Three Things I Need to Say About Dating and Marriage

It’s an interesting thing to read through one’s blog archives, which is what I’ve been doing lately. It’s a little embarrassing too (yikes), but mostly it’s just interesting to see who I’ve become–to compare the person I am now to the person I was a few years ago. So much has happened. So much has changed since I first started blogging.

Of particular interest to me has been to read my attitude toward dating/love/marriage/men. How I saw it then. How I see it today.

Over the last year, I’ve formulated some conclusions regarding this aspect of my life–conclusions that have brought … peace, I suppose. Although that sounds a little dramatic, even for me.

The first conclusion was more a “stroke of inspiration” that came as I was sitting on the dock one evening in my backyard in Florida (back when I was living in Florida). I’m not even sure what I was thinking about to invite its entrance, but I know it came from God. I know what those thoughts feel like and this was one of them.

“It’s not your fault that you’re not married,” He told me.

I’ve had enough conversations with enough single friends to know that many of us quietly hold the belief that it’s our fault we’re not married. That for whatever reason–whether we did something, or didn’t do something, or weren’t enough, or were too much–we are responsible, in some way, for our lack of husband.

Too opinionated. Too confident. Too educated. Too successful. Too overweight. Too old. Not well-read enough. Not dumb enough. Not flirty enough. Not fashionable enough. Or perhaps it was that time when I was making some mistakes in my life so I possibly missed a spiritual prompting to go there, sit here, make eye contact with that guy. Too. Too. Too. Not. Not. Not.

But all of that is bull shit (yes, I said it).

It is not my fault that I’m not married. I didn’t do something wrong. I didn’t “miss” a “blessing.” And there is absolutely nothing, nothing, unmarryable about me (or you, for that matter)–be it physical, emotional, spiritual, or intellectual.

Multiple people have asked me, “How are you not married yet?!” with this sort of mix of incredulity and love/adoration that is, I think, supposed to make me feel good because it’s sort of a compliment, except it’s also sort of not. Because what you’re also saying with that question, is, “What’s wrong with you?” And I’ve never known how to answer. Until now.

I’m not married because I’ve not met anyone I wanted to marry (sans those four fellas, three of whom I was so wrong about and am so glad I didn’t snag) and I’ve also not met anyone who wanted to marry me. It has nothing to do with my face, or my thighs, or my opinions, or the fact that I don’t want to change my last name, or that I never watch the State of the Union, or that I would hands down choose the N’Sync Pandora station over NPR. I am not married because my life’s path has not led to marriage. Which leads me to my next conclusion.

I am living Plan A.

For so long, I’ve felt like I was living plan B and then C and then W. That because my plans–the plans I’ve been revising again and again, year after year–didn’t work out, I was living some alternate version of my “real” life. Certainly this wasn’t how my life was supposed to go, was it?

But yes. This is exactly how it is supposed to go. I am living Plan A. And it’s freaking awesome. Oh my gosh, yes, I wish I had someone to share this life with. Yes, I’m lonely. But holy crap. I know, and continue to meet, the most incredible people. I have a kick ass career. I have an adorable apartment (did I tell you I moved to Denver?). I am bright and intelligent and interesting and totally gorgeous just as I am, thankyouverymuch. This–my life–is an unexpected adventure, and a crazy one at that. But in short, it’s amazing.

Which leads me to Conclusion 3: I am totally and completely okay with the possibility of not getting married. (Mostly.)

I haven’t given up. In fact, I’m trying harder than I ever have to figure this dating thing out this year and find my forever. But at the end of the day, it’s okay if it doesn’t happen. I know how to do this life on my own. It’s not easy. Oh my gosh, it’s not easy. But. I can move to a new city full of strangers all by myself having driven my U-Haul across a mountain pass alone. I can do my own taxes. I can pay my own bills. I can work a full-time job and maintain a home and feed myself. I can fix the broken drawer in my kitchen and hang my own curtains and build my own shelves. I can keep up on my automobile maintenance and find the insurance and (usually) remember the registration. I have close and trusted friends I can talk through things with. When I need physical touch, I make an appointment with Jay, my delicious and dread-locked massage therapist, who gives me a right good rub down (yes, Jay, right there on those glutes, thankyakindly). I buy myself flowers every week. I mean, I’ve got this. I just … you just figure out how to survive. And then you begin to thrive. And I’m okay. It’s okay. (Mostly.)

Except when it’s not. But then I just try and remember. This is Plan A. And it’s not my fault.

2015 // one x one

I love new days. I love new weeks. And I love new years. I love fresh starts.

I also love setting goals. I’ve learned through the years, however, that setting too many goals is my downfall. I’m a lofty changer of self. Because of this, I also find myself failing miserably about a month or so in. So last year, I changed my tactics and set a handful of small but significant goals and I did them one and a time. This made all the difference. And this year I plan to do the same.

I also wanted to share my goal chart with you, should you find it helpful. It’s divided into four quarters (corporate girl, here) so you can set four goals this year. Try to focus on small changes or habits that will make you happy. Then do that ONE THING, ONCE a day.

Here are a few ideas to get you started: 1) Eat a vegetable at every meal. 2) Drink one glass of water for every can of soda you consume during the day. 3) Read to your children for 15 minutes every day. 4) Say a prayer once a day. 5) Meditate for 5 minutes each day. 6) Spend 15 minutes in the sunshine/fresh air every day. 7) Text someone everyday to tell them that you love them and why. 8) Read 3 verses of scripture before bed. 9) Save $2 in a jar every day. 10) Make out with your spouse for 10 minutes every day. 11) Floss your teeth. 12) Set a bedtime and follow it every night. 13) Put your phone away at 7:00 p.m each night and don’t touch it again until morning. 14) Choose to make a phone call instead of sending a text once a day. 15) Read a chapter a day from a book just for pleasure. 16) Take a walk.

Good luck! Click here to download the chart.

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The Buttons Go in Front: An Essay About That Time I Found a Lump in My Breast

“I think I just found a lump,” I said, interrupting her mid-sentence. I was laying on my back, still in my nightgown, bare feet with painted red toes propped up on a pillow, talking on the phone with my best friend about everything and nothing, my hand resting on my breast, poking and pushing the flesh around for no reason at all, when I felt it–a hard knot, just above and to the left of my nipple. I’m not an expert on my breasts–no one ever sees or touches them–but I knew enough to know that this felt out of place.

“You need to get that checked,” she said. “Now,” with firm emphasis. Apparently, I put things off. I haven’t had a flu shot in 15 years. I avoid check-ups. I hate annuals. This works for me because I floss and brush my teeth. And I eat my broccoli. But. Cancer scares the crap out of me. I always think I have it even when I know I don’t. When I was little and didn’t understand the whole chemo thing, and I had hair wash down the drain in the shower, I was certain I was dying. I even wrote a will once and put it in my underwear drawer so my parents would find it after my funeral. I still remember–I bequeathed my scriptures and journal to my parents and my jewelry box, stuffed animals, and New Kids on the Block posters to my sisters.

