I Hate Running (An Ode to Running)

My sister-in-law recently asked her facebook friends if they could please explain why they enjoy running, because she wanted to like it, but hadn't been able to find a way to get into it yet.  I refrained from answering her query, simply because I knew I could never sum up my reasons for running in one tiny little facebook box.  I decided then that I would need to blog about it, so I could sort out my reasons for myself, and also so that I could share them with her.

My oldest memory of running goes back to eighth grade, when we were required to run the mile for our best time in P.E.  I did not love it.  I pretty much hated it, but I did my best.  One day, I ran as hard as I possibly could, and I broke my record.  I was so proud! When I got to my Social Studies class a couple HOURS later, my face was STILL red.  My teacher, who also happened to be one of the football coaches, asked me in front of the whole class, "Why is your face all red?"  I told him proudly that I had just run the mile, and that I had beaten my best time.  "That's great!" he said. "What time did you get?"  "8:44," I announced, not feeling the right to brag, but proud enough that I was willing to let everyone else hear.  At that moment, the entire class busted up laughing.  Including my teacher.  And that was the end of any confidence that I had gained that day in my ability to ever be a "real" runner.

I don't remember running again until after I got to college.  I re-entered the runners' arena only by force, for my Health class.  It wasn't all terrible...I found occasions to run with friends now and then, but it was never my most preferred form of exercise.  I enjoyed walking and other less-traumatic activities to keep active, so why torture myself?

Years went by, and our family moved to Eugene, Oregon.  It didn't take long before I realized where we were:  Tracktown, USA.  Yes, it's really called that.  EVERYBODY and their dog in Eugene is a runner.  And their dog's dogs are, too.  People there do it for FUN!!!  They do it in the rain.  They do it in the dark.  They do it in the cold.  They did it by my house, every stinkin' day, and I just couldn't understand it.  WHY?  I HATE RUNNING.  Running hurts.  It makes me breathe really really hard, and that's SOOOOO uncomfortable.  There's nothing FUN about it.  I did not want to join them and their crazy ways.

But.  Pretty soon, I became friends with these crazy runner people.  They would talk about running, and they seemed so HAPPY when they talked about it!  It didn't make any sense, but they were making me start to wonder.  Not only that, but their enthusiasm started to rub off on me.

One day, some women from church decided to start an exercise group.  A walking/running group that would meet three times a week at one of the trails near our house.  One perk: the husband of one of the ladies was willing to coach us on weekends, and help us better our running skills.  (Running skills?  What are running skills?)  There were community races coming up, and people wanted to get ready :).  I was now pregnant with our fourth baby, so I was happy to stick with the walking program at that time.   Race day came on the 4th of July, and a HUGE group from our congregation got matching shirts to participate in this race.   I was 8 1/2 months pregnant, so my time was not impressive, but I did overhear a little bit of astonishment when some saw me participating "in my condition"--so that was fun.  That was my very first race: a 4.5 mile walk (or waddle?).  Crossing the finish line with the community of Eugene gave me a feeling of accomplishment that I knew I'd like to have again someday.

I'm in the red pants.  This was taken in 2007.

With the high school track right next door to us, I found that meeting with my girlfriends there early in the early morning before Jazz left for school was a convenient workout.  With all the girl-time conversation...it was starting to become fun.  I started jogging.  I wasn't fast, and I still hated the heavy breathing, but becoming "one of them" made me happy :).   One more 4th of July came and I was talked into participating in the race again.  This time, I jogged it.  With help from the same running coach, I worked up to running the whole 4.5 miles.  I did it!  By the time we left Eugene, I had regained some confidence.  Over time, my breathing calmed down, and I was able to work up to running 5 miles, feeling good for the duration.

Now, I run for fun.  Can you believe it?  But I still hate it, ha ha!  I rarely prefer being outdoors to being indoors,  but when the summer weather starts getting perfect (between 60 and 75 degrees), that's the one time I can't pass up the sunshine for a run.  I won't run in all temperatures, and I don't want to do it all the time.   But this summer I have had some awesome experiences.  I ran my first OFFICIAL 5K (I actually paid for the registration for my first time), and my son joined me for my second.  I've run the distance of a 10K for three summers in a row now (thanks to the goals I set together with my sister), and this summer I did it more than once!  Yesterday, I spontaneously reached for what I considered to be the next IMPOSSIBLE "milestone."  I completed the distance of a half-marathon--on a whim.  I can still hardly believe it myself. 

