The Archbishop.

I got a car recently.

He's a boy.

His name is the Archbishop.

I didn't want to give him

a regular name,

like Floyd

or Byron.

I wanted it to be more of a title.

Something that started with the word the.

I considered many things.

The Colonel.

The Duke.

The Silver Bullet.

And then

the Archbishop

popped into my head.

It was so silly,

but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

And the more you think about something,

the more it seems natural.

So the Archbishop he is.

When I ride the bus to work,

I say that I left the Archbishop

at the the monastery.

Sometimes when he has a hard time

getting up hills,

I say,

"Come on, Archie!"

But that's rare,

and it's extremely informal

and I don't think he appreciates it.

The Archbishop has a rule:

everyone must take turns

sitting in the front seat.

His favorite cd is

The Lower Lights - A Hymn Revival.

He could listen to that

over and over

all day,

every day.

.

.

.

I went and saw Les Miserables

with a bunch of friends last weekend.

The part at the beginning

with Jean Valjean

and the bishop

is arguably the best scene.

And I thought to myself,

"I feel so good

that my car is an archbishop.

He's the kind of car

that gives away his best silver

to help somebody

become an honest man."

This isn't the Archbishop himself,

but it very well may be

his cousin, the Cardinal.

Sometimes.

Sometimes you make chicken tikka masala,

but it doesn't taste like Bombay House.

Sometimes you blend up Sprite

and fresh fruit

and it tastes better than

Sodalicious.

Sometimes you come home from work

and it's 90 degrees

inside your house.

Sometimes you watch Project Runway

on a huge television

with a huge American flag hanging behind it.

Sometimes you end up

taking a cat nap

at seven p.m.

every night.

Sometimes your bedroom is so messy

that it's really just a closet

and you actually sleep on the floor

in the empty room in the basement.

Sometimes no one understands

why you think it's fun

to sleep on the floor.

Sometimes you get a FaceTime call,

and when you answer it,

you're on the phone

with a six-week-old baby.

Sometimes you do your hair

like your roommate did

when she was 12.

Sometimes someone knocks on your door

and tries to sell you tamales,

but you don't buy any.

Sometimes you plan a facebook status

in your head

for days,

even weeks,

and when you post it,

it's just as good

as you thought it would be.

Sometimes you look at your syllabus

for your first class

in grad school,

and you literally can't even.

Sometimes you almost buy boots

because fall will come someday

and you're going to need them,

but then you can't make yourself do it.

Sometimes you swim all the way

across the reservoir

and back.

Sometimes you buy a 44 oz drink

even though you know

that's more than a liter

and you are going to get diabetes.

Sometimes you realize

you'd be unhappy

if you didn't get to be you.

Sun Shower.

It started raining this afternoon

while the sun was shining.

I ran outside

in the hopes of seeing a rainbow.

The pavement under my bare feet

was damp,

but still hot

from the long day.

And of course,

all I could think about

as I vainly searched the grey clouds

for some sign of a rainbow

was all the names for sun showers

that you learn in dialect quizzes

like

the devil is beating his wife

and

pineapple rain

and

the monkey's wedding

and

the wolf is giving birth.

#foreveralinguist

In Love with Small Town America.

How am I supposed to answer
when people ask me

where I'd like to end up living?

I've only lived in Delaware and Utah.

And they're both great.

But what about all the other places

I've never lived?

What about all the places

I've never even visited?

Recently,

when I drove across America,

I realized how easy it was for me

to fall in love with a place.

Last weekend,

I went to Idaho for the first time.

I'd always prided myself

on never having been to Idaho.

(Just the way I pride myself

on never having seen Tangled.

I know it's stupid.

It's fine.)

But Rexburg stole my heart

right away.

The little straight streets
with trim green lawns,
the names of the apartment complexes,
like Viking Village,
the huge number of crows
hopping and squawking.

I think the sunset we watched
from the Rexburg temple grounds
had every color in it.

We even went to the dunes
and went swimming in a lake.

I loved it
and I loved how quickly I loved it.
My heart is just itching to visit
every town in America.
  

#perpetualfriendcrush

This is Wesley.

I remember the first time

I ever saw him

because he was wearing a yellow sweater

and it was a good moment

in my life.

Once he told us

about the small private school he went to
from kindergarten to twelfth grade.