But anyway. The lump. This was different. It wasn’t theoretical. I wasn’t eight years old anymore with a weird predisposition for thinking about death. I could feel this foreign thing with my own two hands, thus making the cancer fear no longer an intangible supposing but a possible reality. I mean, it could be …

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What Happened When I Quit the Like Button

About a month and a half ago, a friend of mine posted an article on Facebook written by a woman who stopped using the “Like” button on social media. I found it to be an interesting idea, especially since I was growing weary of Facebook.

I’d contemplated deleting my account, but just couldn’t bring myself to do it–what about all my connections! I didn’t want to lose touch with people. And yet–I was hardly connecting. And that was what I’d grown weary of.

I’m also a marketer by trade–a professional communicator, if you will–and you can’t just up and walk away from Facebook when you’re in the business of marketing.

Still, my feed was full of pointless videos and quizzes (oh, the quizzes!) and advertisements. I felt like I had to scroll through miles of sludge to find the stuff that actually mattered to me. But after reading the article, I wondered … what if I took back the reigns of my feed? How would it change my experience?

At first it was incredibly difficult. During those first few days I would, simply out of reflex, click the Like, and then quickly unLike it when I realized what I’d done. I had no idea I used it as much as I did. Essentially, the Like button is the proverbial head-nod on social media–an attempt to say, I see you. I acknowledge you. Oh, cute baby–Like. Congrats, you got engaged–Like. Way to go, you got a new job–Like. Cool vacation photo–Like.

But why not just say those things? It’s almost like we need to be told, like toddlers, “USE YOUR WORDS.”

So that’s what I did. When I felt compelled to Like something (on Facebook or Instagram or a blog), I’d quickly think about why I wanted to Like it and then I’d write a comment to that affect. In the beginning this was actually harder than it sounds. Sometimes it really took effort to craft a comment. And of course it took time. And sometimes I felt all introvert-ey and didn’t want to “talk” to anyone. But I tried anyway, to find my words and use them–to walk across this digital room and symbolically put my arm around my friends and say, “Great job.” “I like this.” “Thank you for sharing your life.” “Your family is beautiful.” “What an amazing experience that must’ve been.” “What an interesting idea.” “You are kicking butt. Keep it up.” “That’s hilarious.” “That must’ve been difficult. I’m sorry you’re having to go through that.” “I think you’re incredible.” Because, good grief, isn’t that the point? To stay in contact, to connect, and to communicate?

This experiment also meant I had to stop Liking comments my friends left on my posts. This too was difficult. I didn’t want them to think I’d ignored what they said. So I had to either trust that they knew I saw and appreciated their comment or take the time to engage in the thread with them. I do both. I just don’t have time to leave every comment I want to or respond to every comment left for me and I’m okay with that.

In addition to swearing off the Like button, I cleaned up my feed. Whenever someone shared what tropical flower or mythical creature they were, I’d click on that little arrow in the upper right corner of their post and tell Facebook to never show me quizzes by that company again. (This routine actually applied to any website or company I don’t want in my feed. And you guys, I like quizzes and self-realization as much as the next guy, but seriously–Why do you want to take a quiz called “How Bitchy Are You?”, let alone share the results with the world? Not EVERYTHING needs to be shared on Facebook. Furthermore, with every link you click on, your data is stored. Google follows you all over the internet. So does Facebook. Be a little more mindful, and careful, about where you’re walking and spending your time. Okay. Soapbox abandoned. For now.)

When ads would appear, I would tell Facebook whether I liked it or not. I still get ads of course, but Facebook is getting better about serving me relevant ads for products and services I’d actually use, because I’m telling it what I like and don’t like. But in general, my feed now has more humans and less ads, more stories that matter and less junk.

I also went through my friends and made sure that the people in my feed were the people I wanted to see. I didn’t have to delete anyone because I’m pretty choosey about who I “friend” to begin with, but I did categorize the list by 1) really good friends I want to stay current with on-the-daily, 2) so-so friends I don’t talk to regularly but would still count as meaningful relationships in my life, 3) acquaintances I want to check in on every now and again and don’t want to lose touch with, but we only kind of know each other.

Here’s how things changed with this experiment:

Since quitting the Like button, I’ve found myself volleying comments with friends I haven’t spoken to in years. The number of private conversations I’ve received via Facebook’s messenger has increased. I actually like checking in on Facebook now. And it’s also bled beyond the boarders of my social media profiles. The number of text convos I’m engaged in is greater. I’ve had more actual conversations with friends, voice to voice, over the phone. And when I’m in person with others, I find that I’m more apt to ask questions and involve myself more fully in the depth of the conversation. In general, everything is more conversational, more acutely focused on the people in my life.

Which, for this professional communicator, was the whole point. (I’m pretty sure my love language is good, deep, real, conversation.)

All this to say–I quit the Like button and I’m not going back.

*I would like to add, however, that I don’t hate the Like button and bear no judgement toward anyone who uses the Like button. It certainly can be a helpful tool when browsing social media. But what if we all paid a little more attention to how much we used it, and instead, talked to each other more?–just an idea.

Let Us Be Faithful

A couple Sundays ago, it was “fast Sunday.” As Mormons, once a month (typically the first Sunday) we refrain from eating or drinking anything for two meals. We do this as an expression of sacrifice–showing the Lord that we are willing to control the appetites of our bodies so that our spirits can be more receptive. Generally, we approach fast Sundays with a purpose–blessings we are seeking (whether for ourselves or for someone else), direction, answers we are in need of, etc. In addition to the fast, we take the money saved from those two meals and give it as a “fast offering.” That money is then used to feed, clothe, and provide temporal welfare to those in need in our immediate geographical location.

Well, this last fast Sunday began and I “opened my fast” with prayer so as to present my purpose before the Lord, and then I headed to church. The sacrament and worship service began and I contentedly listened to the sermons of testimony from my fellow church-goers (As is also customary on fast Sunday, the pulpit is open to the general membership to share their witness of Christ as they feel inspired.). At one point, I wanted to write down something someone had said, so I reached in my bag to get a pen, but instead found a package of SweetTarts. Happy day! Without thinking, I opened it up and popped all three in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

That’s when it hit me. I’d just broken my fast. Why my brain couldn’t register that fact 10 seconds earlier is beyond me (and totally annoying). My first thought after that was, Welp. So much for that fast. I didn’t event make it two hours. What will I have for lunch?

But then I thought, Krista. Okay, you ate something. Yeah, you broke your fast. But don’t throw the whole thing away over three SweetTarts. Keep fasting. You can still offer this sacrifice, despite its imperfection. Just start again.