Shark and me before the 5K at the Fairgrounds, summer 2013

I'll never claim to be a model runner, but I'm proud to claim that I AM a runner! 

I still hate running.  The other day I was running half-mile loops at the field at the end of our street.  Since it's a trail with two big hills each time around the loop, it's tough.  At least I think so.  Those hills make me out of breath, and sometimes when I'm on them I wonder why I continue to torture myself like that.  I laughed when I discovered something that pushed me right up that big hill--as I put one heavy foot in front of the other, I yelled out loud, "I HATE RUNNING!!!"  It helped!!  I think I'll keep that technique handy to use from now on ;).

Why do I hate running?

-Because it's hard.
-Because it makes me very uncomfortable.  Sometimes it even hurts.
-Because 96% of the time, it's NOT fun.
-Because even though I try not to, sometimes I get stuck comparing myself with other runners that will always be faster and better than me.  And I feel inferior.
-Did I mention it's really hard?  REALLY hard.  That's why I drag my feet about even getting out the door.

But, besides the fact that I hate it, I love it.  I do.  Here's why:

-Because it's HARD, and it always, without fail, makes me feel like shouting to the world, "LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!!!" And, "I DID IT!!!"  I just love that feeling of self-worth it gives me.
-Because other people who run AMAZE me, and I like to feel like I'm "one of them" just by trying.

-Because it makes me healthy!
-Because it gives me those magical things called endorphins that pour happiness into my day.  I LOVE those things!!!  They're like little angels that circle around you all day whispering "You're cool" and "You did good" and all kinds of "build you up" things like that. :)
-Because it makes me physically strong.
-Because it cleanses my emotions as I breathe in and out.  I don't know how it happens, but it does.  Every time.
-Because as far as workout prep goes, it pretty much doesn't get any easier.  Tennis shoes on feet, ready to go.  (Oh wait, a good sports bra helps, too ;). )  Once you've got those things, it's FREE.  (Three cheers for free!)
- Because I know that even though it's hard, it's not as hard as it would be to be unhealthy, lazy, and unhappy, which is one common alternative.  THAT would be hard.  We get to pick our battles.  I choose the running one :).
-Because running is a mental sport as much as it is a physical sport (if not more so), and I feel PROUD to come out the victor in the mental struggle.

Half-marathon.  Done!!!

-Because RUNNING IS AWESOME. 







Oh wait, there's one more thing:

Please feel free to share my story with your friends :).  If anything I've said helps someone get their sneakers on, that would make my day!  Besides, that would make one more runner out in the world that's there to help motivate me :)!

My Mother

My mother Melanie Elkins, with my daughter Didi in 2008

In honor of Mother's Day, I wish to take a few minutes right now to write down some of my favorite memories with my mother, so everyone can know what a wonderful woman she is.  Here they are, in random order.

One of my favorite memories with mom is of us sitting together at Bob's Root Beer, a drive-up restaurant in Fallon, Nevada.  Out of the blue one day, she asked me to go with her to Bob's Root Beer, just the two of us, because she wanted to give me a special treat.  While we were there, enjoying our root beer floats (which were made with fresh original-recipe root beer and ice cream and were to die for), I asked her why we were there.  I didn't get to go on many dates with Mom, so I found it kind of confusing as to why she had chosen this outing for us.  I asked her, "Why are we here, Mom?"  She said it was just because I had been doing a lot of babysitting for her and helping her a lot around the house lately, and she wanted to say "thank you" in an extra special way.  I didn't realize what I had done had made an impact.  Her gratitude was humbling, and I was impressed by her taking those extra measures to show me her appreciation.  I felt loved.

I remember Mom making chore charts for us kids out of felt smiley faces.  I always loved her creativity, her crafts, and her beautiful handwriting on projects such as those.  With six kids in the house, we had lots of clutter everywhere all the time, but Mom did her best to teach us through creative methods how to organize a home.  I love remembering those crafty charts.

That reminds me of the sacrament meeting quiet games she made for us kids once.  She made big round clown faces and face parts out of felt, and we were each given our own envelope with a kit inside.  We got to mix and match the different shaped eyes, noses, and mouths as we knelt on the sacrament meeting floor, using the pew as our table.  I'm sure it kept us quiet for just a few minutes, but surely not long enough.

