The Things I Learn When I Let God Speak.

   I don't think the emotions we experience when we're sick or tired are truly fictitious; I think we simply let down our guard enough to be truly honest. Maybe they're bigger than normal, maybe blown up to unrealistic proportions. Maybe. But I think, when we're tired, we have a new level of understanding of ourselves. All our pain comes out. That little hurt child inside finds a voice. Our masks, born of insecurity and worn out of duty, are stripped from us and we're free to laugh, free to cry, free to be irresponsible and stop being the masters of our world for awhile. I think, when we're tired, our emotions are worn close to the surface and we are more able to live in a way that will bring us joy. We are more like children than ever in those moments.
  The trick, then, is to find that in ourselves when we are well-rested and ready to take on the world, when we think we have it all and we've got it all figured out. That moment when we are ready to grow up and become real, responsible adults is the moment, I think, when we most need to realize that the best thing to be is an honest, bold, and excited child.
   Children are the happiest beings on this earth. They make us laugh the most and are more easily forgiven and forgiving than anyone else.
   They also cry the most, make the most messes, and play the hardest.
   So. Be tired. Play hard. Let your emotions lie close to the surface. Yes, there is a very real danger that you will be wrong, that you will make mistakes, and that you will fall and scrape your knees. Take that risk. Without it, you will huddle in a corner, a responsible, tired, and hurt adult, lost in everyone else's opinions.
   You are more. So step up. Exhaust yourself. And be more.
   Thank you.
-Jenica

Memories of Mandi- Day 7

     I don't enjoy admitting it, but I've been slacking off enormously on Memories of Mandi. Not because I've forgotten her... but because, however reluctantly, I've begun to wonder if it's time to move on with life a bit.
     At first, Memories of Mandi was a lifeline for me in order to continue being positive. I was so bogged down by all the negativity I saw in the situation that I needed to write about her in order to remember the positive.
     Now that the initial sting of death has taken the backseat and acceptance is settling in, I'm finding it harder and harder to come back to this lifeline. I needed it then, to help me to let go, and now I fear it's only helping me to hold on.
     Memories of Mandi will continue in every heart and soul as long as we exist. I do not need to write them in order for you each to treasure them. And we all have our own! The very few I've written, I'm sure, have done more for me than for anyone else, and if there's still some letting go that needs to be done for you personally, I suggest you try it... try some way of remembering, and reminding yourself what our beautiful Mandi has taught you.
     As for myself, it's time for me to move on and try something different. I'll come back to this on occasion- of course- but Mandi never stopped for long. Mandi ran with life, and always found her smile before she really knew it was missing... just one more thing she taught me without even the slightest notion of doing so.
     It's not over. Life goes on. It dances on, gracefully and happily, if you let it. And it does so more joyously, and more fully than before.
     Having Mandi gone, I think, shouldn't scar us. She has so much to teach us! She still loves us, still watches out for us, still laughs and cries with us. Mandi's death shouldn't leave a hole in our hearts- it should leave us with a greater capacity to pass on the love she gave us. She didn't leave us, she simply gave us another reason to reach out and serve those around us. She doesn't want us to dwell on death, she wants us to move forward with life!
     So move on. Charge forward. There is life yet to live, and love left to give. Our job now is to do so- with joy!

Memories of Mandi- Day 6

     It's been awhile since I shared a memory that actually occurred during Mandi's life... I've been so wrapped up in the brand-new experiences surrounding her death and coping with it that her life, sadly, has not been first and foremost in my mind.
     I'm overwhelmed. Memories are chasing each other in circles through my mind. Little snippets: Mandi being pulled down the slip-n-slide by a four-wheeler. Mandi tackling people off the raft in the river. Mandi sitting up against the wall in dance class... talking to her when we were supposed to be dancing, about everything from boys to her latest vacation.
     Mandi was a joy. Is a joy. I'm just so full of little moments I find myself virtually unable to complete my thoughts... well, I suppose I'll say adieu; I can't convince my mind to focus.

