The Recycle Bin Post

Word of the Day

I don’t expect anyone to understand why these words make me happy, thinking of them in this way. Call me Captain Obvious if you must, but I think that some observations never go through the conscious mind, and when they do they make me smile. These are a few words that have made me smile lately.

creative: create-ive; word for something that has tendancies to be created.

caretaker: one who takes care.

movie: nickname for something that moves.

a watch: you watch the watch to watch the time. As if time was something you could see.

alone: I am alone. I am a lone.

tomorrow: another word for forever

* * *

Water Balloon Baseball

For our family Fourth of July celebrations, we held an epic water balloon baseball game. It was really fun, and guess what? For like the first time ever, I managed to hit a moving projectile with what is, essentially, a stick! I was so proud of myself, but the funny thing was, at family prayers that night, Brayden said,

“Thank you for letting us play water balloon baseball,”

And it made me smile. To think of what might’ve happened had Heavenly Father not allowed us to play.

Bolts of lightning thrown down from the sky?

Oh yes baby. Awesome.

* * *

Cambry Once Told Me a Shocking Story

It was of a girl, a strong girl. She was beautiful, courageous, spiritual, and amazingly talented. She could play the piano like the angels in heaven. She had a testimony that even one thousand swords couldn’t break. And she was gorgeous: golden blonde hair with pale blue eyes graced her delicate features.

But poor, poor girl. For she was cursed with a land that was poisoned. Everyone, save her and her family, was afflicted with a plague, of sorts. All their kindness, their generosity, their conversions were stripped away at the face of the deadliest of worldy essences: pride. The girl was looked down upon by others of her age. But while her clothes were meager, her spirit was strong.

It was hard on her, nevertheless, to live life everyday, having to deal with the mocking, the scorn that came from her so-called friends. If she could’ve, she would’ve left, but that wasn’t her decision to make.

She couldn’t help wishing, couldn’t help fantasizing about Next Door, whose grass was greener. And it was. But whenever she looked over it made her sad, made her wish she didn’t have to be stranded, stranded in the poisoned land.

She is still there. The girl’s name was Trisha, my friend and Cambry’s cousin. I admire her for her talents, her spirituality, her strength. Yet I grieve for her because she lives in an environment where people don’t appreciate her, the gospel, or good nature the way they should. She feels like she can’t talk to anyone in the ward, her mom holds three callings because no one else will step up to the plate. Trisha cries over the girls in her ward, the girls who should be her friend. It’s hard.

I can’t imagine being in that circumstance; my ward is like my family. I feel comfortable talking to anyone in my ward, and the Young Women are like my sisters. We are close, tight-knit. I feel comfortable being myself in front of them, and it’s a blessing I cherish. Trisha, on the other hand, has no such blessings and I feel horrible that this is something she is tried with. Different people have different trials, and I can’t decide if I should feel guilty because her ward is a trial and for me it is not; or if I should be passive knowing I have different trials and support her best I can.

For now, I’ll just be grateful, and keep praying for Trisha that her friends will open their hearts to her and–more importantly–to the spirit.