Not Just Another Book

I watched a little bit of the Tony awards a few weeks back and watched the jokes flying around about the Mormons and the Book of Mormon and our faith, due to the hit broadway play that was winning everything, "The Book of Mormon". It made me sad to hear the MC's jokes and the audiences laughter because I cherish my faith so much, but more than anything, it made me sad because I knew the people were laughing because they don't understand. I used to not understand as I spent several years passively half way in and half way out of the church. That was a hard time. The hardest time of my life. There was nothing in my life to make it so sad and hard, I can't claim anything, except that I wasn't utilizing what was right at my fingertips, and that's the happiness that the gospel brings. I know some people could read this and think negative things towards what I'm writing. I know that because people sometimes think negative things about what I say regarding this same topic. But all it is is a message of joy and truth and love. It's the kind of thing that makes life more than just a timeframe that we pass because we have to, but a journey of progression to a destination. It's knowing that someone greater than ourselves made us and loves us and knows us and has plans for us. This is what I learned once I started reading the Book of Mormon again after years of letting it sit on the shelf. After years of trying to direct my own life and watching that blow up in flames, feeling the burn every day. The sad part is that as much as I suffered and felt that pain blatantly, I didn't ever think, "Well maybe I could fix this. Just maybe this is because of my actions." This was during middle and high school when I was a person with no plans, no aspirations, no hope in anything. Now I'm a person who wants to experience and do everything, become the best I can be. A complete shift from that lost, hurting, confused person I once was. With the Book of Mormon, sometimes I just open the book and can feel the power. I feel it. Those words, written by prophets inspired by God himself, have helped me beyond the ability to describe. Have helped billions. On my mission, I remember seeing people transformed after reading those sacred words. I got so excited because I understood. One time we were getting on a train and shared some verses with a woman we chatted with every morning as we waited for the train. I watched her change as we shared those words, the tears fall, the light come into her face. It's a true book. The words are true. That means that there is a God, a Savior, a true church, hope. It means everything.

All in a name

My whole life I’ve gotten flack for my name. People can’t seem to figure out how someone’s name could possibly be spelled phonetically. My name is Lora pronounced Lore-uh.  It’s not Laura, Lori, Dora, Cora, Loren, or any other combination or derivative of the name Lora. I’ve always thought it was pretty simple, but apparently, I stand alone on a segregated island surrounded by a confused, angry and unaccepting world. When I was younger especially, people would call me Laura. Or maybe they still do just as frequently but I just don’t notice anymore. Come on though, I don’t call someone named Jack, “Jock” or someone named Jeff, “Jiff”. I mean really people, it’s an entirely different vowel sound. Recently, it’s seemed to have become more of a problem as far as the spelling, not just the pronunciation, with people saying how my name is weird or it’s spelled weird or I’m weird. My name is Lora. Is that really so difficult? So I was answering someone’s email who doesn’t know me and I signed the email with my name, which was written above my work email signature that has my full name written again underneath the first name that I typed in. Got it? It was written twice. Not to mention that this is the third time I’d corresponded with this person, so he’d seem it a total of SIX TIMES. Anyway, he responds back, “Laura, blah blah blah, blah.” I was indeed appalled. No sir, I assure you that I did not misspell my name in the past three emails. I’ve never misspelled my name except one time when I wrote Lora Smith on a paper at school, which is my best friend’s name (see, other people spell their name Lora whose names are Lora). A short-lived identity crisis which I immediately corrected. At any rate, I know I have a true friend when they can get my name right.

On a lighter note, yesterday I was stopped at a red light and this young woman wobbles across the cross walk with her towering high heels, cut-off butt shorts, long blond extensions and bubbling cleavage. I watched her, afraid she may fall over, and then I looked around and noticed that I wasn’t the only one concerned for her well-being. Three men parked at the same light were following her pathway, harmoniously inching their heads further and further to the right as she crossed, then turning them completely as she turned to walk down the street, following her with their eyes and heads until she was too far away that their necks would have broken to keep looking, which I’m kind of surprised they didn’t keep it up. At that point, all three men settled back into position, looking straight-ahead, apparently rest-assured that she would be okay and could indeed walk in those heals and cross the road safely. I’m so glad there are so many considerate and concerned men in the world.

The interesting happenings of my driving path are endless. The other week I saw Mario walking down the street. He was straight from the Mushroom Kingdom, with a round belly pugding out of his red jacket, a black mustache and a red hat.  Neh neh neh neh neh neh (you know what I mean) started playing in the background as I drove past him. I wish I could have snapped a photo.

I did, however, snap a photo of this dumpster that says, “Sometimes we don’t know where we’re going...” I wasn’t sure how to take that exactly but decided it can’t be a great thing in the context. You decide.