Memories of Mandi- Day 4

     "Hey, how are ya?" I was ringing up a co-worker for a few things at the end of his shift. I pressed Cancel on the Credit Card machine without asking if he wanted his receipt- he never did.
     "Eh. This day's gonna be bad." He signed his receipt and handed it back to me with a sigh.
     "What's bad about it?" I asked, curious. I realized a moment too late that the question was probably a nosy one, but he responded without a qualm, listing a few annoying tidbits, and then adding: "... and I have a funeral tomorrow."
     My head snapped up. "Mandi?" I asked. He nodded.
     "She was my friend's best friend." He said briefly.
     Immediately two of Mandi's best friends popped into my head, and I asked, "Which friend is that?"
He surprised me by coming out with a name I only vaguely recognized, and I thought, How many best friends did this girl have?
     I thought about it for the remainder of the day. I thought and thought and thought, and I came to this conclusion: Everyone was Mandi's best friend. 
     There was never a person Mandi wasn't kind to. She was always surrounded by all kinds of people. She was a Cowboy boots and Four-Wheelers girl, and her friends were that and everything else.
     Mandi was known everywhere. Not by everyone, the way a Student Body President or other such person is known, but everywhere. There wasn't a corner she didn't permeate. There wasn't one kind of people she missed.
     She was everywhere.
     I thought on this all day, and still I didn't truly realize the extent of it until I went to the viewing this evening. As I walked out of the building, wiping tears from my eyes, there was a line of people sitting outside, reminiscing and talking quietly... and I thought to myself, I had no idea she even knew all these people... and they probably had no idea she knew me. 
     I saw a friend from school I'd met in a couple of my classes, and I went and gave him a hug. We talked for a moment, and he said, "You know, she's not hurting anymore."
     "Yeah," I sniffed, "She's probably happier there than she would be here."
     "She's probably on a Four-Wheeler-"
     "In the mud-"
     "In a hole-"
     "Getting dirty." I supplied, and laughed.
     "Exactly." He smiled at me.
     And I realized that they really did know her. And love her. And wish her the best in all their ways, whether they be Christian, Jewish, Atheist, or simply non-religious. They all imagined her in their ideas of Heaven, with all the goodwill and love they could muster. And why? Well, because she's wonderful, of course, but I think, in large part, it was because every one of them not only loved her, but felt loved by her. There was never one moment when she said or did anything that made anyone wonder if she really cared.
     Mandi has a gift. A gift for loving every living thing on this earth, human or not. Sometimes, the greater gift is loving humans; sometimes that is more difficult than anything else. But Mandi did it! Shamelessly and fearlessly, she did it, and we all felt it.
     Take a moment. Can you feel it too?
   

   

Memories of Mandi- Day 3

     Mandi loved watching movies.
     One night, after Mutual, Cassidy and I went with Mandi to her house and watched Suits on the Loose with her. It was one of her favorite movies- she mentioned it multiple times in the course of my knowing her- and always with the comment, "I love this movie!" That, and Mobsters and Mormons. 
     It's a small memory, and there's not much to say about it, really. We watched a movie. When it was done, we talked about boys, and the problem she was currently having with a certain boy she was currently texting. We giggled and teased and then decided, since it was a school night, that we probably ought to go home and get to bed.
     So we went home.
     Ah, it was nothing, really. Right? Only one movie night among the many a teenage girl experiences in her lifetime. But for some reason it stood out in my memory even when Mandi was living a normal, healthy sixteen-year-old's life. But it wasn't nothing.
     I'm glad it did stand out in my memory. I'm still not sure why it did; what was particularly memorable about it, besides spending time with Mandi, who I hadn't really spent time with in a long while and rather missed. But I am ever grateful that it did, else I likely would have forgotten it- set it aside in the memory files associated with all the other movies I'd watched- and I wouldn't have it here to bring so easily to memory now.
     Today's lesson- cherish the little memories. They are every bit as important as the big ones.