Maybe it’s only me, but I think we do this same thing with our lives. We make a mistake, we sin–and then we sin again, and then again. We miss a night or a week or a year of scripture study. We forget to say our morning prayers or maybe we stop talking to God altogether. We skip Church one week and then suddenly it’s been three months since we’ve found ourselves in a pew. There are a million other examples. And it’s easy to feel hopeless, there’s no point, why try?

But this is the beauty of Christ’s atonement–it’s the eternal reset button. You can always begin again. So what if you ate the SweetTart and broke your fast? So what if you missed a week of scripture study? So what if it’s been a while since you’ve been to church? Restart. I truly think that the only time Heavenly Father is really disappointed in us, is when we stop trying.

This point was reiterated to me tonight as I read my scriptures. I was studying the Book of Mormon where the prophet Nephi and his three brothers are commanded to go back to Jerusalem to get the scriptural record. (For a bit of context: He and his family have just been led into the wilderness by the hand of the Lord because of the impending destruction of the city.)

So. There is the commandment: Go back and get the record. To which they obey (albeit with a bit of complaining from two of the brothers). But once they get there, they’re faced with a quandary–how are we actually supposed to get the record? It’s locked up and guarded. We can’t just walk in and take it. And here begins their series of attempts.

On their first try, they send one brother in to simply ask for the record. He almost gets killed for making such a seemingly absurd request. At this point, the account says, “And we began to be exceedingly sorrowful” (emphasis added). All of them, Nephi included. They had tried to keep the commandment, but they had failed. Three SweetTarts down the hatch.

But in the very next line, we find the differentiating quality between Nephi and his brothers: “And we began to be exceedingly sorrowful, and my brethren were about to return unto … the wilderness. But behold I said unto them that: As the Lord liveth, and as we live, we will not go … until we have accomplished the thing which the Lord hath commanded us. Wherefore, let us be faithful in keeping the commandments of the Lord.”

So they try again and attempt No. 2 goes about as well as attempt No. 1. To recap, they’re 0 for 2. At this point, to paraphrase, Nephi’s brothers are ticked and they start railing on him (with an actual rail). But then an angel appears and tells them to knock it off, the Lord will deliver. As soon as the angel leaves, the brothers question, “How?!”

But Nephi responds: “Let us go up again … and let us be faithful in keeping the commandments of the Lord … let us go up; let us be strong … the Lord is able.” Nephi then goes alone, and, as he puts it, “was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which [he] should do. Nevertheless, [he] went forth.”

So. Nephi, twice unsuccessful in accomplishing the thing that the Lord asked him to do, doesn’t give up, he goes forward. He tried, again, totally uncertain about how attempt No. 3 would go. But his confidence wasn’t in himself or in his abilities. “The Lord is able,” he says (emphasis added).

All this to say: Don’t give up. So we mess up. Try again. Restart. Our imperfect and broken offerings are made perfect through Christ. We may not be able, but HE is.

Wherefore, let us be faithful.



Where Was I

I have purposefully never posted anything about 9/11 on my blog or Facebook page. Each year, I’ve passed the day with a reverent silence on social media–but it hasn’t been silence out of respect, as one might presume, although I do, very much respect. I’ve been silent, because I haven’t known what to say. Or more truthfully, I had nothing to say. There has always been this part of me that feels like a fraud trying to join in on the conversation.


I have never cried over September 11, 2001. I never hurt or felt the fear, numbness, and confusion that so many have told me they felt. Honestly, I have absolutely no frame of reference for the events of that day. I’ve often heard older people talk about “where they were” when JFK was shot. And I hear the same thing from my generation in regards to the terrorist attacks on 9/11. “Where were you?”

Where was I?

I was serving as a Mormon missionary in the state of Washington. My companion (you’ll always find us in twos) and I had been assigned to teach and minister to an area covering two cities on the west coast of Puget Sound–Kingston and Bainbridge Island.

It was a Tuesday morning and just like every Tuesday morning, we had gathered at the church for a meeting with all the other missionaries in our zone. A zone includes roughly 20 missionaries from about eight or so cities in the area, and each week, we came together to report our successes, discuss our struggles, and receive spiritual instruction.

When Elder Snyder walked in that morning, he said one of the members of his congregation had called to tell them that the United States had been attacked. My immediate reaction was disbelief–not as in shock, but as in, I really didn’t believe him. I told him that someone was just messing with him.

As missionaries, the popular culture media intake is zero. No television. No radio. No computer. No newspapers or magazines. No cell phones. (At least that’s how it was “back then.” Things have changed a little bit since 2001–missionaries now have cell phones for missionary purposes only and they often use iPads in their lessons, proselyte via Facebook, and email their families each week.) So when Elder Snyder said we’d been attacked, I had no way to confirm it, and as it seemed ridiculously unbelievable, I didn’t believe him. We went about our meeting and then headed back to our areas.

For some reason, my companion and I decided to check in at home before we went to work for the day (probably because the only way to check our voicemails was through the answering machine attached to the wall in the kitchen). When we pushed play, we found that we too had multiple messages from members of our two congregations telling us that two planes had crashed into the World Trade Centers, that the United States had been attacked by terrorists.

Apparently, it was true. It was for real. But still, we hadn’t seen any images and so, for me, the whole thing was very difficult to place. We said a prayer and went out to start knocking on doors.

Everyone we encountered that day was glued to the television. Someone finally invited us in and I do remember the first time I saw the buildings. It was in a dark living room on a small TV with silver nobs. The two buildings were still standing, but they were on fire with smoke billowing. We prayed with the family and kept moving through the neighborhood. I never saw the buildings fall.

When I returned home at the end of my missionary service six months later, in my gorging on all the “missed media” (PS: Returned Missionaries, I do not recommend this.), I watched a documentary about September 11 with my dad. But as I did so, I found that I watched with what I can only describe as detached lenses. It was the first time I’d seen the depth of the coverage and breadth of the attack. It was the first time I saw the Trade Centers crumble. The twisted metal. The dust covered faces. But none of what I saw seemed real. I felt like I was watching a Hollywood blockbuster–nothing more than special effects at their finest. It didn’t really, couldn’t really happen–not in real life. And I’ve realized, that for me, in a sense, it didn’t.

For a long time, I’ve felt ashamed because of that–ashamed that I haven’t felt any anguish when it comes to that fearful and horrific day–like I shouldn’t be allowed to be an American anymore because I didn’t cry, didn’t feel anger, didn’t feel fear. And there is a disconnect between me and my fellow countrymen because of that. I feel like a foreigner looking in. But, I have no memories from which to draw those feelings. In lieu, there is only empathy. My heart does break to hear the stories, sincerely. But even that seems too little. When 3,000 people die as a result of such pure evil, there just … there should be more than empathy. I want more than empathy.

But as I’ve thought about “my” September 11, 2001 this year, for some reason, rather than remembering all the things I didn’t see and feel, I’ve been thinking about what I was doing. The slide show of pictures that keeps flashing in my mind is this: dozens upon dozens of front doors, my scripture-filled satchel bouncing against my black rain coat, and miles of sidewalks.