I remember Mom's bed prizes.  She would leave a candy reward under our pillows on random, unexpected days, if we had made our bed that day.  That went on for quite some time, and I'm sure we made our beds a lot more because of it.

I remember Mom being my leader at Young Women's Girls' Camp.  She asked for my help in planning our skit.  I remember my idea, but it wasn't as good as hers--she had us dance and sing to "The Silly Song."  I think that song came from a movie or something.  It was lots of fun, and uplifting.  I found out years later that it was hard for her to do the camp week with us, even to accept the calling, but she did it, and I'm glad we were there together.

I remember when I was a teenager trying to figure out my testimony of the gospel.  My bishop advised me to ask my parents to share their own experiences with me.  So Mom and I were in the car together one day, and I asked her to tell me about how she got her testimony.  She told me that for her it wasn't simply a "given," as I had thought it had been for her.  And, best of all, she told me that if I wasn't ready to believe on my own yet, I could lean on her testimony until I was ready.  I did.

Mom used to buy all of her clothes at thrift stores.  By the time I was a teenager, I decided that thrift store clothes weren't good enough for my own closet anymore.  Still, I liked to borrow other people's clothes all the time, including hers.  So when she saw something at the thrift store that she thought I would like to wear, knowing that if she offered it to me I would just reject it because of where it came from, she would buy it and just plant it in her own closet for me to find later.  I would find it there in her closet, and ask to borrow it.  Mission accomplished :).  Pretty sly, mom!

I loved singing with my mom in the ward choir, since I was somewhere around 9 or 10 years old.  I used to listen to her pretty voice and try to copy her vibrato.  I eventually figured it out ;).  And, I have her (and dad) to thank for all of the voice lessons they afforded me in high school.  Thanks, Mom and Dad!  Oh, and there were even a few fun times when Mom and I got to sing duets at church events, like Sunday meetings or a Relief Society program or something.  Those were cool.

Mom is a great seamstress.  She used to sew all of my underwear as a little girl, and also made lots of great outfits and dresses for me over the years.  LOTS.  Almost all of my prom dresses were hand-made by her, and they were super super gorgeous.  I'm sorry about all the whining and complaining I did during the design processes and regarding the deadlines.  I know that was hard on her.  I also LOVED the pajamas she used to make for us--especially my gum ball machine nightgown.

Mom got a college education in Art.  Of all of the creative projects she used to do, one of my favorites that she did was to make and sell porcelain dolls.  The ones that looked and felt (in your arms) like real babies were the best.  She let me paint my own doll head once too.  That was awesome.

Mom did not love to cook, but she made really yummy dinners and treats.  Shepherd's pie, scones, chinese rice, what nuts (deep fried wheat with seasoning), homemade bread, homemade granola, no-bake cookies, non-chocolate chip chocolate chip cookies (better than no cookies at all, right?), and homemade fruit leather were some of my favorite foods that she made.  Oh, and she was an incredible cake decorator!

Mom always had a good grasp on what was most important in life.  In the times when I was overwhelmed with my life, she always had experiences to share with me that helped me gain perspective and know everything would work out okay.  "I failed a class once, and it was okay," she said.  "I broke off an engagement once. I know how much it hurts," she said.  "I remember when my mom and dad didn't let me do such and such, and I didn't understand that then either," she would say.  She is a great friend and mentor.  Now I can talk to her about my motherhood woes, and she had stories to share with me about that too.  I am so grateful she's always there for me.

I remember Mom used to put classical music on in the house early Sunday mornings to wake us lazy kids up, and to bring the Spirit into the home sometimes.  She is a very peaceful person, and I appreciate that she helped bring peace to my life in lots of different ways.  Now when I have the all-too seldom occasion to spend time with her, I know we're going to have a great time relaxing, talking, working together, and laughing, because she's just a joy to be around.

I love my mom.  Love, LOVE, LOVE.  I hope I get to see her again soon, because sometimes the phone and letters just aren't enough.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!!

Love forever,

Your Jenny

The Falling Part Ch40: Hermana Elkins

My new scene at the Mission Training Center began with crowds of eager and anxious strangers.  Family members and new missionaries shared a few parting tears, smiles, concerns for well-being, but mostly, lots of hugs all the way around.  After our orientation meeting, Clark and I headed towards the back door with the other missionaries to get our nametags and meet our first companions.  I miraculously managed not to cry as I waved goodbye to Mom, Dad, and brother Bryan, who were there to see us off.  I was way too excited to weep.