Dancing Lessons

I saw the beautiful Elizabeth Smart country dancing this week and couldn't help but watching her a bit as she danced with lots of guys who were constantly asking her to dance. She looked really happy and like she was having a lot of fun. Looking at her, you'd never know she had had so much trauma and horrible experiences in her life, except that everyone knows. It made me think how you really have NO idea what's going on in people's lives, even when they seem a certain way or act a certain way. The most important thing is to always be kind. Most people in the US would never be rude to Elizabeth Smart, knowing what she's been through. I'm sure she is treated so kindly everywhere she goes. But she did recently get back from her mission in Paris where I know people were rude to her, because she was a missionary and there are always people who are rude to missionaries. The nicest people can be rude to missionaries, I've been one, I know. If those people had any idea what she's gone through in her life, I know they wouldn't have ever slammed a door or yelled at her or ignored her or maybe she got rocks thrown at her like I did in Italy. They may have said "no thanks" and closed the door, but they wouldn't have been rude because most people are good in their hearts; they have compassion and sympathy and substance, especially for the wounded. I think we all have something in our lives that would motivate people to be kind, charitable and decent towards us if they knew we were going through or had gone through.

As for me, I was told I'd need two months instead of the typical one to learn how to country dance. I'll admit, I was one of the only girls in seventh grade who didn't make dance company. And I saw a picture of my dance recital in preschool and I was in my yellow polka-dot bikini bobbing up and down to the left side when everyone else was turned to the right. But it's not my fault, in the womb, I was upside down and backwards--I guess I've just always been a little bit directionally challenged (which makes it hard to dance, if you couldn't figure that out). Needless to say, everyone has their own talents.

Random Rambling

I was at the mall awhile back and kept meaning to record this moment I witnessed/shared. There was a kiosk of hairstyling products and the employee was curling a woman’s hair to demo the product to her. The woman had dirty blond hair and heavy eyeliner and her eyes were rolled back in their sockets as this other lady curled her hair. She was in pure exstasy. As I watched this moment I felt like I was somehow a part of it. It was such a personal, intimate moment to be witnessing, and there she was, in the middle of a crowded mall, just letting herself revel in the bliss of having her hair done. I smiled then.


People joke with me that the older you get, the less picky you can be. Some of my single friends joke that they'll take what they can get at this point. All of this, is of course, a total front, because the reality is that older people get, the pickier they get. They figure they've waited this long to find that special someone, that the person better be out of this world incredible. So now that I got that into the open, I might as well be quite frank that I also have some very specific and high expectations for my future spouse:


1) He must be a certified massage therapist. Yep, that's right. 


The end.


I just got back from getting a massage and I'm telling you, I feel amazing. There is nothing better than walking out of that room all relaxed and pain-free. Well, I'm sure there are better things, but getting a full-body massage from someone who knows what they're doing and isn't afraid to rub out all of that muscle pain is truly one of life's great joys. But it's too expensive, so either I need to get a part-time job dedicated exclusively to regular massage therapy or I just need to marry a massage therapist. The latter is looking more favorable at the moment.


So speaking of work. I love my job. I'm one of those really blessed people who didn't know exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up, but were lead to a great fit that made so much sense they wonder how they didn't think of that on their own. Well, I guess people don't necessarily think, "I'm going to be a safety nerd when I grow up." So that's probably why I didn't think about it then.


At any rate, the other day we were giving out Creamies to high school and middle school kids to entice them to listen to our message about construction safety. As you can guess, they really only wanted the Creamies, especially the 7th graders, so there was one point during our first lunchtime presence that I had a horrifying flashback to the movie Selena. You know the scene where she's singing in Mexico and everyone's so excited because Selena's the bomb diggity, so they start crowding toward the stage to be near her and people are getting trampled. Apparently, free ice cream can have the same effect. You get real popular when you're giving that stuff away. I am a big fan of JLO, but as much as I love her, I don't want to be her, and I certainly didn't want 7th graders trampling each other for a free Creamie. So we resolved that situation immediately and the rest of the schools we visited were much more controlled. Hey, there's always a learning curve.


On a final note, I was thinking about how fun dating used to be when you were 16. I remember repeatedly going with my girlfriend and sneaking into the backyard of my crush's house and throwing rocks at his window. He'd come out and we'd stay up all night talking on his tramp. Now-a-days I don't have the energy nor the desire to stay up all night, ever. Never ever ever. Plus, everything's so serious. If I tried that approach now, the guy would think I was some obsessed crazy person or it would make it all awkward, when really a crush or a bold move isn't a marriage proposal. That's what 16 year olds understand that older people sometimes don't. I daresay the one thing that 16 year olds understand that older people don't. Dating when you're younger was so carefree, so exciting and had such low pressure. Now you go on a first date and wonder if you're getting sized up for a lot more than your bowling skills. Don't get me wrong, I still have fun on dates. But it's definitely a very different experience than it was even freshman and sophomore year of high school. I remember going on motorcycle rides with the guy I liked when I was 19, who looked like Jim Morrison with bad teeth, through the red hills of St. George, holding on tight and feeling the wind on my face and hair--no care in the world and no helmet. Now, I would never ride without a helmet (which I'm proud to say) and I wonder if I'd even hold close.