Memories of Mandi: Day 2

     This is one of my most precious memories: Mandi's thirteenth birthday. I remember thinking that I hadn't a penny nor an idea of what sort of gift to give her... and so I employed the use of the talents I'd been given: I drew her a picture of a horse. She awwh'd, thanked me, and set it aside, and to be honest I felt like a bit of a lousy friend. Every other girl there had bought her some cute something, and all I'd done was draw her a lousy picture, which she set aside without a second thought.
     It was months, at least, before I next saw her bedroom; I expected it to be covered in horses, and so I wasn't at all surprised when horse model upon horse model unfolded to my view. We bantered back and forth, (both of us being horse lovers,) about who had the most models, who the most pictures, who the most calendars, and ended with the question: which of us had the most horse paraphernalia in general? I went home laughing, ready to count my horses and prove myself the winner, (though Mandi did, in fact, win by a landslide,) but the most memorable thing I came away with that day was a warmth that bubbled up, clear  from my toes to the tips of my hair; for there, on the wall, of all the posters she owned that she could have been displaying, was the very drawing I'd given her, out of a wish to give a gift that mattered, all those months ago.
     I'm certain she never knew the value of that experience... how important and touching that was to me. I'd been poor all my life, with never a penny to spend on birthday gifts, and the day I drew that picture, I was desperate to prove myself a worthy friend; an equal to all the rest. Not only did Mandi's proud display of my artwork give me a feeling of accomplishment and hope for my popularity status, it sent a message even more substantial: that my best was good enough.
     I thank Mandi every day for that.
     I love you, Mandi!

Memories of Mandi: Day 1

     Yesterday, walking home from a wonderful day at work, my sister met me partway and told me the news about Mandi.
     It still hasn't completely sunk in. Like the part of my mind that controls my emotions hasn't realized the gravity of what has occurred here. It comes in waves... just moments when tears come, and the rest is a hazy mess.
     The next few posts will continue to be Memories of Mandi. I don't see a particularly good reason to stop, so why do it? Besides, there are things she can yet do... lives she can yet change... through the legacy of her short, full, and beautiful life.
   

And so, today is day one again... a new beginning, if you will.

     Today's memory skips a few years since the last one. Cass and I stopped at Mandi's after mutual one night and talked to her for hours... telling stories, talking about Mandi's Blazer she was fixing up. It was almost ready to drive, if my memory serves me.
     We talked about boys, and friends, and the drama of teenage life. We talked about shared memories... Girls' Camp, mostly. Hikes. Late-night pranks. River rafting. We told silly stories, annoying stories, stalker stories... any stories we could think of. Occasionally, we even told inspiring stories, and got in deep, philosophical moods in which we stared dramatically towards the distant walls of the garage.
     Mandi's dog licked our pant legs and tried to knock us over, which was hilarious to us.. of course. Late at night, with our bodies chock-full of sugar from our activity, what wasn't hilarious?
     When the time came to go home, Mandi, knowing my house was a few blocks away, offered to drive me home. I told her no, no, there were streetlights, and besides, I liked walking... but all alone, walking in the dark, and scared, I wished with all my heart that she was with me.
     I never thought I'd have to repeat the experience... told myself that next time, I'd take her up on the offer, and enjoy her company instead of wandering scared by myself.
I won't say I feel alone... I won't say that I feel hopeless or lost. I still know where I am and why I'm here. I know where Mandi is. I know that Christ is always here, and that I am never alone. But yesterday, walking the rest of the way home alone, beginning the long journey of realizing that she really is gone... I felt as scared and lonely as I did that night I chose to walk in the dark.
     There was hope, though... hope that maybe, even for a little bit, she was with me after all.

Memories of Mandi: Day 1

I met Mandi at Girls' Camp. It was her first year, and she was a tiny little thing; smaller than any twelve-year old I'd ever seen, but as chipper and excited as the rest of them combined. Mandi had no fear; she went at everything with contagious excitement and brought everyone else along with her.
At twelve, Mandi had platinum-blonde hair, that, though darkening later, seemed to me a trademark of her, since one of her Secret Sister gifts was a ponytail wig the exact color of her own hair. She wrapped it around her hair and wore it all day, and we got many a good laugh out of it.
We hiked to Minnetonka Cave that year, if my memory serves me, and Mandi fell behind fast. We stopped for her a couple of times, but she didn't like that, so eventually we just went on, slowing down as imperceptibly as we could.
As hikes, go, eventually we separated into two groups: the fast group, and the group who couldn't keep up. There were sub-groups in between; slightly slower than fast, slightly faster than slow. I was in one of those, and so was one of the first to see, coming around the corner, the Bishop's wife plodding along behind us, with Mandi on her back.
She carried Mandi until the latter could walk again, and then, when she got tired, she would be gently picked up again by the Bishop's sweating, grinning wife, and carried. I watched with tears in my eyes. I was unsure why I was tearful; except that I knew how hard it would be for one person to carry the weight of two, no matter how small the second. Now I know a little bit more: I saw that day the perfect picture of Christ. Mandi represented us: tiny, determined; but tired, not strong enough to make the whole hike. The Bishop's wife represented Christ: she walked alongside Mandi until she couldn't go on, and then, in the most Christlike and charitable way she knew, she carried her. The next year, not only did Mandi make the hike on her own, she kept to the front of the pack and enjoyed every moment.
In this way, Mandi taught me three great lessons: first, that Christ will carry anyone who cannot make it on their own; second, that that is okay; and third, that there is a next time, and that the struggle of the first time makes for strength and joy upon tackling the second.