My stay at the MTC was two months long--the exact period of training required by the Spanish government before granting any foreign missionary entrance into their country.  In the absence of home and family, stamped envelopes from far-away loved ones are to missionaries like red roses are to a hopeless romantic (thankfully a little more frequent, though).  While I was in the MTC, one blessed letter came to me from Romania.  It was from one of my former BYU roommates who had been serving her own full-time mission for six months already.

"It is so great that you are making this sacrifice for the Lord and for our brothers and sisters that you will soon teach in Spain," she said to me, after updating me on her recent missionary work "in the field."

"I don't see how anyone could consider this a sacrifice," I wrote on my hand-made stationery in reply to her letter.  "My experience here in the MTC has been so amazing.  I have never been happier in my life."

She would understand what I meant.  She had completed her training as well at the Provo, Utah campus (a next-door neighbor to the BYU campus).  Its brick buildings overflowed with thousands of disciples whose principal goal was to learn how to become the most effective instruments in the Lord’s hands as possible. 

Training consisted of role playing, attending cultural and spiritual lectures, engaging in intense language study, daily exercise, weekly temple worship, and being mentored by caring returned-missionary instructors.  There, my testimony of the basics of the gospel reached peaks that I never realized were possible.  All of this practice and guidance sent me well on my way to a confident beginning.

The obvious difference between my Romanian counterpart and me was that I was still safe in the preparatory shelter, and she was putting her training into practice out in the secular world.  My innocent words of disbelief probably made her smirk as she contemplated my inevitable awakening once I arrived on Spanish soil.

---

Cupid dragged his feet when it came to leaving his favorite customer alone, mission or no mission.  He waited closely in the wings, teasing me occasionally with his gentle prods...but I like to think I always came out the victor.  Fortunately, his arrow never completely breached the fragile force field around my heart. 

Before I got to the field, I learned how to use the "straight arm" approach on any well-meaning male Spaniard.  We would offer a sincere handshake as a greeting in place of their innocent besitos--kisses for each cheek, so as to maintain an appropriate distance from the beginning.  (That worked well in Spain, except for that one time I met a middle-aged male stranger on the street whose lightning lips caught my cheeks off-guard...oops!)

I also faced a challenge in associating closely with the fantastic young men serving alongside me.  I gained practice early during my MTC days in fending off any tempting romantic hindrance.  I can't say I was the quickest at shutting down imposing twinges of attraction, but I tried, and always managed it eventually.

16 June 1995:

     Here's something that bothered me today.  There is a certain elder here at the MTC who has caught my eye.  I don't even remember his name, but he talked with my companion and me one day in the cafeteria line.  Now, every time I see him lately I watch him and think, "He's very attractive," or "I'd like to talk to him and find out more about him," or "I think he seems like my type," or something like that.  Ugh!  And there’s one more thing.  Maybe it's my imagination, but I'm pretty sure he has noticed me just as much.  It seems like we've made an awful lot of eye contact lately, like maybe he watches me too [*cough* Sneaking Peeks *cough*].  Grrr!  I don't want to be like this!  It's not possible for me to mix dating feelings or I mean attraction feelings or whatever-you-want-to-call-them-feelings with mission feelings--they DON'T MIX!  So it bothers me that this is happening here.

Thankfully, after a few pleasant and borderline flirty conversations with this exhilarating young man, he departed for Guatemala less than two weeks after I met him.  He left me with his mission address, I sent him one letter in the mail, he never replied, and that was the end of that. Whew!  Distraction canceled.

Throughout the mission, I drew strength knowing that other missionaries had their barriers set up too.  One sister with whom I lived in Spain shared with me her own experience with escaping the falling part, and it stuck with me.

"I served with one elder that I fell for completely,” she said.  “I eventually decided that the battle between my longing for him and my wanting to focus on the mission was too hard.  So I asked the mission president for a transfer.  Can I tell you what happened when I finally managed to get away and stop letting him consume my thoughts?"

"What?" I listened, all ears.

"I felt like a missionary again."

That was what I wanted, too.  I did my best to keep attractions in check.  I never needed to ask for a transfer, and enjoyed instead all of the honorable friendships I made.  For me, sacrificing the indulgence of allowing a crush to develop was often a conscious and difficult decision, but it was always, always worth it.