That whole day–that whole week actually, and on through the month–from sun up to sun down, we walked, knocking on the doors of strangers, offering to pray with them. Some declined. But many opened their homes–homes that normally would have been shut to us. In the face of fear, in the face of horror, in the face of uncertainty, tragedy, death, and war, we were able to bring a measure of comfort, hope, and light. We were able to remind people that God is there, even, and especially, in the midst of suffering and pain.

And for the first time, in thirteen years, I’m proud of my “Where were you on September 11″ story. I wouldn’t trade the miles walked or feelings not felt for even an hour of news that day. My heart still longs to give more than empathy, but maybe the giving of comfort makes up for it.

Today, as we commemorate this anniversary, I hope we can remember. But more than remembering the terror, let’s remember humanity. Let’s reach out to those who might be living in fear, who have experienced loss, who are struggling to find a sliver of hope. Let’s be kind. Let’s give love. Offer a smile. Hold a hand. Hold a door. Let someone else go first. Say hello. Say a prayer. How can you make someone’s day better?

And to those who lost in every way that day, you are on my mind today. I’m pushing my love through space, willing it to land in your sphere, along with my prayers to heaven on your behalf. I hope you feel them buoy you up.


How I Came To Be Living In Florida

Frit’s and my home, on the night I pulled out of the driveway and shut the garage for the last time.

Last May, when I knew Frit was about to get engaged, I started looking for a new place to live. Once she got married, she’d be moving to Iowa and I didn’t want to live in our house without her. There was also no way I’d be able to cover the mortgage on my own and I had zero desire, at 34, to start again with new roommates. Salt Lake City seemed like the logical place to look. It was closer to work. And it would provide a (sort of) “fresh start” in a (sort of) new city. I looked at dozens of apartments, but I couldn’t find anything that felt right.

Some might say that doesn’t matter–the “feeling right” bit. Just go where you want to go. Be where you want to be. Make a choice and God’ll use you wherever you land. But I firmly (stubbornly) hold to my expectation that Heavenly Father owes me at least that–a place where I can tangibly feel confident that it’s exactly the right place, at the right time, for me. If I’m to live this unexpected life on my own, then yes, He owes me at least that. (“And hardwood floors, a garden plot, and a walk-in closet, would be nice too,” I told Him one night, only half joking.)

But like I said, nothing felt right. Pretty soon Frit had the ring, and I felt the pressure. I began to feel very frustrated and very anxious. I kept searching, but to no avail other than stress. Plus, I was just … heartbroken. I would miss her so desperately. And I didn’t want to leave our house. Our happy, peaceful, welcoming, spirit-filled-garden-in-the-back-neighbors-we-adore house filled with seven years of memories. I just wanted everything to stay how it was.

Eventually, I asked my brother-in-law to give me a priesthood blessing for peace, direction, and clarity. Then I prayed my heart out in search of the answer. And the answer I received, quite clearly, was:

Krista, God is not frenzied. Calm down. I’ve got this. I’ve got you. And I’m taking care of it.

After that, I stopped. I stopped thinking about it. I stopped looking for somewhere to live. I figured that when “my place” opened up, wherever whenever, I would just somehow know. (As a sidenote, can we stop to pause on the awesomeness of that answer to my prayers? Seriously, it’s one of my favorite answers I’ve ever received and I’m so glad I have it written down. I love my Heavenly Father so much and I’m so grateful He talks to me and says it how I need to hear it.)

A few weeks later, my sister called. She didn’t know that Frit was engaged, nor did she know that I was looking for a new place to live. When she called, she was in Florida visiting our Grandmother, and the first thing she said, with incredulity, when I answered the phone was, “Are you moving to Florida!?” “What?” I said back. “No, I’m not moving to Florida. Why would I move to Florida?”

“Well, Erica and Dustin [the young couple who'd been living with and caring for Grandma since our Granddad passed away] just bought a house, so they’re moving out in September and Grandma told Erica that you’re coming to take care of her.”

“No. I’m not moving to Florida. I don’t know why she thinks that, but I can’t move to Florida. My whole life, my job, everything, is here.” And we hung up.

But the question lingered. “Are you moving to Florida?”

Looking back, I’m certain my heart knew it the moment she said it, that it was right. Yeah. I totally knew it. And the timing—uncanny. (In other words, providential.) But still, it seemed so absurd.

A few days passed and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I approached my boss “just to see” if it was even possible. Could I work remotely? Would they support such a move? My job was really the only concrete thing I could see standing in my way. I was already losing everything else–Frit, my home, my church family, my calling, my friends, my neighborhood, my book club, my quilting group, etc. And so I told God that if Florida was right, then He’d have to remove the work obstacle. If He did, I’d take that as a sign that I was supposed to go.

Well, it turned out, my company was (of course) super supportive. My boss and our CEO said they’d be willing to allow a flexible work arrangement if I decided to relocate. At that point, “sign” or no “sign,” I continued to sit on it.

Do I really want to go live with my Grandmother? In Florida? At 35? Single? I might as well get a damn cat too and call it a day. On the flip side Gram needs help. She can’t live alone. And I love her. This would really help her and it would help my family. I’m certainly in unique a position to go–no husband, no children, a flexible job. Is Florida really right?

All along, I knew Florida was the answer. But I wasn’t ready to admit it, so I didn’t. Eventually, the rightness of it bubbled to the surface anyway, as rightness is wont to do, and so I said it out-loud to someone other than Frit, just to try it on for size. Then I cried really hard (for thirty days in a row according to the tally marks I kept on a piece of paper beside my bed) and that was that. The plans were made. I was moving to Florida.

My last month in Utah was a whirlwind. I found myself living each day in a state of frantic nostalgia, racing to see everyone I wished I’d spent more time with when I’d had it and doing everything I’d meant to do over the last 16 years, trying to soak in every molecule of my last (last?) Utah summer. And of course, my last days with my best friend, the way it was–just the two of us.

But despite my best efforts to stretch the moments, I blinked and the summer was over, and there I was, sleeping on an air mattress in a very empty, very echo-ey house. She was married, moved out, and gone. One month later, it was my turn.

I packed my little silver car to its gills with the essentials–more books than clothes, my sewing machine, a box overflowing with watercolors and fabric, two computers, one oscillating fan, my cello, and a box of photos–and put the rest in storage. Dusk was falling with a misty rain as I pulled out of the driveway on that early October night and closed the garage door for the last time. I cried all the way out of Utah and well into Wyoming.

Now, here I am. I live in Florida on the banks of a river, and spend my days caring for my Grandmother and working from home, trying so hard to just be where God wants me to be.

And goodness, there is so much to write about these last eleven months (there’s always much to write, isn’t there?), but there’s the beginning at least.