Memories of Mandi

Today's story begins in a hammock on a lovely, warm Saturday afternoon. This particular hammock, though most of its brethren were located hanging from fences and trees in the surrounding yard, was hanging from the walls of a sweetly decorated bedroom belonging to my two cousins, Mim and Dee. I was attending the first annual family reunion of my mother's side of the family, and was sleeping peacefully. The Complete Works of Jane Austen lay alongside me, and my mind, though no longer perusing them, was lost in its pages.
A gentle touch awoke me, and I found my mother's face alongside my own, love and concern in her features. For a moment, between sleep and wakefulness, I wished to tell her I was fine and swat her away, but I came to wakefulness by the sound of her voice, softly apologizing for waking me, and tearfully bringing me the news that at around 4:00 the previous afternoon, a dear friend and neighbor of mine had been in a car accident. She and another passenger had been thrown from the vehicle; the boy was killed on impact, and my friend was later that day life-flighted to a hospital in Salt Lake, along with the driver, who, though not thrown, was also in critical condition.
I looked at the book at the tips of my fingers. Picked it up. Dropped it again.
My mind was, as cliches suggest, still digesting the information, and nothing, at this point, was more than fact to me. I wouldn't describe it as numbness- I wasn't hiding from emotion or avoiding it; rather, as my mother kissed my hand and left the room, I lay in the hammock, waiting, wishing for some kind of emotion to come. This didn't happen to regular people. This didn't happen to me. 
And even as I unknowingly created yet another story of grief with yet another description of those ever-repeated sentiments, I found myself unable to grieve. In my mind these things were facts; in my heart they were but hazy shapes, unable to break the barrier and make themselves truly known to me.
I found myself climbing out of the hammock; walking out of the room and to the computer I had formerly determined never to touch so as to turn my complete attention to my family. Logging into Facebook. Scrolling through the notifications and messages about normal things; clicking 'like' on silly pictures on my newsfeed. And always, always, reminded of the reason I'd logged on:
"Greatest sympathy for the young man who lost his life; prayers for the other two and their families." 
"I don't know him personally, but from all the posts I've seen I now know how great of a person he was. His friends and family can rest easy knowing that he left behind such a great legacy. Rest in Peace... you will be missed." 
"Ah man. You were the coolest and funniest kid. I remember sitting next to you in seminary, trying to keep a straight face... unsuccessfully, I might add. I'm gonna miss that, man. I'm gonna miss that a lot...."
And then, on another track:
"I love you very much; I'm praying for you doll and I'm coming to see you soon, I know you won't see this but for the people who do, keep her in your prayers."
"Life is fragile. Life is precious. Life is short. Please wear your seatbelts..."
"If anybody can pull through this, it'll sure as hell be you."...

I spent the next few days trying to forget that there was any reason for tears. It was not a forgettable fact; it lingered and still lingers through every moment; the constant question seared on the back of my eyelids: What can I do? 
And finally, I've found something.
I have memories.
I have memories of this girl that nobody else has in quite the same way; I have love and experiences that can be shared- written down and spread around to rejoice in the beauty and joy of this beautiful daughter of our Heavenly Father. The next undetermined space of time on this Blog, whether ended by death or recovery, is dedicated to this cause.

In the highest of hopes and most faithful of prayers:

Memories of Mandi.

Review

This was the next assignment in my cruel English class... Hopefully I don't lose friends over this.

Jenica Christensen
USU 1010 English
Twilight
Once upon a time, in a music class far, far away, I listened to my teacher tell the horrific story of a heavy metal song with only one chord. One guitar riff, over and over again, the same three notes, pounded out in all their glory. It was a lovely chord. I’m certain it has been used in many masterpieces before and since. It was backed up by glorious drums, mind-numbing bass and the melodious shrieking of the vocal artists. Altogether, a piece of work that took hours of effort and mounds of money, and was successful all over the world. She called it: Deathbeams.