--

The challenges of my mission ranged from small to great.  I struggled to overcome exhaustion from working and walking long days.  I tolerated months of anxiety-born stomachaches.  Approaching strangers in the park to share messages from the scriptures only got easier over time.  I spoke Spanish better than many new missionaries did, but I was by no means fluent in the beginning, so I relied on my companions for conversation help for several months.

Once I got over my jet lag, I gradually adjusted to the unfamiliar Spanish schedule.  Spaniards indulge in a later nightlife than most North Americans do, so we worked (didn’t come home) until 10:30 p.m.  Bedtime was at 11:15, and then our alarms were ordered to go off each day at 6:45 a.m.  Another adjustment with the schedule included long rests in the middle of the day.  The two-hour-long mediodía gave us time for lunch, extra study, and occasionally a nap, but eliminated the dinner break I was used to.  I asked my first companion, “When do we eat dinner?”  Her response stopped me dead in my tracks, “We don’t.”  We just made sure to leave the house at 4:00 p.m. with enough in our bellies to tide us over until the end of the day.

I figured out how to live without certain comforts that I hadn’t realized were luxuries.  I instantly gained a new appreciation for missing amenities such as a shower, a clothes dryer, carpet, air conditioning, and central heating.  Sometimes during our morning scripture study, I boiled a couple of big pans of water on the stove to add to my bath so the warm water could be almost hot.  I modified my daily diet to fit the different staples they had in their grocery stores.  Meals with the natives were infrequent, but always a treat.  My palate learned to adapt to the funny-tasting milk that can be stored on a shelf without refrigeration, and grew fond of several new types of seafood.  I never came around to liking squid in its ink over rice though.  Once was enough for me.

None of these challenges, however, outweighed the blessings.  My mission refined my own character as I learned to adopt a new culture as my own.  I saw lives improve as people embraced the joys of living the gospel.  My views of the people changed from "Spaniards are just so different from me," to "I have so much to learn from these people; I love them more than life itself."  I will also forever treasure the special bond I formed with my Savior.  I learned to rely on His guidance as we worked as partners to show love to Heavenly Father's children in countless ways.

I dedicated my imperfect efforts as best as I possibly could to building the Lord's kingdom in Spain until my full-time calling was through.  I came home a bit worn out, but felt fulfilled in my service.  My long journey home finally brought me to the Las Vegas airport the week before Christmas (which timing in itself was the best Christmas blessing ever).  I loved my mission, even though it was hard.  Very hard.  Someday I hope to revisit the cherished part of my self that I left behind with the people I love on the other side of the world.

Short story: Mission Hugs

Here's an experience from my MTC days that unfortunately I don't think is going to fit in my current book-in-progress, "The Falling Part."  But I'm thinking it's going to be in a future book, exclusively about my mission.  I hope you enjoy it.  :)

P.S. There is quite a bit of intro to this story, including receiving my mission call, written in multiple chapters of "The Falling Part" (see my facebook page, "Jenna Lovell: Happily Ever Writing") that would be a good lead-in for you to read this segment, but hopefully it can stand alone here for now.  Just one quick note: my brother and I entered the MTC on the same day together, and we served simultaneously in Spain...he in Bilbao, I in Madrid.

--

MISSION HUGS

Clark and I took advantage of our siblingness while training together in the MTC.  Every now and then we got a kick out of exchanging hugs for everyone to see, intending to fake them out or make them jealous...for all they knew, we were just two irresponsible missionaries breaking the rules (affectionately touching members of the opposite sex (non-family) is forbidden while on the mission).  Good times!

We were both heading to Spain, but we did not have any classes together due to our different levels of experience with the language.  Fortunately we still got to see each other daily at mealtimes, devotionals, choir practices, or on the soccer field.  Our growing bond during this transitional time proved invaluable for both of us.

One tender experience I had with Clark happened on a day when we received some bad news from home.  Duplicate copies of a letter from Mom told us that through no fault of his own, Dad had lost his job.  This couldn't have come at a worse time--many families with regular income struggled to fund one missionary's monthly expenses, let alone two.

As Clark and I contemplated the upcoming financial hardship, the worst case scenario crossed both of our minds: our missions may have to end when they had scarcely begun.  But the Lord would provide somehow, right?  Our need for emotional support skyrocketed as we pored over the letter's scant details.  Mom closed the letter with "Try not to worry."

