Full Time Job.

What working eight hours a day

feels like:

Today,

I had to go to an orientation

for new employees.

I'm a new employee

because I have a different job now,

but me and UVU are like this.

*someone crossing fingers*

So I was familiar with

everything they went over

in the morning--

setting up your email,

Wolverine Wednesday,

tuition waivers.

Luckily,

we got a continental breakfast.

(Continental breakfasts

are becoming

one of my favorite things

in this world.)

I ate my maple donut,

then opened my apple juice.

Not until I tried to drink

out of it

did I realize

that half of it

was frozen

into a bottle-shaped

mass of ice.

So

for two hours,

I listened with one ear

and watched my frozen apple juice

s

l

o

w

l

y

m

e

l

t

I found this

on the internet.

I tried to figure out where

so I could cite it,

but that took me down

a large Pinterest rabbit hole.

365 Bits of Something.

On January 3,

I decided

that I would try to

write a blog post

every day

of 2015.

I don't know why.

It's a crazy idea.

I've always thought

that putting constraints

on yourself

to produce content regularly

makes the quality of your content

go down.

And yet

I somehow want to produce

365 bits of something

that I'm proud of.

But I like to write these

because I like finding words

to describe things

that I feel

in a way

that is worth

the time it takes to read them.

I like describing things

that other people have felt

but haven't put words to,

so when they read them,

they smile to themselves

and say, "Yeah!"

I like writing about people

that I like,

so that when they read them,

they get a little embarrassed

in the way that feels good.

I like the words

on the screen,

but also

the white spaces

all around them.

So here's to 359 more

of these.

via

The Best Two Years.

I met Genevieve

for the first time

two years ago

today.

I had seen her picture once before.

Amy said,

"This girl

might move in with us."

True story.

My eyes welled up with tears.

I said,

"Yes.

I want to share a room

with her."

I was right.

The past two years

have held

more opera

more journaling

more Crown Burger

more pagan rituals

more Old Testament

more runs

more International Cinema

more kitchen dance parties

and more love

than I could have hoped for.

At the end of the day,

I'm honored that

she wants to be my best friend,

because

she's the best person there is.

Magic.

On Friday,

I went to a concert

where everyone sat on the floor

and snuggled up with blankets

under a canopy of draped fabric

and Chinese lanterns

and dreamy, quiet music.

It felt like

I was inside

a magic lamp.

So naturally,

I asked myself

what it is

that makes something feel magical.

That night,
some of the magic
came from

twinkling white lights
and from

soft voices

that growl lowly from

the back of the throat.

But what I ultimately decided

is that

really, really liking something

is the only thing

you need

to create magic.

Whenever I really, really like something,

there's a soft golden glitter

around my heart

when I think about it.

Magic.

The Gift to Weep.

Usually, I like

that I'm a cryer.

I like crying

when people at work

do great things

and when I come down

the winding road

from Orem to Provo

and see the snow-covered mountains

and when people tell me

sad things

that have happened to them.

But on days like today,

at Target,

with an 8-pack of paper towels

under one arm

and a 24-pack of toilet paper

under the other,

when I misunderstood

the sale sticker

and try to clarify with the cashier

why it's $28 dollars

when I thought it would be $20,

and then she misunderstands me,

and gives me $28 of merchandise

for $15,

and I try to tell her

that she's wrong,

that she was right

the first time,

that I feel dishonest,

but she just gives me a look

like she's laughing at me

and says, "It's okay!"--

in moments like that,

I hate

that everything

makes

me

cry.

Screaming, crying

perfect storm

Three Girls and Scott Frodsham.

This is Scott.

(and his baby brother.)

And this is why

you want to be his friend:

He's the perfect companion

for any adventure,

whether it's touring fancy homes

or just going to the grocery store.

Not only does he

single handedly

plan trips to hike Mt. Timpanogos

so all his friends

can see the sun rise

from the top,

but when you're on the hike

and you're wimpier

than all the other girls,

he stays in the back with you

and doesn't make you feel dumb.

He lets us use him

for his television

and he doesn't even mind.

He always buys snacks

for everyone.

When you're his friend,

you realize

that whatever is happening

is wonderful

because it's happening to you

and you're living life

and doing something new.

Everyone needs a friend

to have hour-long conversations with

about goal setting

and why God has to be real.

Everyone needs a friend

who starts sentences,

"Here's a thought experiment..."

Who'll high five you

after you puke.

How does he do it?

Let My People Go.

I am so interested

by the movement

of the planets.

Even though we can’t feel it,

our little earth

is careening through space

in ceaseless revolutions

around the sun.

Maybe the sun

is like Pharaoh of old,

giving audience

to earth’s incessant imploring

to be let go,

but always hardening its heart

at the last minute,

requiring one more

humiliating year of orbit

and promising that

really,

no-really-I-mean-it,

this is the last one.

Maybe only God’s power

could part the tide

of the sun’s gravitational pull

and let the earth

roll straight through

to the freedom of deep space.

But the earth

may covet freedom rashly.

Space is cold.

And it may overlook

how important

its endless subjugation

actually is

for puny humans

trying to make sense

of their stay

on a little planet

careening through space.

We wouldn't have

days or nights

or seasons

or years

if the earth

weren't willing

to bear its servitude.

It’s okay, Earth,

if Pharaoh never lets you go.

Maybe orbit

isn't so bad.

After all,

we get to celebrate my birthday

every time

that you and the sun

stand in relation to each other

the same way that you did

on the day I was born.

If God parted the sea

and we went forward

to greater things—

the life of a vagabond

in the wilderness of space—

how would I ever know

how old I am?

Who’s to say

we wouldn't wander

in the wilderness

for 40 years?

And since we wouldn't have

years anymore,

who’s to say

that we wouldn't wander

like strangers in a strange land

forever?