As I contemplate Twilight, (Stephenie Meyer,) this memory comes to mind. Deathbeams. I wonder how it became so popular, how so many grew to love it. Meyer’s story contains but one chord: the romance chord. This chord, like any other chord, contains three notes: physical beauty, chemistry, and passion. Drums play as Edward takes Bella to the meadow and shows her how he sparkles. Bass vibrates our souls as Bella begs Edward to change her into a vampire so she can be with him forever. The vocalists scream in all their glory as the adventure to rescue our damsel in distress unfolds.

The next step is to evaluate what the value is in each of these elements. Each of these things; drums, bass, and vocals, affects us in some way. One may give us chills up the spine, while another may give a feeling of power to those listening. The same standard, then, applies to our reading: Some events may leave us with feelings we couldn’t attain otherwise. The song, then, is widely successful for nothing else but its shock value, and the book is hardly different.

The dreams of young girls are fulfilled through Bella. The world teaches us that if by some lucky coincidence a girl meets a guy who will fulfill her every need and always treat her the way she deserves, putting her first in every choice in his life, then good on her. The world also teaches that these men do not exist in any way, shape, or form.

Both are true, and both are false.

There are men in the world who will treat women just the way they should, who will be selfless, and who will protect their woman with all the integrity of the dream man. There are enough of these for every woman who is willing to be a good partner for one. The disclaimer: they are never perfect. They will make mistakes, always, and Edward? He’s perfect. Never does he make a mistake, and never does he put himself before anyone else, even when Bella whines and complains at every bump in the road. This picture puts girls in a paradigm that pushes them to expect more from men than men know how to give. It tells girls that if a relationship doesn’t work, it is the man’s fault, because he didn’t accept her every shortcoming, when in actuality, men have as many faults as women do, and women have just as much need to accept these faults as men.

Twilight perverts this principle. It teaches love in the blind, ‘everlasting’ sense of the word, when in actuality, love in the blind sense does not last, even for a short time. Love is a mindset; love requires work from both parties. For a relationship to truly last forever, as the one between Bella and Edward attempts to exemplify, we require more than one chord. The shock value of love lasts only a moment before a person needs to experience it again, unless the relationship has a firm foundation.

At one point in the story, Edward tells Bella that her blood holds such a temptation for him that, at times, it’s all he can do to resist eating her. I suppose this is translated into deep desire, or something of the sort, and that is why it has an appeal to the audience, but I don’t think I would be all that inclined to fall in love with someone who wanted to eat me, especially one who pushes so hard for physical closeness.

At another time, Bella wakes to find Edward in her bedroom, watching her sleep. This scenario is translated into cute romance. This I don’t understand. Somehow, I think that if I woke up to find an immortal being with a thirst for my blood in my bedroom, watching me sleep, I would be the slightest bit concerned. Or... horrified.

Edward and Bella have enough intense, romantic, electric moments to feed an entire race of romantics, but their relationship has hardly any fun in it. If two people intend on spending their lives together, they must, of course, learn how to play. Twilight is so chock-full of ‘deep’, ‘meaningful’ moments that when you’re done reading, instead of being refreshed and invigorated, you are so emotionally spent that you want to take a long, refreshing nap. And when you wake up, your mind is no longer entwined in the exciting adventure of feelings that it was, and it becomes bored, wishing for more and more of the same, when, in reality, what your mind and heart needs to read about is the simple, everyday play that successful relationships experience. This leaves girls wishing for a relationship like the one between Edward and Bella, which relationship would be one composed of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, and nothing in between. Going home, a girl would collapse into bed, exhausted, and wake up in the morning hungry for more. A vicious cycle, really, which lends itself to the thought of drug use, which is, of course, not healthy, and would never in a decent world be related in any way, shape, or form to a marriage relationship.

They continue with this pattern of secrets and temptations until, at the end of the book, Bella is bitten by another vampire, and Edward is faced with a choice: let her become like him, or drink enough blood to retract the venom. Edward decides to drink the venom from Bella’s veins, and with great mental struggle and physical exertion, succeeds in restraining himself from consuming her completely. The moral: Love conquers all.