Not having seen Clark yet since I received the news, I struggled to concentrate in my next class.  I arose from my desk and spoke to my teacher in subdued, private tones, divulging my family's misfortune.  I asked permission to separate from my companion temporarily (which is generally a faux-pas), and slip down the hall for a few minutes to check in with my brother. Permission was granted.

He joined me in the hall.  For the first whole minute we simply let our tears do the talking as we embraced--this time with no spectators in mind.  We moved to an empty nearby classroom so that we could take our time in our search for consolation.  After we verbalized the "what ifs" that weighed on our minds, he offered an inspired suggestion. 

"We should look in the scriptures to find some comforting words," he said.  "You find one verse, and I'll find one, and we'll share them with each other."

The Book of Mormon verse he chose to read to me that day gave me strength for the remainder of my mission.

"And Christ hath said:  If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me." -Moroni 7:33

If there was one thing we knew, it was that our missions were indeed "expedient in Christ."  Through the passages that we read, the Spirit calmed our fears.  He taught us in those impressionable moments that because of our parents' faithfulness, as we continued to serve, the Lord would take care of our family.

He did.

Dad was able to find work again by the end of the year, and the financial strain soon seemed to be but a small moment.  Mom also confessed to me after my mission that they had been able to meet all of our mission expenses without help from our savings...that the "missionary funds" to which Clark and I had contributed since we were small children, remained untouched.  We were able to use that money later for college. 

Our missions were not easy.  The power that Christ promised us was needed daily.  He made us strong enough to us to press forward through every trial, and Clark and I completed our service faithfully.

I'm grateful for my brother's intuition leading us to the scriptures that day.

The Colors of My Life: ORANGE

When I wrote my first color post--about the color red--I envisioned writing a little about each color that means something to me.  You know, just for fun, whenever I needed a fun topic to blab about.  Red was the obvious place for me to start.  My daughters then gave me the idea of going in rainbow order through all the colors, and since I love (almost) all things rainbow, I agreed with their plan.  So here we go with color number two, ORANGE.  I am including this incredibly awesome rainbow picture because when I saw it I fell in love (pointe shoes are another of my most favorite things in this whole wide world), and couldn't pass it up.








If I could own only one fruit tree in this world, it would be an orange tree.  Because hello, just look at this round delicious ball of perfection.  I remember when I was in 6th grade, our family owned quite a lot of fruit trees (we lived in southern CA), and I used to love picking an orange every day from our yard on my way to the bus stop.  My dad used to blend them with sugar, ice, and milk to make orange julius for us.  Our oranges were always as sweet as dessert, and as large and round as an orange could ever want to be.  It was a little piece of heaven.


There's one other fruit that complements oranges as perfectly as frosting complements a birthday cake, and that's a banana.  Those two flavors together are like an explosion of happiness in my mouth.  I thought this picture was too funny to pass up.











Because oranges yield one of my favorite flavors in the world, it combines well with many other wonderful flavors, such as chocolate, and cookie dough.  YUMMMMMMM. 

Let's take a moment now to talk about cheese.  Cheddar cheese is orange.  Cheese is probably my favorite food.  A grilled cheese sandwich took on a whole new sentimental value with the birth of my last baby.  Personally, I love having babies, and I love how they take care of new mommies in the hospital.  I like hospital food too, so shoot me.  During my last hospital stay, I loved how after the blessed delivery of our new baby was done, the nurse asked me if there was anything I would like to eat.  Anything at all.  So I let my imagination go crazy and I thought up the most delicious food I could possibly enjoy in that moment--because heaven knows I deserved whatever I wanted--NO GUILT ALLOWED.  No calories counted and no food angel sat on my shoulder to shake a finger at my less-than Weight-Watcher friendly choices.  So I requested a large grilled cheese sandwich and had a king-size Drumstick (ice cream cone) on the side.  I think it was probably one of my most favorite meals that I've ever had.  And that, my dear friends, is the value of a grilled orange-cheese sandwich.

Enough about food though.  There are plenty of non-food orange things in this world that merit mention.  Like the color of my hair.  I know, I know, my hair isn't really orange--and I know that I already claimed red as my hair color--but redheads often also get called carrot-top, and carrots are orange, so I think that's reason enough to claim this fun color for my hair. 













Orange-handled scissors.  Very reliable.  Mom used them for sewing, I use them for paper crafting, and sometimes even for hair-cutting.  I wish I had 5 more pairs.  They're always sharp for you when you need them.