In Defense of Faith

Over the last few years, a handful of my dearly-loved friends have left the LDS (Mormon) Church for a number of reasons including, but not limited to, the recent disciplinary action taken against a couple of our members who have publicly spoken out on (and organized protests in response to) issues they think the Church is handling incorrectly or is just plain wrong about, the Church’s strong stance regarding gay marriage, feeling out of place as an “older” single in a family-centric religion, and frustrations with LDS culture.

A lot has been written from all the sides of all these issues, and while I do have opinions about Kate Kelly’s excommunication, gay marriage, women’s equality, finding one’s place as a “mid-single,” etc., this post is not that post. This post is an essay in defense of faith.

A couple weeks ago, one of my Primary children came up to me after church to “pass off” the 4th Article of the LDS Faith. (Primary is our name for Children’s Sunday School and I give the children treats, i.e. I shamelessly bribe them, when they memorize each of the 13 Articles of Faith.)

He began, “We believe that the first principles and ordinances of the Gospel are: first, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, second …” and then he got stuck. He tried it again, but couldn’t get any farther on the second try. He gave it one more go, but again, the same thing. I smiled, gave him a high-five, told him that I knew he had this, and to go home and practice it for one more week and then come back and try it again the following Sunday.

But those words stayed with me: “First, faith…” That is the foundation of all other Gospel principles—belief.

Faith noun \ˈfāth\ fidelity to one’s promises : sincerity of intentions : belief, trust in, and loyalty to God : belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion : firm belief in something for which there is no proof : complete trust :  something that is believed especially with strong conviction, especially a system of religious beliefs (Merriam-Webster)

…faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things; therefore if ye have faith ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true (Alma 32:21)

In the last General Conference of the Church (April 2014), Sister Jean A. Stevens, First Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, delivered a sermon titled, “Fear Not: I Am with Thee,” in which she said this: “As we develop greater faith and trust in the Lord, we can access His power to bless and deliver us.”

This made me ask (and I continue to ponder the answers to these questions): What does that really mean? How is that possible: have faith –> access God’s power? Why is faith the “access key” to his power? Does greater faith lead to “better” access? Faster access? More acute access? If so, why? What is “greater faith”? How does one develop greater faith? How could my faith be greater? How can I be better at believing in God?

I think sometimes, within the Mormon Church, we’re so proud of all the knowledge we have access to. And certainly, with good reason. We believe the fullness of Christ’s Gospel was restored through Joseph Smith! We know so much about the Plan of Life/Salvation, the Priesthood, the Godhead, our pre-mortal and post-mortal lives, etc. In fact, our testimony meetings* are filled with countless declarations of what people “know.” And obviously knowledge is good.

But I’ve come to think that perhaps we focus too much on the “I knows” and neglect the “I believes,” the “I hopes,” and the “I have faith ins.” I don’t know that knowledge, particularly spiritually discerned knowledge, is what gets you through the hard spells in life (or times when you don’t understand doctrine or policy). Spiritually discerned knowledge is hard to hold on to, especially when the physical world around us pulls and prods and falls apart—when all signs point to the opposite of your knowledge being true.

When the apostle Peter stepped out of the boat, he had a knowledge that Jesus was there on top of the water too. He could see Him with his own two eyes. Walking on water was possible. He could also hear Christ’s voice bidding him, “Come,” with His own two ears. Christ Himself was telling Peter that he could do it, that he should do it. So I’d say Peter’s knowledge was certain. He had tangible, sensory evidence. But when he saw the crashing waves around him, he sank, and Jesus gave the reason: “Oh thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?”

Peter’s knowledge didn’t keep Him afloat. And his lack of faith made him sink.

Knowledge isn’t the pre-requisite to salvation, faith is. So many people don’t join our Church because they don’t “know” if it’s true. And so many people leave the Church because there are things they don’t understand, things that can’t be explained, doctrines and policies that don’t fit within the box of knowledge they’ve built for themselves.

But at the end of the day, all there is, is faith. In other words: Can you believe when all signs point to no? Can you hold on only to hope, even when it’s hard to do so? Can you choose faith when it doesn’t make sense? Or rather, will you?

Please, do. Please don’t abandon your faith. Keep your promises. Hold on to the sometimes thin threads of hope. I know it’s hard sometimes. I really do. There are so many things in life, in the Church, that don’t make sense, that hurt, that confuse, that worry. But it’s okay if you don’t “know.” And it’s okay to not understand everything right now. This just may be the “trial of faith” the prophet Moroni was speaking of. But the witness will come! It will. I don’t know when. But it will come. I believe that. I hope that. Believe in God. Just Him. Only Him. And please don’t leave. Here, you are needed. Here, you belong. Here, you are loved.

Further reading that I can’t more highly recommend from my two favorite Apostles:

A sermon by Elder Jeffry R. Holland  (READ | WATCH)

A sermon by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf  (READ | WATCH)

Seriously, if you don’t have time today, please bookmark/pin/share this page and come back to read or watch their addresses.

*Testimony meeting generally occurs on the first Sunday of each month. Around the world, in every Mormon congregation, instead of prepared sermons, the meeting is opened up to the general membership to come the pulpit and share the witness of their faith.





Looking for a Polygamist. Or a Pilgrim. Or a virgin. (Or in other words: My adventures in dating.)

I’ve decided to change my dating tactics. This look is called, “How to snag a polygamist. Or a pilgrim.” #eatyourheartoutMarthaWashington #onlythecoolkidsstillwearfrenchbraids

Dating is so far from my mind right now (Who has the time?). But I found these snippets (filed away in my book of special memories) from another one of Frit‘s and my forays in online dating. When will my membership eeeeeennnnnnddddd? And whyyyyyy did I sign up (again) in the first place? Anyway, if you missed the last installment or need a moment of comedy today, click here. There are some doozies.

P.S. Nothing has been changed in these excerpts. All errors–be it grammatical, spelling, punctuation, or personality–belong to the owner.

1. The subject line for this little ditty was: “You are a little mysterious.” (Which is, like, totally what I was going for.)

You did not include very much info in your profile. This has created some bit of mystery about you that has got me curious about what makes you tick. You are either a genius to have figured out how to make guys curious about you or you are just smart enough not to put tons of personal info up for the world to see. I wish I would have thought to do that!
I would tell you all about me but I think I will take a page out of your book and just keep you guessing. Are you feeling the mystery? Are you dying to know more about what makes me tick? If so, and you know you are drop me some lines. I would love to hear from you as much as you now want to hear from me.

He gets me. I am, in fact, dying to know more.

‘Cept not.

2. “Greeting from [name withheld for the protection of this poor guy]“:

I was abandoned as a child on the side of a quiet road in the middle of nowhere, USA. Fortunately for me a kind and caringpack of wolves happened by and took me in. As far as I can remember it was a happy childhood of running and playing, hunting and sleeping. Until that fateful day when I happened upon an old mirror lying on the side of a dry riverbed and for the firsttime in my life I realized that I looked nothing like the rest of my pack.