This is a message that is true, but incomplete. It is not ‘love’ by itself that conquers all, it’s time, patience, courage, faith... there’s so much more to it than a simple feeling, a simple passion. ‘Love’ does not equal personal commitment, struggle, pain. ‘Love’ itself, the feeling, does not give sufficient motivation to change your life, or, in Edwards’s case, resist temptations that are ingrained into your being. In order to fight the vampire inside of him, Edward would have had to go through immense spiritual, mental, and emotional battles, and had some deep passion fueling his actions besides his ‘love’ for Bella. Meyer doesn’t go into this. She writes only of the power of Edward’s ‘love’, and the fact that he abstained from human consumption in his early vampirehood. In order to have any true, lasting, healthy impact on young minds, Meyer needed to outline the internal struggle and the years of hardship it took Edward to come to the point he is in more than just a short explanation in story form.        

In conclusion, I find Twilight unrealistic and senseless; an ode to the world of miserable supermodels and unhappy celebrities who flit from one relationship to the next with the air of a child in a candy store. As we know, when children leave candy stores, no matter how much candy has been consumed, they are miserable, cranky, and oftentimes being dragged out by a tired, and by now irritable mother who wishes she had taken her child anywhere but where they ended up. Twilight, though containing truths and exciting flavors, is a one-chord song, popular for its shock value, which brings no thought or growth to the mind of the consumer. Sorry, Stephanie. I will not waste my time again.

Cruelty, thy name is USU 1010!

   Wow! Long time no blog. Latest update on life around here: I'm going on a mission! Now I can say that for sure, because unless someone smashing comes along and completely changes everything about my thoughts on getting married at eighteen, I'm not going to face the option of marriage before I can turn my papers in.
   Besides... eighteen is only in a few months. Marriage is not happening in a year my friends. No sir.
   I don't know how to summarize life right now! Last time I gave a life summary, (May first isn't actually my birthday, for those of you who care,) I spoke of three people in my life whom I call 'rescuers'. I called them MD, JB, and Air Head.
   These three people, plus the one I added later, are still heroes in my life's story, but there are a few more I've added to my list. First off, JB, who I'm renaming Robin Hood. He's not an add-on to the list, but his role has increased greatly. This will be outlined later in life.
   Secondly, we have the angel of the world, Sierra High, who has supported me and told me I was loved since the first time I had a real conversation with her. We've gotten much closer this year and had some grand times, and I'm incredibly grateful for her in every way. :) I admire everything about her!
   These aren't in order of how much of an impact they've been... just saying.
   Third is Frostie. She's one of those peeps who's a bit intimidating at first, just because nothing intimidates her. Scares her, sure, but she's never intimidated. I've spent my whole life allowing myself to be intimidated; so much so that even angels like MD and Sierra High intimidate me. Now Frostie, for some reason, was more intimidating than any of them. Maybe because I automatically admired her, right from the start. She emanates confidence even when she doesn't feel any; she never seems afraid of anything. That is exactly how I want to be, and I suppose it's for that reason that Frostie scares me more than the others. Her and MD.
   Then there's Timber. (That was tricky, wasn't it?) Timber is the best listener ever, not to mention best talker, and she knows when to do both! She's one of those people I admire but, for some reason, doesn't intimidate me.
   I'd love to go on and on about people, but people are not the point. I began this post simply to update you on the happenings of my life since last I updated.
   I have: been on a number of choir trips, performed speaking roles in two shows, and done several musical performances. I've been on a Theatre Trip, been in Theatre classes, am currently in AP Music Theory, and have kissed a boy. Ha ha, just kidding. That last part's a lie. I just enjoyed imagining all the reactions of the people I think will read this.
   The most stressful thing by far, however, is USU English 1010. We have written three essays thus far in the Trimester, and I feel as if we have never stopped writing long enough to grow all our hair back. To add insult to injury, a high grade in this class is incredibly difficult, and I doubt a 100% has ever been given unless said child was a genius prodigy. (That phrase may be redundant, but I have decided that I've come to the conclusion to be apathetic about it, and not care.) An A is the accomplishment of the year to the student who receives it, and the only words I can say to express the feelings in my soul about this matter are these: Challenge accepted.
   The next few posts will chronicle my efforts thus far.