When he started describing

the plaid ties,

I wanted to kiss his face.

Don't ask me why; I don't know.

But it happened.

But the reason I'm writing this

is not to reveal

that I've thought about

kissing him before.

So, ahem.

The reason is that
being friends with Wes
includes all the same emotions
as riding on a carousel.

A little part of you
becomes more alive
every time he talks to you.
.
.
.
I feel like I can imagine
how much care and love
our Heavenly Parents took
to create him.

It pleased Them
to make him so kind
and to give him the capacity
to think beautiful thoughts
and write beautiful words.
.
.
.

I'm convinced

that if you cracked open his soul,

there would be a butterfly there

or some other small, pleasant object,

like a little porcelain statue

of a cat

or a small array of dried wildflowers

preserved between the pages

of your favorite book.

Woodstock.

On July 4,

Provo put on

"Summertime Blues: The Songs of Woodstock"

as part of its Rooftop Concert Series.

It was the perfect concert

from beginning to end.

Starting with Jimi Hendrix's

iconic rendition of

The Star-Spangled Banner

and ending with

a hootenanny version of The Weight,

performed by a dizzying lineup

of Provo's movers and shakers.

I know I had a dumb smile on my face

the entire time.

How could I not?

They had everybody there.

The Who.

Jefferson Airplane.

Sly & the Family Stone.

Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

Joan Baez.

Creedence Clearwater Revival.

I felt like I was right there

in 1969,

and the hip grandma standing next to me

grooving to all the jams

only helped.

And as they were singing

the final put the load right on me,

the first fireworks burst in the air.

It was an overwhelmingly

glorious

moment--

so many beautiful humans

making such sweet tunes

for a crowd decked in

red, white, and blue

on America's Independence Day,

under fireworks,
mankind's greatest invention,

singing the same songs

our grandparents sang

to get out all their feels.

I really and truly and honestly

can't understand

why anyone who rather have been

at a Carrie Underwood concert.

Images via

When Best Friends Marry Best Friends.

Jon and Jessica came into my life

at the same time, actually.

I remember meeting Jon

and running into him a few days later

at the Cougareat.

He was surprisingly friendly.

We went to the Islamic art exhibit together.

He because the guy friend

that every girl wants to have.

Jon and I have no pictures together,

so here's a picture of Joseph Stalin

standing in for me.

At first,

I didn't know Jessica well.

But I knew that she was friendly and strong.

When we got to be roommates,

we found out that

we were just what the other needed

for that summer.

We did everything together.

She wasn't even mad

when I broke her blender.

Jess and me when we went to the rodeo.

Then Jess went on a mission.

Jon and I didn't see each other much

and I didn't write Jess much

but we were all still friends.

No question about that.

When Jessica came home,

she and Jon started dating,

and I knew they would get married.

They're both goofy

and they're both serious.

They both love to have good chats

and they both have

an insane amount of love in their hearts

to give.

There's something about

when best friends

marry best friends.

I love him.

And I love her.

And I love them together.

And I love their love.

And they both love me separately.

And they both love me together.

It's a blessed thing.

When Laura Bush Came to Town.

Last Sunday,

I went to a patriotic program

here in Provo.

Laura Bush was the keynote speaker.

Before she came out,

there were songs by a military band,

a speech delivered by a high school boy

full of Ronald Reagan quotes,

and stories of servicemen

and immigrants

who took American ideals

and lived them

with all their hearts and sweat.

Just a few minutes into Mrs. Bush's remarks,

while she was giving us

an intimate review

of her family's recent life events,

someone about twenty rows in front of me

started yelling.

He was yelling angry things

loud enough to disrupt the whole stadium.

I watched as first his wife,

then the security guards,

dragged him up the stairs

and out of the Marriott Center.

And I thought,

"Why would anyone do that?

That's so unkind."

And it was.

But it was also probably

the most American thing

that happened that evening.

Because that man

didn't have to fear being thrown in jail

and wasting away as a political prisoner

for the rest of his life.

Or worse,

being quickly executed

behind some building

and never heard of again.

That man had just as much right

to say how he feels

as anyone else.

He doesn't have the right to disrupt others

and no one has a moral right

to be so unkind.

But what happened there

was the messy side of democracy,

and I love that that side exists.

We'd be nowhere without it.