I confronted them later that day and after hours of growling backand forth I was informed that I was indeed not a wolf but in fact was a “smsmall nosed, big headed, flat butted, rear paw walker!” I know that sounds like something adults should not say to a youth but that is the direct translation for the word “human” in wolf language.

I thought that was the worst of it until a few minutes later I wastold that not only was I a human but that I was also adopted. With this knowledge in hand I packed up my things and left the only home I had known and went out into the world of fellowsmall nosed, big headed, flat butted, rear paw walkers.

I have spent the years since that fateful day going from pack to pack only to find that humans and wolves are not that different from each other, if you look past the sharp teeth, hair, walking on all fours, I think you get the idea.

I will assume that you have realized long before now that this story is complete fiction but the lesson shared in it is not, we do act at times like wolves. We travel in packs or groups as a way of protecting ourselves from the scary things that the world can throw at us. Not realizing that in doing so we also miss theamazing beauty that the world has to offer us.

I broke from my pack as my fictional young self once did when I looked into that mirror and did not like the person that was looking back at me. I will walk this path alone if I have to but I still hold out hope that along the way I may come across another lone wolf who desires more from this wonderful life than they have to this point discovered..

Perhaps I should wear my little red hood on our first date?

3. A “flirt” (the sending/receiving of which makes me want to stick forks in my eyes) was received from a guy with the following profile intro:

one thing in life i have learned is its short so have fun and smile……….mmm OK girls quit putting your pics from when you when in jr high …show your true self and you will probibly get 2nd and third dates just dont start your first one with a lie lol


4. And finally, well … I don’t even know what to say about this one. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

It would be nice to know you?

I think you are going to find I am one of the most generous people you have ever met in your life.

I am young in looking and in energy, heart, health and in everyway, except in years.

My departed companion of 35yrs and 6 children was a virgin when we married, and I am look for another virgin to marry for the next 35yrs. I want to marry only in the Temple for ever.

I love the Our Loving Heavenly Father with all my heart, might, mind, and strength.

Please. Someone. Make it stop. Anyone?


LDS Primary Temple Dedication Countdown

There is a bit of back story needed before posting this. But let’s just stick with the short version. That is: I was called as the Primary President on my second week in Florida. Oh, have I mentioned that I moved to Florida? Yes. I did–six months ago, this weekend.

(For non-Mormon-lingo speakers: The “Primary” is the children’s organization at our church. All children ages 18 months to twelve years old attend Primary during the second and third hours of our Sunday church meetings. As the President, it is my job to help strengthen the faith of the families in our congregation as well as oversee the children’s Sunday gospel instruction. My ward, i.e. congregation, has about 50 children in Primary.)

So yeah. Primary President. On my second week here. :) I. LOVE. IT.

Recently, the building of the Fort Lauderdale Temple was completed. As the Primary President, I’ve been trying to think of a way to help the children get excited about the dedication. To have one of our temples so close (only 2 hours!) is such a blessing and I wanted to help them see the importance of this holy building as well as assist their families in commemorating this special, sacred occasion in their own homes.

Here’s what I created:

In this print-at-home activity packet is a template for a countdown chain. Each link has one simple activity children or families can do that day to keep their mind on the temple. The countdown begins Monday, April 7 with a Family Home Evening (FHE) lesson. Three additional FHE lessons are outlined in the packet for each additional Monday leading up to the dedication on May 4. If you’d like to print the packet, click here.

*NOTE: I’ve received a few requests recently for an Indianapolis Temple Dedication packet. Click here to download that version. If you have another city you need a packet for, feel free to leave a comment below (with your email so I can respond).

P.S. If you’re wondering about Mormon temples, here is a 3-minute video about why they’re so important to us.


Today, I turned 35.

And for the first time in my life, I’ve felt a small measure of anxiety over my age. I loved turning 30–like, love loved. In a weird way, I felt like I was catching up to myself–as though I’d always been 30. And in the ensuing five years, I’ve found myself feeling … relaxed … comfortable … happy with myself. There have been hard things, certainly. Sad times, yesofcourse. But in short, my 30s so far have been great.

But 35. Thirty-five is … really close to 40. And it’s half of 70. And because of that, for the last few weeks, the thought keeps rolling, I’ve lived half(ish) of my life.

It’s not so much the getting older. I don’t mind that. Aging has never scared me. And 35 isn’t even that old. It’s more the reality that what I thought my life would be by now … isn’t. And because time is ticking–so very loudly–I can’t help but think … What have I done? What am I doing?

The measuring stick, against which I’ve always compared my progress–the measuring stick by which the vast majority of society compares life’s progress, I would venture–seems to have snapped into splintering bits. At least for me.

I do not have a spouse. I do not have a home. I do not have any children.

And there are currently no prospects for any of those options.

When it didn’t happen at 21, like I always imagined it would when I was a little girl (surely my life will follow the same course parents’ did, I thought), I just assumed it would happen by 25. But when it hadn’t happened at 25, I thought, Oh–well 27, then. And when 27 came and went, It must be waiting at 30, I mused. But 30 breezed by and so I set my sights on 35.

Now, 35 is here. Certainly by 35, it was supposed to be.

But it’s not.

And while the absence of spouse and house are softer pills to swallow, I am keenly aware that the years and possibility of bearing children are slowly–no, quickly–diminishing.

I have about a decade left, give or take. A decade is not very long. In fact, didn’t I just turn 25? Yes, I’m certain of it.

And so again, I ask myself, for the ten-thousandth time, What have I done? What am I doing?

Today, in the shower, as the scalding water streamed, scorching soul and skin, I searched for an answer. I made list upon list.

I have been educated and have continued to seek knowledge. I am a bright, intelligent, inquisitive woman who loves to think and fiercely believes that her brain is her best feature.

I have seen bits and pieces of the world. No, I haven’t seen all I want to see and been everywhere I want to have been, but I have said “yes” to the chances that have come and been enthralled with the introductions they’ve provided to life outside of my own.

I have shared a home with someone I loved. It may not have had my name on the deed, but I was wrapped and sheltered by its walls–walls that formed rooms filled with laughter, happiness, peace, contentment, and the Spirit of the Lord.

I have loved a man so deeply I was changed. He never loved me back, or even knew I loved him in fact, but the years I spent loving him were some of the most illuminating years of my life.

I have massaged a birthing mother’s legs and confidently affirmed that yes, you can do this, physically pushing my certainty in her ability past the contracting space between us and into her body, mind, and spirit, as she labored to bring life. And I stood steps away as life’s first breath was breathed.

I have rocked babies to sleep. No they may not have been mine, but my arms have filled in when their mothers’ were weary or unable.

I have praised God and am saved daily by His Son. I have heard His voice and I have held my faith.