Golden poppies!  Bet you didn't think of those!  This was my state flower when I was a kid (in California), and I thought they were a magnificent flower.  I loved them so much I wanted to pick them.  But I didn't dare, because for some reason, I was under the understanding that if you picked the state flower, someone was going to report you and you would surely end up in jail.  So I did not pick the golden poppies.  To this day I significantly hesitate whenever it comes to picking flowers, thanks to my fear of being discovered by the wrong authorities.

My favorite representation of orange in this world is shown in these last two pictures.  Not the pumpkins, mind you...but the striped orange and white hat that my son Tate is wearing here.  This hat was a gift to him, as every member of his Head Start preschool class was given one as a Christmas gift from some generous members of the community.  Each child got to pick out the one he or she wanted, and this is the one Tate chose.  He loves orange.  It is his favorite color.  I never knew orange could be someone's favorite color, but it fits him perfectly.  And since I love my little orange-loving Tate more than life itself, I love the color orange, too. 

Good Tidings...To All People

Here's an excerpt from a wonderful book I just read that I got for my parents for Christmas.  I'm so glad I got it in time to read the whole thing myself before handing it over, ha ha!, because I really really really enjoyed it!

The book is called "Faith in the Service:  Inspirational Stories from LDS Servicemen and Servicewomen".  
-----

"Good Tidings...To All People"
by Major Mark L. Allison,
U.S. Army Chaplain
Serving in Afghanistan, January 2004-April 2005

     "And the angel said...I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people" (Luke 2:10; emphasis added).  On Christmas Eve, 2004, this angelic pronouncement of two thousand years ago was fulfilled among several hundred Afghan shepherds and villagers in the remote township of Jekdalek, Afghanistan, who on that day heard for the first time the story of Christmas and the "good tidings of great joy."

     For several months we American soldiers had visited this village and adopted it as a recipient of humanitarian aid from the families of America to the families of Afghanistan.  Due to its remote location in the terrorist-occupied mountains bordering Afghanistan and Pakistan, we traveled by large army Chinook helicopters, which had sufficient room for many pallets of humanitarian aid and dozens of American soldiers to distribute them.

     A few days prior to Christmas Eve (December 21, 2004), a team of us made a special visit to the village with the purpose of speaking with the village elders and the local Muslim mullah.  Our object was to obtain their permission to return on Christmas Eve to share a Christmas program with their village; the program would include telling the story of Jesus' birth, distributing gifts to their children, and eating food to celebrate the occasion.  To prevent an unfortunate international incident, we carefully explained to the village elders and mullah that our intention was not to convert anyone, nor did we wish to cause any offense.  We told them December was a special time of year for us, and we desired to share with them part of our culture as they for many months had shared theirs with  us.  They listened respectfully as I related the story of Christmas as written in the Gospel of Luke.  When I finished, I asked them if they had any questions or problems with anything they had just heard.  Through our interpreter they unanimously said, "No problem."  And then to our surprise the village mullah said through the interpreter:  "Christmas is good."

     Returning to our base, we prepared hundreds of gift bags for the children made the necessary arrangements for enough food to feed the village, and recruited interested soldiers to participate.  As planned, on Friday (the Islamic Sabbath), Christmas Eve, December 24, 2004, some 230 American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines landed via four large army Chinook helicopters at this Muslim village nestled among the rugged mountains and, as promised, we brought food for a Christmas meal and hundreds of gift bagts for the children filled with toys, school supplies, and clothing.

     Through my interpreter and the use of a handheld megaphone, I requested that all the children of the village (approximately 300) assemble up front to hear the story of Christmas.  As the children sat on the dirt in this open-air assembly area, the adults also gathered.  It was an interesting sight to behold, with nearly 700 Muslim children and adults directly in front of me and 230 Christian American servicemen standing behind and next to me.  Through my interpreter, I addressed the village as follows:

     "My name is Mark; I am the 'Christian mullah' for the American soldiers.  Our homeland is America, far beyond these mountains, across the desert and over the sea.  During the past several months we have learned of your beliefs and experienced your culture and we have become friends.  We are grateful to your village elders and the mullah, who have allowed us to come here today to share with you one of our traditions at this time of the year called Christmas.  Today we are going to tell you a special story about the birth of a very special child; we will sing songs, distribute gifts to the children, and then eat food together." 

