably not what you expect.

Shortly after conference I went to Facebook, hoping to see other quotes and thoughts people had on conference from the session I missed. And what I saw were so many who were adamant about their support for the Prophet (fine), right alongside their anger and annoyance with the opposers (not fine). People who said "they should have given their tickets to someone else!" Or calling what they did "antics". Or asking why they are even in a church they are opposed to.

Let me tell you something.

I've been the one opposed. I've been the person who is in severe disagreement with the Church. I've been the one who feels like her voice will never be heard, her concerns never listened to, and her questions never answered. And you want to know why? It's because of you.

It's because it's socially acceptable to call out those who oppose and shame them. If those who have questions, doubts, and concerns aren't listened to, do you think those questions, doubts and concerns will just leave? They just magically disappear?

I have posted a couple of posts about my Mormon feminism. Here, here, and here. And what started as honest questions, doubts, concerns, and misunderstandings became deep, dark, cynical, angry thoughts. Now of course, I recognize my role in that. I will never pretend that I didn't choose to go that way. But let me tell you, I wonder what difference it would have made if I'd felt more comfortable to actually ask these questions in Sunday School or Relief Society. I wonder what could have happened if I wasn't hearing through social media that I should just leave the Church or I didn't truly understand the temple ceremony or I was a prideful sinner? All these from people who didn't know me, didn't know my life experience and why I had arrived at these ideas and concerns and questions.

What if when people mentioned doubts to you as a friend, or when you heard a dissenting voice in Sunday School, you honestly listened? What if you set aside your "preach" mentality and let them just open up and have their concerns? What if you trusted them that they really feel this way and it isn't because they're a sinner or they just don't understand, etc.? What if you were kind on social media and didn't use your tweets and instagrams and sweet little graphics to shame and guilt?

Listen to them.

Trust them.

Our Church should be one where all can feel welcome. Even for those with doubts, questions, concerns, and dissenting opinions. Especially for those with doubts, questions, concerns, and dissenting opinions. You'd be surprised how many people do. I only recently learned of a handful of friends I have who have had deep concerns and questions about the Church that has caused them to severely question the Church. Some have left, some haven't. But the secrecy of those questions and concerns makes me sad. While not all things need to be shared, if we are to be Zion, if we are to be of one heart and one mind, we should probably make more of an effort. Being of one heart and one mind doesn't mean "those people better conform to my views because I'm right". One heart and one mind means we all grow together. It means we have an eye "single to the glory of God". And do you remember what God is? God is love.

Unconditional love. True support. Unending patience. Eternal mercy.

If God wasn't those things, I wouldn't be where I am today. And neither would you. Please remember that next time you hear someone say something you disagree with.

*Please recognize that I'm not necessarily trying to chastise you, I just want you to be aware. This only sounds angry because I feel so very strongly about it.