But above all these things, as I look at my life and think, What have I done? What am I doing?, I see a life filled to the brim with people–people to whom I have sat close, holding hands and hearts, sharing stories and shoulders. People, with whom I have cried, laughed, played, and prayed. People who have nudged my rumination and stretched the capacities of my contemplation. And in those moments of blessed connection, I have found born within me such jewels as sincerity, compassion, testimony, adoration and a loyalty stronger than the Rock of Gibraltar.

No, I may not have a house, but I have known home.

And I may not have a spouse, but I have known love.

And I may have never borne a child, but I have given birth.

And while yes, certainly, I want more–I do believe life is for wanting and reaching–this is only intermission.

I still have the whole second half (and hopefully, then some) to go.

Guatemala, Day 6 – Motorcycle Rides, Chicken Buses, and Exploding Diablos … Or in Other Words: The Best Day Ever

A recap of my experience traveling to Guatemala on a philanthropic expedition with CHOICE Humanitarian. Click Here for Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, and Day 5. The following is my journal entry from Day 6.

This day has been BANANAS! Or should I say PLATANOS! Seriously. Best day I’ve had in … who knows?!

We skipped digging in the pit today and instead went for a “walk”–a friendly way to say “really steep hike”–to one of the neighboring villages, Mercedes.

I wasn’t sure if I could do it; those Guatemala roads are mountainous–so steep and winding. Almost halfway up the hill out of Chimaxyat, I turned around. I didn’t want to hold anyone up and I really didn’t know if I could do it. That one hill alone just about kills me. But Mitch and Allison both convinced me I could do it.

It was hard. And long. (An hour and a half or two, maybe?) And so so hot. And so so humid. Aside from my worry that I physically couldn’t handle the inclines, I had lingering memories of that first day when I was so dehydrated and sick.

So I walked and drank and walked and drank, the whole time, ever-so-slowly. And. It. Was. Amazing. We would round a bend and, like a crazy dream, there were these VIEWS–so vast and so green and so gorgeous–and I would catch myself (and  my breath): I am in Guatemala! I am in Guatemala. And this is real. I am hiking along a dusty, dirt path in Guatemala. Me. In a jungle. In Guatemala. It’s still hard to believe.

About 20 minutes from the village, a man named Santiago came by on his motorcycle and asked if I wanted a ride. ?!?!?! At first, I thought, Heck, yes! I’m so tired and so hot. And then I thought, Heck, no! That’s so dangerous! And then I thought, Krista–do. it. Get on that moto and ride through Guatamala with Santi. Live. Live!

And so I did. And I can’t even write about this without smiling. The wind! The sun! The gorgeous Guatemalan landscape! All those mountains and all that green and all that sky and all that blue. Seriously, it was like a dream. Up and down and around on these gravelly, dirt roads, holding onto this adorable little Guatemalan man who didn’t speak a lick of English–it was one of the funnest things I’ve ever done in my life.

Santi took me the rest of the way to Mercedes and once we got there, we were greeted by all the children in the village, smiling and cheering as they ran up the hill to meet us. There were dozens–all so happy to see us. Immediately, they were holding on to my hands and arms, any piece of skin they could touch–much less shy than the children of Chimaxyat. Perhaps because this village is a little more developed? I think they see “gringos” more often, whereas I’m told the children of Chimaxyat haven’t seen white people for nearly four years.

I sat with the children at the school until the rest of the group arrives. It was a two-room, wooden building with a small porch and a ramp leading up. Their teacher found me a chair. This seems to always happen–villagers here are always seeking ways to make us feel comfortable and welcome, no matter what community we were in or how long we were there for.

The children in Mercedes didn’t know much Spanish so we weren’t able to communicate verbally, but between holding hands and trading songs–I sang “You Are My Sunshine” in exchange for one they’d recently learned in school–we did just fine and became fast friends.

Once the rest of my group arrived, we all went to see the new brick school CHOICE was helping to build and the children jockeyed for positions next to us. Those who didn’t get “right next” to one of us would take hold of their friend’s hand, as though the connections flowed through each person in the chain. I think we each walked up the hill four to six abroad, two or three children on each side.

Near the school was a big field where the older class was having physical education time. We walked around a bit and looked at the school before heading back down to the wooden school, where we just relaxed and did nothing really–except play catch with the kids and hold as many as would fit in our laps.

Doc and Allison went to the “store” where they picked up eight Cokes and 8 bags of chips for $2. After an hour or so, it was time to go back, but there was no way we’d make it back ourselves. Mercedes is located much lower on the mountain and the last hour into the village was downhill, meaning it was at least an hour uphill to get out. So we hitched a ride on a chicken bus, those crazy work trucks you hear about in Central/South America that haul people and animals–as many people and animals as possible.

We piled in with a bunch of other Guatemalans, standing, i.e. holding on for dear life, and went home. Did I say this was a great day?! A chicken bus! We were all laughing our heads off, smiling as wide as our mouths would stretch. Not more than two hours before, I was on the back of a motorcycle, and now here I was on a chicken bus…speeding again through the jungles and mountains of Guatemala.

On the bus with us was an older couple–much older, like in their 80s or 90s. They were both carrying heavy bags and at one point the abeulo’s bag slid and his corn scattered. Not all of it–maybe just a couple handfuls.

Once we stopped to get off, he and his wife got off too, but not before he bent to gather the spilled corn. We all began to help gather the bigger mounds, but soon realized he wasn’t going to stop until every single kernel of corn had been reclaimed. So we continued, on our knees, picking up little, single bits with our fingers. I think that image and lesson will stay with me for always.

Had it been me, I probably would’ve just left it. But every single kernel was important and had value to him. And his worn, brown, wrinkled hands were going to pick each one up. No waste. Not even one kernel thrown away.

After lunch, a few of us laid down to rest while the women of Chimaxyat set up their handmades for a little “pop-up” market. Jorge had told us beforehand that we needed to haggle with them–that they couldn’t just play the “I’m poor” card with us and that even though we knew them and loved them and could totally pay whatever they asked, it would do them no service. They had to learn how to compete in the real market in Guatemala City where it was cutthroat.

This was incredibly difficult to say the least. I first found a hand-woven towel I loved and asked the price. Q.25–the equivalent of $3.50ish and a more than reasonable price for a handmade item. But I had to talk her down. I started at Q.15 ($2ish). We went back and forth until we landed on Q.19 ($2.80). It was the same for every item I wanted to buy, and I hated it (and I always gave in more than I should have, Jorge said) and I could see the wisdom in what he was asking us to do. However, it was difficult none-the-less. I have so much. They have so little. And it seemed absurd to pay so little for something so dear.

After the market, as if this day couldn’t get any better, it was time for “shadowing.” This was where we split into groups and visited the homes of the villagers and learned about their daily life. My group was going to Benjamin’s home. Benjamin was one of “my” students–and so so sweet. You could see the happiness in his eyes when he learned I was coming to see where he lived. He was so proud to show me.