     I then pulled from my pocket and placed on my head a bright red Santa cap with its fluffy white ball, which immediately grabbed the attention and prompted giggles among the children.  They had never before seen a Santa hat.  With their anticipatory eyes and ears focused on me, I began telling them the Christmas story, much as I had done as a father for so many years on Christmas Eve with my daughters when they were little girls.

     At the conclusion of the story, I offered a Christmas blessing upon their village.  We then, as a choir of American soldiers--Latter-day Saints, Catholics, and Protestants, accompanied by our Sunday worship service organist on a battery-operated keyboard--sang the first verse of seven Christmas carols: "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," "Joy to the World," "O Come All Ye Faithful," "Silent Night," "Jingle Bells," "Far, Far Away on Judea's Plain," and finally, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

     At the conclusion of this Christmas program and before Santa's gift distribution to the children, our Afghan hosts wanted to reciprocate by sharing a selection of music and a display of dancing from their tradition.  I thought to myself, "Who would have ever thought on this Islamic Sabbath and Christian Christmas Eve that Americans and Afghans, Christians and Muslims would together celebrate in fulfillment of the angelic proclamation of good tidings of great joy regarding the birth of Jesus Christ."
  
     To begin the gift distribution, my commander, Scott Robinson, presented the senior village elder with a gift.  This was followed by a Christmas gift from me as the Christian chaplain to the Muslim mullah, which included a hand-held radio I knew he needed for his mosque and school in order to hear news from the outside world.  To our surprise, they gave us gifts in return.  What an experience!  Christians and Muslims exchanging Christmas gifts.  Who would have ever imagined it!  With all 230 soldiers deputized as Santa's special elves, gifts were then distributed to all the children, each saying to Santa in broken English as they filed by, "Merry Christmas."

     There in that remote and deso0late, impoverished and humble Afghan village, where the pupulation is entirely Islamic, the true Christmas spirit was both shared and felt by everyone.  Although the villagers were all Muslim, there were no anti-Christmas hecklers or protestors of the use of the name of Jesus Christ, no legal briefs filed, no court injunctions rendered to stop this public Christmas program, no "PC police" to disrup the respectful expression and sharing of diverse religious and cultural traditions.

     It was a memory-making experience none of us will likely forget: on this Christmas Eve in 2004 in a remote Afghan village, in fulfillment of the angelic proclamation that "good tidings of great joy...shall be to all people," Christians and Muslim brothers and sisters heard the story of Christmas--and together celebrated peace on earth and goodwill toward all men.

Colors of My Life: RED

Red is the color of the curly hair I see on that 38-year-old freckley girl in the mirror.

Red is the nickname some of my favorite people have called me : ).

Red is the flavor of jello that they offered to my mom and me in a restaurant a hundred years ago.  ...Seriously.  They asked if I would like jello to go with my meal, and when I asked her what flavor it was, she answered, "red."  Mom and I laughed about that for a long time.

Red is my personality, according to the color test.  I've got some blue in me too--maybe I'm 50/50 red/blue.  I like to think I have only the positive red qualities, since sometimes "reds" can be thought of as harsh and overbearing...but my red, nonetheless helps me get things done : ).

Red food that I love:
-strawberries & cherries (and any candies with those flavors),
-Cherry-dipped cones at Dairy Queen,
-apples,
-bell peppers,
-tomatoes

Red foods that are not my favorite (but I can eat almost anything) are: raspberries, licorice, popsicles, red meat that is too rare, red velvet cake (not a big cake fan, unless the frosting is just right!), pomegranates (too many seeds, not worth the effort to eat one).

Red things that I treasure are: Christmas stockings, all red things Christmas, red fireballs--which are racquetballs that fly really fast, little red dresses that I feel pretty in when I wear them (and anyone that tries to convince me that redheads shouldn't wear red is speaking to deaf ears), red toenails and fingernails (and I only wish I were brave enough to wear red lipstick to match!), red roses--especially on my wedding anniversary, red hearts on Valentine's Day--and every day (I haven't outgrown that little girl fettish of drawing hearts on everything).

Other reds worth mentioning:
Redbox--a very cool movie invention!
Seeing red--something I do far too often.
blood--something I love to donate whenever I can
wine--something I have no desire to taste ; )
ink and paper and ribbon--things I love to create with!
rubies--I would love to own or wear some.  : )
-it's my favorite color for the sun and moon.

What do you love that is red?