His older brother led the way and talked with the other members of my group. There were five of us and I was the only girl. The paths were, as usual, quite slippery and deep with mud, but Benjamin stayed back with me (slow poke), almost as if he was watching over me to make sure I got there safely. First, we stopped at the brother’s house–a small structure with bamboo stalk walls, no bigger than 10′x10′.

The fire stove was in one corner, across from which was a wooden slat bench, where his wife slept. A hammock was strung from one wall to the other and that was where he slept. Their baby slept in a blanket tied like a little cocoon hammock which hung from a hook on the wall.

While Mitch, our translator talked and explained their daily routine, Benjamin tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to see his house. He was so timid, yet so proud, and so excitedly antsy for me to get there. “Por supuesto! Estoy emocionado.”

He led me through the mud path to the house next door. This house was much larger, but not by much. It too had dirt floors, bamboo walls, with a dividing wall between the “entry/living” area and the “bedrooms.” Chickens, roosters, and ducks, came in and out and roamed the house as there were no doors. 

Benjamin was so excited to introduce me to his mother and father and I even took a family picture of them. His sister, Gertrudis, was making tortillas and his other sister was holding her baby. Again, they had hammocks and wood-slat beds, although Benjamin had a separate “room” with a “door.” Everything was made of bamboo shoots and his room was no bigger than the 5′x3′ wood table he slept on. But–so proud.

Gertrudis let me help make a couple tortillas and she got quite a kick out of watching me trying to flatten the tortilla by hand. They, as a community, share the corn crop. It’s all subsistence farming, meaning the village eats everything they grow; there are no leftovers to sell.

After a bit of chit chat, we went outside to where Benjamin’s father showed us how he “mows the lawn”–with a machete. You bend over and just swipe the machete through the grass, just above the dirt, parallel to the ground. We all got to try it and it’s much harder than you think. I just seemed to chop a lot of dirt.

After learning how to cut the grass, it was time to go back for dinner, but on the way we passed their tienda (store). There were a few odds and ends: soda, a few snacks, and of course the boys couldn’t leave without buying machetes–they cleaned the whole store of their stock.

On my way again, I heard, “Kreeesta!” being called through the trees. It was Josephina, another one of my students. She was in front of a house, so I asked, “es tu casa?” “Si!” “Puedo visitar?” (Can I visit?) “Si!”

I trekked over to meet Josephina’s familia and see her home. Theirs seemed to be a bit bigger and less impoverished. Josephina and her immediate family had one structure for sleeping and another for cooking and her grandparents had the same. There were a bunch of aunts and uncles there too, so I’m not sure how many people actually lived in those four “buildings,” but it looked like a fairly large piece of land. Maybe a 1/2 acre for all of them.

After leaving Josephina’s, I headed again towards the sleeping quarters, when I heard, “Kreeesta!” coming from up the hill. This time it was Luki, not one of my students, but one of the little girls I had played with. (Luki was probably about 5 or 6, Josephina and Benjamin were 13 or 14?) Anyway, Luki was waving from her house and then I saw her brother Eric, another one of my students and I again, asked if I could visit.

Their house (compound) was much bigger–they seemed to be one of the more wealthy families in the village. Raul, the new dad we visited earlier in the week and owner of the most expensive house in the village, said they were his cousins. At each of the homes I was sure to tell the parents how smart their kids were–such good students–and you could tell they were all so pleased.

Finally, I was on my way, although I stopped for a quick minute to meet the parents of more students: Julio, Norma, and Karmin.

At dusk, the village and religious leaders walked in a line through the village and around a central fire surrounded by palms. They carried torches and incense, and chanted quietly to a beating drum. Then they gathered everyone around the fire and gave all the expeditioners a  candle, which they lit from the main fire.

They thanked us for coming and then began offering prayers for our safety and protection. All of them were vocally praying different words simultaneously, just like the first day, as we stood, huddled with our lit candles. Then one by one, they asked us to put our candles in the fire. This symbolized us all being of one spirit, they said. We learned that they did this exact ceremony 15 days before we arrived to begin the prayers for our safe journey to their village.

It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever been a part of. To think–their planning, their thought, their prayers–for days before we came. I wish we had more traditions and ceremonies and rituals like this. It makes me think a bit more about how I care after the friends and strangers I come in contact with, and the prayers I offer on behalf of others.

After the candles, they put on a fireworks show. Ca-ra-zy! A man put on a wooden structure, kind of like the skeleton of a cow and along the beams were the fireworks. He danced while they went off. It was insane. Then a man in a diablo costume, with wings as tall and wide as the man, began dancing as his pyrotechnics (attached to the wings) went off. It was seriously one of the craziest things I’ve ever seen.

Once the cow and the devil stopped dancing (and didn’t die as explosions were going off from their costumes), they lit more fireworks (about 10 feet away from us) that exploded in the sky, over the village. To be gathered all together, under the stars and a full moon (the clouds cleared!), while fireworks went off straight over our heads–well, I just can’t even explain it.

Arnulfo, another student of maybe 14 years?, came to stand by me. He was shy and timid about it, but I put my arm around him and there we stood as the light exploded in the sky. I told him, “No quiero salir manana. Me amo Chimaxyat y yo necesito la gente de esta comunidad en my vida toda dia.” (I don’t want to leave tomorrow. I love Chimaxyat and I need the people of this community in my life every day.)

He looked at me, eye to eye and said, “Te gusta Chimaxyat?” (You like Chimaxyat?) “Si, me amo.” (Yes, I love.)

He simply beamed. And my heart broke a little. It hit me–I would have to leave. I have to leave.

Once the fireworks were over, we all just danced and danced and danced to the marimbas. The ground was a muddy mess and we slipped and slip and laughed and danced.

Eventually they needed to turn off the generator and we needed to pack. And this meant we had to say goodbye. One by one we hugged and I found my students. “No quiero salir. Tu eres en mi corazon siempre.” (I don’t want to leave. You’re in my heart forever.)

Maria was particularly hard to say goodbye to. I’m not sure why, but when we looked at each other, every time during the week, we were … connected. Something different lingered, existed between us. I hugged her and squeezed her hand so tightly.

Delia was another one. She followed me as I hugged each person, yet hung back, soon becoming brave enough to come over and hug me too. I cried through most of it (of course #weeper). I just love these people–their children especially. All I can think about is how to get back here. How do I get back to Chimaxyat? How do I keep these beautiful people in my life?

This week has made me step back and look at what really matters? What do I want? I don’t know that I really have any answers, but an experience like this forces you to ask a lot of questions.

After a million “adios” “muchas gracias” and “Bantiox” (thank you, in Q’eqchi), we began to pack. The villagers lingered and watched and stayed till the lights went out. Although the marimbas continued long into the dark of night.

And now we sleep.

After the best. day. ever.